Joseph Andrews Quotes

Andrew Joseph Minyard, what the flying fuck have you done this time?

God is an absent parent who demands loyalty despite never being around...

Reading list (1972 edition)[edit] 1. Homer – Iliad, Odyssey 2. The Old Testament 3. Aeschylus – Tragedies 4. Sophocles – Tragedies 5. Herodotus – Histories 6. Euripides – Tragedies 7. Thucydides – History of the Peloponnesian War 8. Hippocrates – Medical Writings 9. Aristophanes – Comedies 10. Plato – Dialogues 11. Aristotle – Works 12. Epicurus – Letter to Herodotus; Letter to Menoecus 13. Euclid – Elements 14. Archimedes – Works 15. Apollonius of Perga – Conic Sections 16. Cicero – Works 17. Lucretius – On the Nature of Things 18. Virgil – Works 19. Horace – Works 20. Livy – History of Rome 21. Ovid – Works 22. Plutarch – Parallel Lives; Moralia 23. Tacitus – Histories; Annals; Agricola Germania 24. Nicomachus of Gerasa – Introduction to Arithmetic 25. Epictetus – Discourses; Encheiridion 26. Ptolemy – Almagest 27. Lucian – Works 28. Marcus Aurelius – Meditations 29. Galen – On the Natural Faculties 30. The New Testament 31. Plotinus – The Enneads 32. St. Augustine – On the Teacher; Confessions; City of God; On Christian Doctrine 33. The Song of Roland 34. The Nibelungenlied 35. The Saga of Burnt Njál 36. St. Thomas Aquinas – Summa Theologica 37. Dante Alighieri – The Divine Comedy;The New Life; On Monarchy 38. Geoffrey Chaucer – Troilus and Criseyde; The Canterbury Tales 39. Leonardo da Vinci – Notebooks 40. Niccolò Machiavelli – The Prince; Discourses on the First Ten Books of Livy 41. Desiderius Erasmus – The Praise of Folly 42. Nicolaus Copernicus – On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres 43. Thomas More – Utopia 44. Martin Luther – Table Talk; Three Treatises 45. François Rabelais – Gargantua and Pantagruel 46. John Calvin – Institutes of the Christian Religion 47. Michel de Montaigne – Essays 48. William Gilbert – On the Loadstone and Magnetic Bodies 49. Miguel de Cervantes – Don Quixote 50. Edmund Spenser – Prothalamion; The Faerie Queene 51. Francis Bacon – Essays; Advancement of Learning; Novum Organum, New Atlantis 52. William Shakespeare – Poetry and Plays 53. Galileo Galilei – Starry Messenger; Dialogues Concerning Two New Sciences 54. Johannes Kepler – Epitome of Copernican Astronomy; Concerning the Harmonies of the World 55. William Harvey – On the Motion of the Heart and Blood in Animals; On the Circulation of the Blood; On the Generation of Animals 56. Thomas Hobbes – Leviathan 57. René Descartes – Rules for the Direction of the Mind; Discourse on the Method; Geometry; Meditations on First Philosophy 58. John Milton – Works 59. Molière – Comedies 60. Blaise Pascal – The Provincial Letters; Pensees; Scientific Treatises 61. Christiaan Huygens – Treatise on Light 62. Benedict de Spinoza – Ethics 63. John Locke – Letter Concerning Toleration; Of Civil Government; Essay Concerning Human Understanding;Thoughts Concerning Education 64. Jean Baptiste Racine – Tragedies 65. Isaac Newton – Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy; Optics 66. Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz – Discourse on Metaphysics; New Essays Concerning Human Understanding;Monadology 67. Daniel Defoe – Robinson Crusoe 68. Jonathan Swift – A Tale of a Tub; Journal to Stella; Gulliver's Travels; A Modest Proposal 69. William Congreve – The Way of the World 70. George Berkeley – Principles of Human Knowledge 71. Alexander Pope – Essay on Criticism; Rape of the Lock; Essay on Man 72. Charles de Secondat, baron de Montesquieu – Persian Letters; Spirit of Laws 73. Voltaire – Letters on the English; Candide; Philosophical Dictionary 74. Henry Fielding – Joseph Andrews; Tom Jones 75. Samuel Johnson – The Vanity of Human Wishes; Dictionary; Rasselas; The Lives of the Poets

Do you believe in God? I do, please stop, there's so much blood

Being transgender is who you are, and the pain is what the outside does to you. The pain is what happens when you and the world go at each other's throats.

We are the same species. We're all human. It's not that people cannot understand me; it's simply that most of them don't want to

I'm done begging for a scrap of respect-I am done with those who enact suffering, and I am done with the sons of bitches who stand back and let it happen.

dysphoria had to wrap its hands around my neck and hold me down, baptism in drowning, before I faced the fact that living as a girl would kill me long before the Angels did.

I want to take myself apart into something else, and if I cannot do that, I want to destroy every part of it that could ever be used against me.

I won't be okay, but I will be better

I want to peel off all my skin, if only so I could be anything other than a naked body, something horrifying instead of vulnerable. Nobody looks at a pig corpse and thinks it could be made beautiful.

I think it hits us all at the same time that maybe we'll live long enough to grow up.

What's going on in my head? What do I believe? How much of it is me, and how much of it was put there? I don't know.

It’s amazing how locking down one key demographic, white people in rich countries, means you can get your claws into the world so tightly, you can tear it all to pieces around you.

Hell has followed us onto Earth, and I am the monster that has brought it forth.

Why is it that when they hide their faces, men become monsters instead of angels?

When something terrible happens—or at least, when you learn about it—it feels like it should affect the entire world. It feels like something should change. But it doesn’t.

I'd burn anything down if you so much asked

I think the entire world depends on people pretending they don’t know they’re doing terrible things.

Theo snorts. “How did I manage to land a straight guy?” “How dare you imply I’m heterosexual. I am disgusted and appalled.

The first thing Dad told me—when Mom said I’d see the Lord’s plan for my womanhood eventually, that she’d carve it into me if she had to—he told me I’m a man, and I fought for it, and nobody can take that from me.

Am I in love with her already? Perhaps. Or maybe I’m just confusing love with comfort, and I’m okay with that. Is there any difference between love and a safe harbor from a storm? Should there be? There are a lot of different kinds of love, and though I may not be able to tell them apart from each other, I appreciate all of them the same.

It is a trite but true observation, that examples work more forcibly on the mind than precepts.

I can't keep running like this. I am so, so tired.

Because they gave birth to something they do not understand, because they tried so many times to fix me and they failed.

I have no sense of myself anymore besides the fact that I am not what I once was. I'm too tired to see my body from the eyes of others, in the terrible way trans-ness demands--always existing both inside and outside myself, judging as an observer. Now, I am a pile of flesh on the floor, everything hurts, and I do not give a shit.

The places where you hurry are harsh: I pray that you run more gently

Bein transgender is who you are, and the pain is what the outside does to you. The pain is what happens when you and the world go at each other's throats.

I learned to deal with it, because I was a little girl and men can do whatever they want to little girls.

To separate how you are seen from who you are sometimes feels nigh impossible.

You're not a coward for wanting to live

He'd spent so long memorizing the rules of interacting with people that he could twist them to his advantage. There are scripts people don't even realize they follow, and if you fit that script, or tweak it just enough to throw them off, they drop their guard.

To whom nothing is given, of him can nothing be required.

I read everything as it is given to me, exactly how it is said, only to discover that the world always operates just below the surface.

Are you trans?” Salvador blinks. “Uh.” “Wait, no.” I can’t just ask people if they’re trans. “I shouldn’t have…” “No, it’s fine,” Salvador says. “I mean, yeah, of course. I’m super trans. Like, an honestly heretical amount of trans. Why?

I've taken what they've given me and turned it into a mockery of them. I will turn it into what destroys them. If they want me to be a monster one step closer to God, that's fine. In what world was their God ever a benevolent one?

My flesh is a single, perfect, God-given fig meant to feed all the hungry. I am their savior in Angel whites and skin peeling off the bone.

Men all hurt us in their own unique ways. None of us carry the same bruises, the same aches.

It should be noted that I do not define my manhood through my love of women. There are lots of men who do so: their hunger to dominate feminine things, their power over their wives and daughters, are the building blocks of their maleness. That is not me. Yes, I could love a man if I ever found one who accepts me as I am, and I’ve dreamed of being so lucky—but I love women too. I love women as men are expected to, but the way only one who has ever experienced womanhood can.

I had to pull a knife to keep from falling into his arms, begging him to forgive the transgression that made him raise a hand against me. He did it to me, he hurt me, and I wanted to apologize.

We are alive, we are alive, holy shit, we are alive.

The Angels were made to be the servants of God, but I am the wrath, the flaming sword, the six-winged beast. Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

And until then, I will keep myself safe. That is not self-betrayal. That is self-preservation.

Theo stared at the raw tattoos the way little boys look at soldiers coming home from war. I stared at them the way little girls look at that one uncle their sisters tell them to stay away from.

Maybe I need to start getting used to this. It's only going to get worse.

Our faces are so close, his body is so warm, and I missed him so much. I missed him. I missed him. No matter what he did. I am disgusted with myself.

He's...he's doing the same thing I do. His hands are fluttering. Like mine. Oh God, he's like me.

I do not get to savor the masculine cut of my clothes, or the illusion of short hair, or the feeting joy of my skin feeling like mine. Instead, I have to worry if my boyhood is convincing enough to keep me safe. There is no joy in that. Only fear.

Grief is a sin. Loss is God’s design, and to mourn the dead is to insult His vision. To despair at His will is sacrilege. How dare you betray His plan by grieving what was always His to take? Unfaithful, disgusting heretic, you should be hung from the wall so the nonbelievers will know what’s coming for them. Romans 6:23—for the wages of sin is death.

I tried to feel it. I did, I swear. I reached for it, squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could and begged for it. I pretended I was stretching my hands out into the darkness behind my eyelids, fingers splayed wide, trying to find even the barest touch of something out there in the abyss. To feel the warmth Mom always assured me was waiting once I accepted God into my heart. There was nothing. Always nothing.

I’m super trans. Like, an honestly heretical amount of trans. Why?

Do they reach anything? Maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s true as long as it takes a bit of this weight off my chest.

It was just me, the words, and the air in my lungs.

The mask shatters into a thousand pieces. Halfway to her, I stumble, drop to my knees, and begin to cry. She's like me, she's like me, she's like me, and I'm safe.

It is a mind that experiences the world too much. It is a mind that at once experiences everything in its smallest details, but without sensing the deeper meaning the rest of the world seems to inherently understand. It is a mind that sees the patterns and clicking, ticking systems all around us, but crumbles as soon as something falls out of place. It is a mind that operates, it seems, in a mirror version of the world, where the same actions and reactions are experienced so differently it’s like we are not even the same species.

Grief is a sin. Loss is God’s design, and to mourn the dead is to insult His vision. To despair at His will is sacrilege. How dare you betray His plan by grieving what was always His to take? Unfaithful, disgusting heretic, you should be hung from the wall so the nonbelievers will know what’s coming for them.

My name is Daphne.' Daphne? In that moment, it's as if I've peeled the skin away from the chest of a patient, revealing a beating heart. A boy could not say that name as if terrified the syllables will break in the mouth. A boy-born-boy could not recognize what I am. Of course her name is Daphne. I stand up straight, taking a step from the door; and then another, and another. She's like me.

Adams dealt him so sound a Compliment over his Face with his Fist, that the Blood immediately gushed out of his Nose in a Stream. The Host being unwilling to be outdone in Courtesy, especially by a Person of Adams's Figure, returned the Favour with so much Gratitude, that the Parson's Nostrils likewise began to look a little redder than usual.

Shut the front door!” Jenna exclaimed. Andrew disappeared into the foyer, and when he returned, his eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. “The door is shut?

Charlotte Bronte borrowed liberally and sloppily from Joseph Sheridan le Fanu when penning Jane Eyre. The originality of this classic novel is tarnished as a result.

Do you believe in God? — I do, please stop, there’s so much blood

Do you want to know why we do this? Love. It's always love.

I am so weak for him. I love him so, so much.

But what if I loose you?

Death never goes after those who deserve it. It only ever takes those who aren't ready.

When the dead men come, we are waiting. We have been waiting so long. They must have convinced themselves they would never rot in the same dirt we do.

Nobody scarce doth any good, yet they all agree in praising those who do. Indeed, it is strange that all men should consent in commending goodness, and no man endeavour to deserve that commendation; whilst, on the contrary, all rail at wickedness, and all are as eager to be what they abuse.

But while you’re here, officer, why don’t you hold this railroad spike for me? Hold it in your hand and tell me how heavy it is. Tell me which one of us you’d use it on. See what happens if you try.

For the first time in my life, I found mirrors for myself. Daphne, and now him. It's bizarre to witness these parts of myself - whatever they are, for if they have names, I don't know them - separated. I tied them together in my mind, as if my inability to grasp the intricacies of other people means I failed to also grasp the meeting of my sex at a basic level; as if one thing caused the other. Headmaster seems to think they're one and the same. Mother and Father do too. To see them divided disproves that.

I should not have to keep fixing the damage done to us. It would be so easy to not hurt us and the Speakers can't even do that. It's more work to hurt us. It's more work to be cruel - and yet they continue.

The first thing dad told me─when Mom said i'd see the Lord's plan for my womahod eventually, that she'd crave it into me if she had to─he told me i'm a man, and i fought for it, and nobody can take that from me.

He said "They were heartily welcome to his poor cottage", and turning to Mr. Didapper, cried out, 'Non mea renidet in domo lacunar.' The beau answered, "He did not understand Welsh"; at which the parson stared and made no reply.

There's a whole spectrum of reactions to coming out. Getting kicked out is one extreme–being accepted wholeheartedly is the other. But in the middle, there's this. The awkwardness, the refusals to acknowledge, the uncomfortable weirdness of turning away.

Decades of countercultural rebellion have failed to change anything because the theory of society on which the countercultural idea rests is false. We do not live in the Matrix, nor do we live in the spectacle. The world we live in is in fact much more prosaic. It consists of billions of human beings, each pursuing more or less plausible conceptions of the good, trying to cooperate with one another, and doing so with varying degrees of success. There is no single, overarching system that integrates it all. The culture cannot be jammed because there is no such thing as "the culture" or "the system". There is only a hodge-podge of social institutions, most tentatively thrown together, which distribute the benefits and burdens of social cooperation in ways that sometimes we recognize to be just, but that are usually manifestly inequitable. In a world of this type, countercultural rebellion is not just unhelpful, it is positively counterproductive. Not only does it distract energy and effort away from the sort of initiatives that lead to concrete improvements in people's lives, but it encourages wholesale contempt for such incremental changes.

There was to be no more chewing on my hair. No more flapping my hands or rocking. I would eat my dinner, no matter how awful I found it, and I would sit through parties politely with my legs crossed at the ankles. I was to be just like everyone else, no matter how much distress it caused me. It is the only way anyone will ever tolerate you, the tutor said.

I will not be theirs, and there is nothing they can do about it. I've taken what they've given me and turned it into a mockery of them. I will turn into what destroys them

Or maybe a better way to word it would be, it gets easier for me to forget the pain of being trans. Being transgender is who you are, and the pain is what the outside does to you.

For the kids who sharpen their teeth and bite

Though he was eighteen months younger than Joseph, Napoleon was always stronger-willed.)

Funerals are a function of grief and therefore sacrilege. Loss is God’s plan. How dare you grieve that was always His to take?

I was to be just like everyone else, no matter how much distress it caused me.

Kissing him is water after drought, deer meat in my belly after days of refusing to eat.

I have often wondered, Sir, [. . .] to observe so few Instances of Charity among Mankind; for tho' the Goodness of a Man's Heart did not incline him to relieve the Distresses of his Fellow-Creatures, methinks the Desire of Honour should move him to it. What inspires a Man to build fine Houses, to purchase fine Furniture, Pictures, Clothes, and other things at a great Expence, but an Ambition to be respected more than other People? Now would not one great Act of Charity, one Instance of redeeming a poor Family from all the Miseries of Poverty, restoring an unfortunate Tradesman by a Sum of Money to the means of procuring a Livelihood by his Industry, discharging an undone Debtor from his Debts or a Goal, or any such Example of Goodness, create a Man more Honour and Respect than he could acquire by the finest House, Furniture, Pictures or Clothes that were ever beheld? For not only the Object himself who was thus relieved, but all who heard the Name of such a Person must, I imagine, reverence him infinitely more than the Possessor of all those other things: which when we so admire, we rather praise the Builder, the Workman, the Painter, the Laceman, the Taylor, and the rest, by whose Ingenuity they are produced, than the Person who by his Money makes them his own.

Jules lips quivered, and I feared she was about to cry. Then she asked, “He bit off more than he could chew, didn’t he?” She made a motion as if she was biting into a tough piece of steak. Gabriella’s lips sealed shut as she tried to hide her grin, though she failed at it when Andrew asked, “Was he eating?” He turned desperately to Gabriella, confused. Jules wasn’t about to cry, she was trying not to laugh! She giggled then, the sound tinkling and odd in the outlandish setting. Andrew straightened and shook his head at Gabriella. “Did you see him eat?

I didn't know how to explain to her that I didn't want to be a boy because it was easier than being a girl. I wasn't pretending. It was just that my girlhood was—and still is—simply, factually, incorrect.

I can only be around eggs for so long, and if I must make them, I will not be able to eat them. There’s just something about the smell, and the texture, that makes them nigh unpalatable after I think about them for more than a minute.

Henry Fielding, a highly successful satiric dramatist until the introduction of censorship in 1737, began his novel-writing career with Shamela, a pastiche of Pamela, which humorously attacked the hypocritical morality which that novel displayed. Joseph Andrews (1742) was also intended as a kind of parody of Richardson; but Fielding found that his novels were taking on a moral life of their own, and he developed his own highly personal narrative style - humorous and ironic, with an omniscient narrative presence controlling the lives and destinies of his characters. Fielding focuses more on male characters and manners than Richardson. In doing so, he creates a new kind of hero in his novels. Joseph Andrews is chaste, while Tom Jones in Tom Jones (1749) is quite the opposite. Tom is the model of the young foundling enjoying his freedom (to travel, to have relationships with women, to enjoy sensual experience) until his true origins are discovered. When he matures, he assumes his social responsibilities and marries the woman he has 'always' loved, who has, of course, like a mediaeval crusader's beloved, been waiting faithfully for him. Both of these heroes are types, representatives of their sex. There is a picaresque journey from innocence to experience, from freedom to responsibility. It is a rewriting of male roles to suit the society of the time. The hero no longer makes a crusade to the Holy Land, but the crusade is a personal one, with chivalry learned on the way, and adventure replacing self-sacrifice and battle.

...the pleasures of the world are chiefly folly, and the business of it mostly knavery, and both nothing better than vanity; the men of pleasure tearing one another to pieces from the emulation of spending money, and the men of business from envy in getting it.

Sublime Books The Known World, by Edward P. Jones The Buried Giant, by Kazuo Ishiguro A Thousand Trails Home, by Seth Kantner House Made of Dawn, by N. Scott Momaday Faithful and Virtuous Night, by Louise Glück The Left Hand of Darkness, by Ursula K. Le Guin My Sentence Was a Thousand Years of Joy, by Robert Bly The World Without Us, by Alan Weisman Unfortunately, It Was Paradise, by Mahmoud Darwish Collected Fictions, by Jorge Luis Borges, trans. Andrew Hurley The Xenogenesis Trilogy, by Octavia E. Butler Map: Collected and Last Poems, by Wisława Szymborska In the Lateness of the World, by Carolyn Forché Angels, by Denis Johnson Postcolonial Love Poem, by Natalie Diaz Hope Against Hope, by Nadezhda Mandelstam Exhalation, by Ted Chaing Strange Empire, by Joseph Kinsey Howard Tookie’s Pandemic Reading Deep Survival, by Laurence Gonzales The Lost City of the Monkey God, by Douglas Preston The House of Broken Angels, by Luis Alberto Urrea The Heartsong of Charging Elk, by James Welch Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov, trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky The Sound of a Wild Snail Eating, by Elisabeth Tova Bailey Let’s Take the Long Way Home, by Gail Caldwell The Aubrey/Maturin Novels, by Patrick O’Brian The Ibis Trilogy, by Amitav Ghosh The Golden Wolf Saga, by Linnea Hartsuyker Children of Time, by Adrian Tchaikovsky Coyote Warrior, by Paul VanDevelder Incarceration Felon, by Reginald Dwayne Betts Against the Loveless World, by Susan Abulhawa Waiting for an Echo, by Christine Montross, M.D. The Mars Room, by Rachel Kushner The New Jim Crow, by Michelle Alexander This Is Where, by Louise K. Waakaa’igan I Will Never See the World Again, by Ahmet Altan Sorrow Mountain, by Ani Pachen and Adelaide Donnelley American Prison, by Shane Bauer Solitary, by Albert Woodfox Are Prisons Obsolete?, by Angela Y. Davis 1000 Years of Joys and Sorrows, by Ai Weiwei Books contain everything worth knowing except what ultimately matters. —Tookie * * * If you are interested in the books on these lists, please seek them out at your local independent bookstore. Miigwech! Acknowledgments

Halfway through the walk, I pull off my mask. There's nobody to hide from anymore. It's like changing out of the dress I ran in, like watching snips of dark auburn hair gather around my feet. Not quite sure what to do with myself, desperately trying to understand this new body. Trying to figure it out: What does it mean? What does this flesh want? What does the world want from it? What kind of monster do I want to be? At least a face like this will make people think twice before making snap judgments about what I am. It's harder for someone to pin you down as a girl when they need a moment to pin you down as human.

...but doth not the person who expends vast sums in the furniture of his house or the ornaments of his person, who consumes much time and employs great pains in dressing himself, or who thinks himself paid for self-denial, labour, or even villany, by a title or a ribbon, sacrifice as much to vanity as the poor wit who is desirous to read you his poem or his play?

Firen didn’t waste any time setting up the meeting with Egnatious. The following day she was in such a rush to tell me about it that she burst into my room without knocking and found Andrew and me in an intimate and compromising position reminiscent of the game Twister. Also, I cannot confirm or deny if there was food involved. Let’s just say I toppled over in embarrassment, taking Andrew down with me in a great heap. Firen didn’t fare any better, as she nearly knocked herself out when she ran into the doorframe in an attempt to escape. We were both scarred for life, especially after Firen apologized for walking in on our “naked fun time,” which was apparently what Joseph called it. There were some things people should never know, and that was one of them.

For a man who was to exhibit such acute political sharpness later in his career, Napoleon completely misread the revolution's opening stages. 'I repeat what I have said to you,' he wrote to Joseph on July 22, a week after the fall of the Bastille, 'calm will return. In a month, there will no longer be a question of anything. So, if you send me 300 livres [7,500 francs] I will go to Paris to terminate our business.

State Councillor Joseph Pelet de la Lozère recorded that the English press drove Napoleon ‘into a fury that resembled the lion in the fable, stung to madness by a swarm of gnats’.47* Eventually, in August 1802 he banned all British newspapers from France. The Bourbon family had close connections with the émigré press, as the British government knew from intercepting, copying, decoding and resealing letters sent through the Post Office (just as Lavalette’s bureau noir was doing in Paris).

Nothing, then, is not Something. And here I must object to a third error concerning it, which is, that it is in no place—which is an indirect way of depriving it of its existence; whereas, indeed, it possesses the greatest and noblest place upon this earth, viz., the human brain. But, indeed, this mistake has been sufficiently refuted by many very wise men, who, having spent their whole lives in the contemplation and pursuit of Nothing, have at last gravely concluded that there is Nothing in this world.

Why, then,' answered the squire, 'I am very sorry you have given him so much learning; for, if he cannot get his living by that, it will rather spoil him for anything else; and your other son, who can hardly write his name, will do more at ploughing and sowing, and is in a better condition, than he.' And indeed so it proved; for the poor lad, not finding friends to maintain him in his learning, as he had expected, and being unwilling to work, fell to drinking, though he was a very sober lad before; and in a short time, partly with grief, and partly with good liquor, fell into a consumption, and died.

The Court of Vienna is behaving very badly,’ Napoleon wrote to Joseph from Valladolid on January 15, 1809, ‘it may have cause to repent. Don’t be uneasy. I have enough troops, even without touching my army in Spain, to get to Vienna in a month . . . In fact, my mere presence in Paris will reduce Austria to her usual irrelevance.’1 He did not know at that stage that Austria had already received a large British subsidy to persuade her to fight what would become the War of the Fifth Coalition. Archduke Charles had been putting all able-bodied men between eighteen and forty-five into uniform in the new Landwehr militia, some of whose units were indistinguishable from the regular army.

Larrey amputated two hundred limbs that day. After the battle the 2nd Light Horse Lancers of the Guard, known as the Dutch Red Lancers, spent the night in woods that had been captured by Poniatowski’s infantry, where the ground around the trees was so heavily littered with corpses that they were forced to carry scores out of the way before they could clear a space for their tents.112 ‘In order to get some water it was necessary to travel far from the field of battle,’ wrote the veteran Major Louis Joseph Vionnet of the Middle Guard in his memoirs. ‘Any water to be found on the field was so soaked with blood that even the horses refused to drink it.’113 When the next day Napoleon arrived to thank and reward the remains of the 61st Demi-Brigade for capturing the Grand Redoubt, he asked its colonel why its third battalion wasn’t on parade. ‘Sire,’ came the reply, ‘it is in the redoubt.’114

Of course it was not only the Bourbons’ mistakes which helped decide Napoleon to risk everything to try to regain his throne. Emperor Francis’s refusal to allow his wife and son to rejoin him was another, and the fact that his expenses were running at two and a half times his income. There was also sheer ennui; he complained to Campbell of being ‘shut up in this cell of a house, separated from the world, with no interesting occupation, no savants with me, nor any variety in my society’.88† Another consideration was paragraphs in the newspapers and rumours from the Congress of Vienna that the Allies were planning forcibly to remove him from Elba. Joseph de Maistre, the French ambassador to St Petersburg, had nerve-wrackingly suggested the Australian penal colony of Botany Bay as a possible destination. The exceptionally remote British island of St Helena in the mid-Atlantic had also been mentioned.

The Saint-Domingue business was a great piece of folly on my part,’ Napoleon later admitted. ‘It was the greatest error that in all my government I ever committed. I ought to have treated with the black leaders, as I would have done the authorities in a province.’71 One lesson he did learn was that blacks could make excellent soldiers, and in November 1809 he set up a unit called the Black Pioneers, made up of men from Egypt and the Caribbean under a black battalion commander, Joseph ‘Hercules’ Domingue, to whom he gave a special award of 3,000 francs. By 1812 Napoleon didn’t believe any colonies could be held in perpetuity, predicting that they would all eventually ‘follow the example of the United States. You grow tired of waiting for orders from five thousand miles away; tired of obeying a government which seems foreign to you because it’s remote, and because of necessity it subordinates you to its own local interest, which it cannot sacrifice to yours.’72 The defeat in Saint-Domingue ended for ever Napoleon’s dreams of a French empire in the West.