Descendants Mal Quotes

It’s a birthday party,” sniffed Mal. “And I wasn’t invited.

It was always gloomy in Mal’s room, just as it was always gray and overcast on the island.

Let me guess...” said Mal. She popped a piece of candy into her mouth. “New class?” Doug nodded sheepishly.

What Mal wanted, more than anything, was to be just like her mother. Exactly like her.

By lunchtime, the rest of the school was still talking about last night’s epic howler at Hell Hall, but Mal had no interest. The party was the past; she’d moved on. She had bigger things to worry about now. All she could think about was how her mother wanted the Dragon’s Eye back. And how Maleficent wouldn’t see her as anything other than her father’s daughter—in other words, a pathetic, soft human—until Mal could prove her wrong. Mal kept reliving last night’s conversation over and over, so that she missed her first few classes and sleepwalked through the rest. She arrived for her one-on-one after-school seminar with Lady

Les uns auront envie d'augmenter la vie, d'accueillir ce qui vient, en assumant le bordel joyeux ou moins joyeux qui en découlera ; d'autres choisiront une existence plus concentrée, plus ramassée, plus calme - deux formes différentes d'intensité. […] Il y ade la place pour toutes les conceptions, me semble-t-il. J'ai seulement du mal à comprendre pourquoi celle à laquelle j'adhère est si peu admissible et pourquoi un consensus inentamable persiste autour de l'idée que, pour tous, réussir sa vie implique d'avoir une descendance. (p. 99)

Crap. I thought that picture was you.' He pointed. 'That's not me. That's my mother,' Mal said with a sigh. 'Woah, you really do look like her, you know,' Jay said. 'You two could be twins,' Evie agreed. 'That, my friends, is called genetics,' Carlos said with a smile.

Me, crazy?” Mal raised her voice even higher. “How could I not be? I go to school in a graveyard and eat expired scones for breakfast. My own mother sends me to forbidden places like this, because of some old bird and a lost stick,” she scoffed. “There’s nothing you can throw at me that’s worse than what I’ve already got going.

For a life of the kind you and I have never known and will never know— quiet, peace, the surety of love.” “There is nothing sure about love. Do you think love will protect you when the Fjerdans come to capture the Stormwitch?” She didn’t. But maybe she wanted to believe there was more to life than fear and being feared. She yanked down the shade and tapped the roof. The coach travelled on, up the cramped cart track in slow switchbacks. At last, they rattled to a stop. “Stay here,” she said, hooking his shackles to the seat. She descended from the coach, closing the door behind her. Mal and Alina stood on the sanatorium’s stairs, but when Alina saw Zoya, she smiled and raced down the steps with arms open. Zoya blinked away an embarrassing prickle of tears. She hadn’t known how Alina might greet her, given the circumstances. She let herself be hugged. As always, Ravka’s Saint smelled of paint and pine. “Is he in there?” Alina asked. “He is.” “You bring me the worst gifts.” The tabby had returned from its sojourn and was twining through Misha’s legs. It padded over to Zoya. “Hello, Oncat,” she murmured, hefting the cat into her arms and feeling the comforting rumble of its purr.

- Chers amis, s'exclama-t-il en descendant vers eux. Goûtez vous notre hospitalité ? J'ose espérer que oui. N'hésitez surtout pas à me faire appeler si vous avez le moindre désir, la moindre envie... - J'aimerais rentrer chez moi, lui lança Ellana. - Ah! L'humour alavarien ! Quelle merveilleuse chose ! À Valingaï, nous manquons cruellement d'humour, c'est peut-être notre plus gros défaut.

She pushed through the door, closed it softly behind her, and faced Ben. Her lip trembled, and her eyes glistened. She held a piece of paper in her shaking hands. “Mal’s gone back to the Isle,” she said, “for good.

Come on, guys,” Mal said, dropping the wrapper on the floor. “Let’s go find our dorms.” She started up a flight of stairs. Carlos, Jay, and Evie followed her. “Oh! Uh, yeah, your dorms are that way, guys,” said Doug, pointing in the opposite direction.

Be there, or Mal will find you,” he said to his squat little lab partner, Le Fou Deux, as they both dissected a frog that would never turn into a prince in Unnatural Biology class. “Be there, or Mal will find you and ban you from the city streets,” he whispered to the Gastons as they took turns stuffing each other in doomball nets in PE.

Carlos never shied from a mission, and if Mal wanted a howler, there was no alternative but to provide one. There was nothing he could do about it, AP Evil Penchant or not. He knew his place on the totem pole. First things first: a party couldn’t be a party without guests. Which meant people. Lots of people. Bodies. Dancing. Talking. Drinking. Eating.

She'd never really liked companionship before, but then again, Maleficent had always insisted that they lived apart from the pack - superior, alone and bent on revenge. Lonely, Mal thought. I was lonely. And so were they. Evie, with her beauty-obsessed mother; Carlos, with his screeching harpy of a parent; Jay, the happy-go-lucky thief with a quick wit and dashing smile, who could steal anything in the world except his father's heart.

The villain kids all had questions when they'd first arrived too: Was it okay to eat as much food as you could from the refectory? (Jay) Could you take as many classes as you could fit into your schedule—or even take two classes at the same time, if you worked really fast? (Carlos, of course.) Evie had wanted to know if they had to wear uniforms (they didn't), while Mal's only question was where she could acquire purple spray paint (the art studio).

Are you crazy?" Jay shook his head, sliding behind her. "Mal, seriously. You don't have to do this," Carlos whispered, ducking behind Jay. "Definitely crazy," Evie said, from behind Carlos. "Me, crazy?" Mal raised her voice even higher. "How could I not be? I go to school in a graveyard and eat expired scones for breakfast. My own mother sends me to forbidden places like this, because of some old bird and a lost stick," she scoffed. "There's nothing you can throw at me that's worse that what I've already got going.

Jay took them and stepped in front of the TV. His biceps bulged as he swung the weapon. Carlos watched him, laughing and whooping as Jay fought off the animated attackers. “Guys!” said Mal. “Do I have to remind you what we’re all here for?” “Fairy Godmother, blah, blah, blah,” said Jay as he swung. “Magic wand, blah, blah, blah.” Evie laughed at him. “This is our one chance to prove ourselves to our parents,” said Mal. Evie stopped laughing and faced Mal. “To prove that we are evil and vicious and ruthless and cruel,” said Mal. Jay and Carlos stared at her, too. She had their attention. “Yeah?” Mal asked them. Her friends nodded solemnly. “Evie, mirror me,” said Mal. Mal and Evie sat at the table as Jay and Carlos gathered around them. Evie lifted her mirror. “Mirror, mirror, on the…in my hand. Where is Fairy Godmother’s wand”—she searched for a rhyming word—“stand?” In the mirror, there was an extreme close-up of the sparkling wand. “There it is!” said Evie. “Zoom out,” said Carlos. “Magic Mirror, not so close,” Evie whispered into it.

Before Evie could protest, Mal sighed. “Of course there is. The party of the year. A real rager, didn’t you hear?” Mal looked her up and down and shook her head sadly. “Oh, I guess you didn’t hear.” She mock-winced, looking at Carlos conspiratorially. “Everyone’s going to be there.” “They are?” Carlos looked confused. “But you only just told me to have it—” He quickly got the message. “Everyone,” he agreed. Evie smiled. “Sounds awesome. I haven’t been to a party in a long, long time.” Mal raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. This is a very exclusive party, and I’m afraid you didn’t get an invitation.” With those parting words, Mal went ahead of them into the classroom—she was in their next class too, of course (her EQ was legendary)—and left them to each other. “Sorry,” Carlos mumbled. “I guess I was wrong, Mal doesn’t just talk a big game.” “Yeah, me too. The party sounds like fun,” Evie said sadly. “You want to see what I’m making?” he asked, trying to change the subject as they settled into their seats. He took out of his bag a black box, with wires and an antenna poking out from one side—the same contraption he’d

So, about your classes,” said Doug. “I put in the requirements already. History of Woodsmen and Pirates, Safety Rules for the Internet, and”—he cleared his throat—“Remedial Goodness 101.” “Let me guess...” said Mal. She popped a piece of candy into her mouth. “New class?” Doug nodded sheepishly. “Come on, guys,” Mal said, dropping the wrapper on the floor. “Let’s go find our dorms.” She started up a flight of stairs. Carlos, Jay, and Evie followed her. “Oh! Uh, yeah, your dorms are that way, guys,” said Doug, pointing in the opposite direction. As Mal and her friends came back down the stairs and headed in the direction he indicated, Doug hung back, counting through the dwarves again. “Dopey, Doc, Bashful, Happy, Grumpy, Sleepy, and...” “Sneezy,” said Carlos, passing him and ascending the opposite staircase. Doug sighed and looked at the ceiling. Upstairs, Mal and Evie opened the door to their dorm room. It was light and airy and dappled in sunlight. The white canopy beds were covered with pink pillows, and flowery curtains fluttered gently in the fresh breeze from the open windows. Evie’s eyes widened with delight as Mal’s narrowed in horror. “Wow,” said Evie. “This place is so amazing—” “Gross,” said Mal. “I know, right?” said Evie, changing her tune. “Amazingly gross. Ew!” When Mal wasn’t looking, Evie couldn’t help giving a silent gasp of joy at her new crib. “I am going to need some serious sunscreen,” said Mal, arms crossed. “Yeah,” said Evie. “E,” said Mal, pointing to the windows. She closed the curtains as Evie moved to other windows in the room and did the same, plunging the dorm into darkness. “Whoa!” said Mal. “That is much better.

AU LECTEUR La sottise, l’erreur, le péché, la lésine, Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps, Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords, Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine. Nos péchés sont têtus, nos repentirs sont lâches ; Nous nous faisons payer grassement nos aveux, Et nous rentrons gaiement dans le chemin bourbeux, Croyant par de vils pleurs laver toutes nos taches. Sur l’oreiller du mal c’est Satan Trismégiste Qui berce longuement notre esprit enchanté, Et le riche métal de notre volonté Est tout vaporisé par ce savant chimiste. C’est le Diable qui tient les fils qui nous remuent ! Aux objets répugnants nous trouvons des appas ; Chaque jour vers l’Enfer nous descendons d’un pas, Sans horreur, à travers des ténèbres qui puent. Ainsi qu’un débauché pauvre qui baise et mange Le sein martyrisé d’une antique catin, Nous volons au passage un plaisir clandestin Que nous pressons bien fort comme une vieille orange. Serré, fourmillant, comme un million d’helminthes, Dans nos cerveaux ribote un peuple de Démons, Et, quand nous respirons, la Mort dans nos poumons Descend, fleuve invisible, avec de sourdes plaintes. Si le viol, le poison, le poignard, l’incendie, N’ont pas encor brodé de leurs plaisants dessins Le canevas banal de nos piteux destins, C’est que notre âme, hélas ! n’est pas assez hardie. Mais parmi les chacals, les panthères, les lices, Les singes, les scorpions, les vautours, les serpents, Les monstres glapissants, hurlants, grognants, rampants, Dans la ménagerie infâme de nos vices, II en est un plus laid, plus méchant, plus immonde ! Quoiqu’il ne pousse ni grands gestes ni grands cris, Il ferait volontiers de la terre un débris Et dans un bâillement avalerait le monde ; C’est l’Ennui ! L’œil chargé d’un pleur involontaire, II rêve d’échafauds en fumant son houka. Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat, - Hypocrite lecteur, - mon semblable, - mon frère !

With her purple hair, leather jacket with a decal of two dragons on the back, and tough-as-nails boots, Mal had trouble written all over her—which was precisely what she was going for. The bilious green spray paint spelled out LONG LIVE EVIL. Mal holstered her paint can, reveled in her work, and stepped into the bustling marketplace, where she was quickly swept up in the throng and blended into the sea of haggard, worn faces.

Of the rise of this singular people few authentic records appear to exist. It is, however, probable that they represent a later wave of that race, whether true Sudras, or a later wave of immigrants from Central Asia, which is found farther south as Mahratta; and perhaps they had, in remote times, a Scythian origin like the earlier and nobler Rajputs. They affect Rajput ways, although the Rajputs would disdain their kinship; and they give to their chiefs the Rajput title of "Thakur," a name common to the Deity and to great earthly lords, and now often used to still lower persons. So much has this practice indeed extended, that some tribes use the term generically, and speak of themselves as of the "Thakur" race. These, however, are chiefly pure Rajputs. It is stated, by an excellent authority, that even now the Jats "can scarcely be called pure Hindus, for they have many observances, both domestic and religious, not consonant with Hindu precepts. There is a disposition also to reject the fables of the Puranic Mythology, and to acknowledge the unity of the Godhead." (Elliot's Glossary, in voce "Jat.") Wherever they are found, they are stout yeomen; able to cultivate their fields, or to protect them, and with strong administrative habits of a somewhat republican cast. Within half a century, they have four times tried conclusions with the might of Britain. The Jats of Bhartpur fought Lord Lake with success, and Lord Combermere with credit; and their "Sikh" brethren in the Panjab shook the whole fabric of British India on the Satlaj, in 1845, and three years later on the field of Chillianwala. The Sikh kingdom has been broken up, but the Jat principality of Bhartpur still exists, though with contracted limits, and in a state of complete dependence on the British Government. There is also a thriving little principality — that of Dholpur — between Agra and Gwalior, under a descendant of the Jat Rana of Gohad, so often met with in the history of the times we are now reviewing (v. inf. p. 128.) It is interesting to note further, that some ethnologists have regarded this fine people as of kin to the ancient Get¾, and to the Goths of Europe, by whom not only Jutland, but parts of the south-east of England and Spain were overrun, and to some extent peopled. It is, therefore, possible that the yeomen of Kent and Hampshire have blood relations in the natives of Bhartpur and the Panjab. The area of the Bhartpur State is at present 2,000 square miles, and consists of a basin some 700 feet above sea level, crossed by a belt of red sandstone rocks. It is hot and dry; but in the skilful hands that till it, not unfertile; and the population has been estimated at near three-quarters of a million. At the time at which our history has arrived, the territory swayed by the chiefs of the Jats was much more extensive, and had undergone the fate of many another military republic, by falling into the hands of the most prudent and daring of a number of competent leaders. It has already been shown (in Part I.) how Suraj Mal, as Raja of the Bhartpur Jats, joined the Mahrattas in their resistance to the great Musalman combination of 1760. Had his prudent counsels been followed, it is possible that this resistance would have been more successful, and the whole history of Hindustan far otherwise than what it has since been. But the haughty leader of the Hindus, Sheodasheo Rao Bhao, regarded Suraj Mal as a petty landed chief not accustomed to affairs on a grand scale, and so went headlong on his fate.

It's like Fairy Godmother always says," aid Evie, hugging a purple pillow to her chest. "Don't let the stepsisters get you down?" said Mal. "Goodness works in mysterious ways. Even in the deepest dark, you'll find a light to shine your way through.

I don't feel like a hero," said Carlos. "That's okay," said Mal with a rueful smile. "Remember what the professor said? We're the villains you root for in the story.

À trente ans, ce colosse au crâne rasé en a déjà passé dix en prison et, comme il le dit joliment, « vit entouré de crimes comme les habitants d’une forêt vivent entourés d’arbres ». Cela ne l’empêche pas d’être un homme paisible, d’humeur toujours joyeuse, en qui se mêlent les traits du fol en Christ russe et de l’ascète oriental. Été comme hiver, même quand le thermomètre dans la cellule descend au-dessous de zéro, il est en short et tongs, il ne mange pas de viande, il ne boit pas de thé mais de l’eau chaude et pratique d’impressionnants exercices de yoga. On l’ignore souvent, mais énormément de gens, en Russie, font du yoga : encore plus qu’en Californie, et cela dans tous les milieux. Pacha, très vite, repère en « Édouard Veniaminovitch » un homme sage. « Des gens comme vous, lui assure-t-il, on n’en fait plus, en tout cas je n’en ai pas rencontré. » Et il lui apprend à méditer. On s’en fait une montagne quand on n’a jamais essayé mais c’est extrêmement simple, en fait, et peut s’enseigner en cinq minutes. On s’assied en tailleur, on se tient le plus droit possible, on étire la colonne vertébrale du coccyx jusqu’à l’occiput, on ferme les yeux et on se concentre sur sa respiration. Inspiration, expiration. C’est tout. La difficulté est justement que ce soit tout. La difficulté est de s’en tenir à cela. Quand on débute, on fait du zèle, on essaie de chasser les pensées. On s’aperçoit vite qu’on ne les chasse pas comme ça mais on regarde leur manège tourner et, petit à petit, on est un peu moins emporté par le manège. Le souffle, petit à petit, ralentit. L’idée est de l’observer sans le modifier et c’est, là aussi, extrêmement difficile, presque impossible, mais en pratiquant on progresse un peu, et un peu, c’est énorme. On entrevoit une zone de calme. Si, pour une raison ou pour une autre, on n’est pas calme, si on a l’esprit agité, ce n’est pas grave : on observe son agitation, ou son ennui, ou son envie de bouger, et en les observant on les met à distance, on en est un peu moins prisonnier. Pour ma part, je pratique cet exercice depuis des années. J’évite d’en parler parce que je suis mal à l’aise avec le côté new age, soyez zen, toute cette soupe, mais c’est si efficace, si bienfaisant, que j’ai du mal à comprendre que tout le monde ne le fasse pas. Un ami plaisantait récemment, devant moi, au sujet de David Lynch, le cinéaste, en disant qu’il était devenu complètement zinzin parce qu’il ne parlait plus que de la méditation et voulait persuader les gouvernements de la mettre au programme dès l’école primaire. Je n’ai rien dit mais il me semblait évident que le zinzin, là-dedans, c’était mon ami, et que Lynch avait totalement raison.

And in that very moment, and for the very first time, Mal finally understood that it wasn't just pride that she felt. It was pity. Maybe even compasison. She was sad for her mother and that was something new. The crowd saw a mosnter, a terror, a devil, a witch, cursing a beautiful princess. But Mal saw only a hurt little girl, acting out of spite and anger and insecurity. She wanted to reach out and tell Maleficent that it would be all right. She wasn't sure it was true, but they'd somehow got along this far, hadn't they? It'll be all right, Mother. She had to tell her. But she woke up before she could.

Fairy Godmother returned the clipboard to her daughter. “That’s okay,” she said, turning Jane to face Mal and her friends. “Jane, this is everyone.” Jane gave a feeble wave. “Hi. That’s okay. Don’t mind me. As you were,” she said, bowing and rushing out of the room.

and John explained that Christ would baptize with the Holy Spirit. In the broader context of Isaiah 40–55, there is a close connection between the outpouring of the Spirit and the resulting new creation: “For I will pour water on him who is thirsty, and floods on the dry ground; I will pour My Spirit on your descendants, and My blessing on your offspring” (Isa. 44:3; cf. Gen. 49:25; Ezek. 34:26–27; Joel 2:14; Mal. 3:10–11). Here the dry and thirsty land receives the outpouring of water, which brings rejuvenation, and this imagery is tied to the outpouring of the Spirit. Concerning this verse, though, John Goldingay explains, “Yhwh’s renewal of the people is an act of new creation.”46 This conclusion seems warranted, especially in light of Isaiah 44:2: “Thus says the LORD who made you and formed you from the womb [עשך ויצרך], who will help you.” E. J. Young explains, “The expression Creator [יצר] used of God as the Creator of His people is found only in Isaiah, as also the parallels Maker and Former.”47 This language is used, for example, in the creation account of man (Gen. 2:7). All of this imagery comes with a kaleidoscope of ideas that ties together creation, exodus, new creation, and the eschatological outpouring of the Spirit.48 These observations are not new. J. Luzarraga, commenting on Isaiah 31:5, explains that this verse, as well as the others thus far surveyed, refer to: a “return,” a second exodus, a new exodus, which…comes described with features taken from the first exodus, projecting upon an eschatological future, for the gifts that God has granted in the past are only a symbol of his provision in the future. As in the days past, so also in the ones to come, “Like birds hovering, so the LORD of hosts will protect Jerusalem; he will protect and deliver it; he will spare and rescue

The scoreboard read 2:2 with forty-seven seconds left on the clock. Cheerleaders, including Audrey, clapped, chanted, and danced. Jane, the mascot, in a knight’s suit of armor, jumped up and down with them. An announcer stood on the field with a golden microphone, as the teams got into their huddles and took up positions along the kill zones. Mal and Evie stood in the bleachers, watching Jay and Carlos down on the bench.

Mal spray-painted an M onto a shower curtain. Jay stole a teapot.

The villains had seen better days. Cruella, with her wild black-and-white hair, wore a ratty, nearly bald black-and-white dog-fur coat, which sported a bejeweled stuffed toy Dalmatian head next to her neck. She stroked it lovingly as if it were alive. Jafar, with his trademark mustache and goatee, was rocking a potbelly, a comb-over, and puffy Sansabelt pants. Evil Queen, a former beauty, pulled at her cosmetically altered face and stared into a mirror. Mal, Evie, Jay, and Carlos feared their parents nonetheless.

Let me guess...” said Mal. She popped a piece of candy into her mouth. “New class?

Mal, imitating Ben’s tone, said, “Or the day that you showed four peoples where the bathrooms are.” Mal’s friends laughed. Ben grinned. “A little bit over the top?” “A little more than a little bit,” said Mal. “Well, so much for my first impression,” said Ben. He laughed.

Le terme de génocide est souvent employé pour qualifier la traite et l'esclavage pratiqués par l'Occident. Alors qu'il convient de reconnaître que dans la traite transatlantique un esclave, même déshumanisé, avait une valeur vénale pour son propriétaire. Ce dernier le voulait d'abord efficace, mais aussi rentable dans le temps, même si son espérance de vie était des plus limitées. Il est sans doute difficile d'apprécier l'importance de la saignée subie par l'Afrique noire au cours de la traite transatlantique. Du Bois l'estime à environ quinze à vingt millions d'individues. P. Curtin, quant à lui, en faisant une synthèse des travaux esistants, aboutit en 1969 à un total d'environ neuf millions six cent mille escales importés, surtout dans le Nouveau Monde, plus faiblement en Europe et à São Tomé, pour l'ensemble de la période 1451-1870. Mais quelle que fût l'ampleur de cette traite, il suffit d'observer la dynamique de la diaspora noire qui s'est formée au Brésil, aux Antilles et aux États-Unis, pour reconnaître qu'une entreprise de destruction froidement et méthodiquement programmée des peuples noirs, au sens d'un génocide — comme celui des Juifs, des Arméniens, des Cambodgiens ou autres Rwandais —, n'y est pas prouvée. Dans le Nouveau Monde la plupart des déportés ont assuré une descendance. De nos jours, plus de soixante-dix millions de descendants ou de métis d'Africains y vivent. Voilà pourquoi nous avons choisi d'employer le terme d'«holocauste» pour la traite transatlantique. Car ce mot signifie bien sacrifice d'hommes pour le bien-être des autres hommes, même si cela a pu entraîner un nombre incalculable de victimes. En outre, la plupart des nations occidentales impliquées dans le commerce triangulaire ont aujourd'hui reconnu leur responsabilité et prononcé leur aggiornamento. La France, entre autres, l'a fait une loi — qualifiant la traite négrière et l'esclavage de «crime contre l'humanité» — votée au Parlement le 10 mai 2001. Ce qui a marqué clairement un changement d'attitude chez les Français face à une page de leur histoire jusqu'alors mal assumée. D'autres voix se sont élevées pour présenter les excuses d'un pays, telle celle du président Clinton, ou demander «pardon pour les péchés commis par l'Europe chrétienne contre l'Afrique» (Jean-Paul II, en 1991, à Gorée). [...] Seul le génocide des peuples noirs par les nations arabo-musulmanes n'a toujours pas fait l'objet de reconnaissance aussi nette. Alors que ce crime est historiquement, juridiquement et moralement imprescriptible. Car bien qu'il n'y ait pas de victimes ni de coupables hérédiatires, les descendants des peuples impliqués ne peuvent refuser d'assumer une certaine responsabilité. On pouvait cependant espérer que les résolutions adoptées par la conférence de l'ONU à Durban (2-9 septembre 2001) iraeient dans ce sense. Mais dans l'esprit, l'acte, si solennel fût-il, n'était qu'une entreprise fallacieusement orientée, doublée d'une dénonciation sélective. Durban n'a pas donné une vision d'ensemble honnête et objective de la terrible «tragédie noire» passée. Puisque, de nos jours encore, beaucoup associent par réflexe traite négrière au seul traffic transatlantique organisé à partie de l'Europe et des Amériquees, qui a conduit à la mort ou à la déportation de millions d'Africains dans le Nouveau Monde. La confusion vient du fait que la colonisation européenne de l'Afrique noire avec son système de travail forcé a suivi la fin de la traite transatlantique, ce qui incite à assimiler les deux évènements. Alors que la traite et le travail forcé des peuples noirs n'ont pas été une invention des nations européennes.

Mal.

(“For behold, the day is coming, burning like a furnace; and all the arrogant and every evildoer will be chaff; and the day that is coming will set them ablaze,” says the Lord of hosts, “so that it will leave them neither root nor branch.” – Mal. 4:1) “Just then the bottomless pit opened very near where I stood. Smoke billowed and spewed from the mouth of the pit along with coals of fire and hideous noises. The heavenly attendants were commanded to ‘Gather my wheat into the storehouse.’ (His winnowing fork is in His hand to thoroughly clear His threshing floor, and to gather the wheat into His barn; but He will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire. – Luke 3:17) And with that I saw many caught up and carried away into the clouds, but I was left behind. (For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ

Je veux te parler des longues heures de queue qu'on faisait ensemble, en sortant du travail, après t'avoir récupérée à la crèche. Les longues files d'attente debout, avec toi dans les bras, ces queues larges qui ressemblaient plutôt à des manifestations, stagnant devant les magasins alimentaires fermés, en attendant l'ouverture. On se battait pour être parmi les premiers, car il n'y avait jamais assez pour tout le monde, et ceux qui formaient la queue de la queue partaient à coup sûr la queue entre les jambes. Mais ils restaient quand même, croyant, espérant un miracle. Pouvait-on se permettre de laisser passer une chance, aussi petite soit-elle? Tiens, je me rappelle d'une queue particulièrement longue, une queue que j'ai quittée en pleurant. Tu avais deux, trois ans. J'avais les règles et un mal au ventre et aux reins terrible. Il me tardait de rentrer à la maison, me doucher et m'allonger un peu. Mais en descendant du bus, j'ai vu des gens se ruer à travers la place, vers le côté opposé du centre-ville. Ventre ou pas ventre, j'ai suivi la foule en courant, toi dans les bras. Il fallait toujours, toujours, suivre une foule en déplacement au pas de charge, car personne ne courait pour rien, là-bas. C'est seulement ici, en France, que j'ai vu des gens courir pour rien: ils font du footing, pour ne pas être trop gros. Là-bas, on courait pour ne pas être trop maigre. Là-bas, ça se passait comme ça: je ne saurai jamais comment, quelqu'un arrivait à avoir une formation (fondée ou non), et il donnait l'alerte: « ils vont vendre des œufs à tel endroit », ou du fromage, ou des poulets, (ça, les poulets, c'était plus rare et la plupart du temps une chimère). Ou du dentifrice, ou du papier cul. Tout était bon à prendre car on ne pouvait pas savoir quand un autre arrivage viendrait.

In the winter of ad 1759 events took a turn for the worse : Nawab Imadul Mulk once again soiled his dirty hands by spilling the blood of Alamgir II. Mirza Abdullah Ali Gauhar, the late emperor’s eldest son, fled to Avadh and proclaimed himself Shah Alam II (he was the seventeenth in the line of Babar). As for me my hardships in Delhi were too much for me to bear. I put my trust in Allah and decided it was safer to be among the Hindu Jats in the countryside than live in a capital that was little better than a wilderness laid waste every six months. I moved to Bharatpur ruled by Suraj Mal Jat. When I was there the Maratha armies marched northwestwards to meet Abdali and his Afghans who had once again descended on Hindustan. On 17 January 1761 we received the news that two days earlier the Marathas had been decimated on the field of Panipat. Those who had managed to escape the Afghans’ swords were set upon by gangs of Gujars and Jats and robbed of everything including their lives. I decided to stay on in Bharatpur until the Afghans departed and peace was restored in Delhi.

Une fois dehors, il aperçoit dans les airs une forme noirâtre, aux ailes brûlées, qui dirige péniblement son vol vers les régions du ciel. Ils se regardent tous les deux, pendant que l'ange monte vers les hau-teurs sereines du bien, et que lui, Maldoror, au contraire, descend vers les abimes vertigineux du mal...

Evie, sweetie! So glad you could make it!” Mal said, throwing her arms theatrically around the girl and giving her a giant and fake embrace. “We’re playing Seven Minutes in Heaven! Want to play?” “Uh, I don’t know,” said Evie, looking around the party nervously. “It’ll be a scream,” said Mal. “Come on, you want to be my friend, don’t you?” Evie stared at Mal. “You want me to be your friend?” “Sure—why not?” Mal led her to the closet door and opened it. “But doesn’t a boy go in here with me?” Evie asked as Mal shoved her inside the storage room. For someone castle-schooled, Evie sure knew her kissing games. “Did I say Seven Minutes in Heaven? No, you’re playing Seven Minutes in Hell!” Mal cackled; she couldn’t help it. This was going to be so much fun. The

Did I say Seven Minutes in Heaven? No, you’re playing Seven Minutes in Hell!” Mal cackled; she couldn’t help it. This was going

Nous ne te voulons pas de mal, mais nous avons un sens africain de la race. Les blancs sont des blancs, mais vous autres descendants d’esclaves, vous n’êtes rien. Ce n’est pas ta faute, et ce n’est pas la nôtre : tu n'es rien. Tu es un, comme chaque poisson du fleuve.

If she wasn’t Mal from the Isle anymore, who was she?

Mal laughed, too. She stared at him for a moment, before looking away.