Mont Blanc Quotes

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it -- namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain. If he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign.

he would now have comprehended that work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that play consists of whaterver a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why construcing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill, is work, whilst rolling nine-pins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service that would turn it into work, then they would resign.

For the first time in his life, Mont Blanc for a moment looked to him what it was - a chaos of anarchic and purposeless forces - and he needed days of repose to see it clothe itself again with the illusions of his senses, the white purity of its snows, the splendor of its light, and the infinity of its heavenly peace. Nature was kind; Lake Geneva was beautiful beyond itself, and the Alps put on charms real as terrors.

The contemplation of Mont Blanc's unchanging summits for three or four days last month, the sight of that eternal snow, immaculate, sublime in its whiteness and calm, was enough to restore to my soul a serenity it had not known for a long time.

Jerott’s eyes and Philippa’s met. ‘When I meet my friend,’ said Jerott Blyth carefully, ‘there is likely to be a detonation which will take the snow off Mont Blanc. I advise you to seek other auspices. Philippa, I think we should go down below.’ ‘To swim?’ said that unprepossessing child guilelessly. ‘I can stand on my head.’ ‘Oh, Christ,’ said Jerott morosely. ‘Why in hell did you come?’ The brown eyes within the damp, dun-coloured hair inspected him narrowly. ‘Because you need a woman,’ said Philippa finally. ‘And I’m the nearest thing to it that you’re likely to get. It was very short notice.

She picks up her black Mont Blanc pen, looks at it, puts it back where it was, then looks straight at me.

It is true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women ... Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms ...

He was okay with himself, the way he was okay with his body, with his looks, with his antic backhand, with his choice of books, music, films, friends. He was okay with losing his prized Mont Blanc pen.

Mont Blanc confronted us, dazzling, immense, cut sharp out of the bue sky; more prosterous than the most baroque wedding cake, more convincing than the best photograph. It fairly took my breath away. It made me want to laugh.

The secret strength of things Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome Of Heaven is as a column, rests on thee, And what were thou and Earth and Stars and Sea If to the human mind's imaginings Silence and solitude were Vacancy?

No banishment, indeed, to the South Pole, or to the summit of Mont Blanc, can separate us so entirely from our fellow creatures as a prolonged residence in the seclusion of a secret vice, that is to say of a state of mind that is different from theirs.

For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women ... Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms ...

It seemed like every time they left the country they managed to work in Paris. They had their rituals, la Pomme de Pain for bread, Les Pyrénées for café au lait, a Mont Blanc at Angelina’s when they were feeling reckless. Sabine knows which evenings the Musée D’Orsay isn’t crowded. She knows the hidden sale racks at Au Bon Marché.

When you’re climbing up a rock face, your hands are not more than a few inches from your eyes, but when you’re coming down, your feet are never less than five feet below you, which means that when you look down you’ve far more chance of losing your balance. Got the idea?’ George laughed. ‘Ignore my friend,’ he said. ‘And not just because he’s a hide-bound Tory, but he’s also a lackey of the capitalist system.’ ‘True enough,’ said Guy without shame. ‘So what clubs have you signed up for?’ asked Brooke, turning his attention to Guy. ‘Apart from cricket, the Union, the Disraeli Society and the Officers’ Training Corps,’ replied Guy. ‘Good heavens,’ said Brooke. ‘Is there no hope for the man?’ ‘None whatsoever,’ admitted Guy. Turning to George, he added, ‘But at least I’ve found what you’ve been looking for, so the time has come for you to follow me.’ George raised his mortar board to Brooke, who returned the compliment. Guy led the way to the next row of stalls, where he pointed triumphantly at a white awning that read CUMC, founded 1904. George slapped his friend on the back. He began to study a display of photographs showing past and present undergraduates standing on the Great St Bernard Pass, and on the summits of Mont Vélan and Monte Rosa. Another board on the far side of the table displayed a large photograph of Mont Blanc, on which was written the words Join us in Italy next year if you want

When the full moon was out the other night, it created one of the most spectacular scenes that I have seen in the Alps. The high glaciers of the Mont Blanc range were glowing an eerie bright blue-white, and they looked like huge ghost ships in the dark ocean of sky, sailing amongst black mountain valleys. There were no clouds, and the moon was a huge and perfect disc tracking across the sky, shining on different parts of the glaciers through the night. Looking up, I saw the black silhouette of the mid-altitude mountains below the ethereal shining high-mountain terrain, which created a weird vision: the ghostly glaciers floating, and appearing separate, contrasting sharply with the dark valleys beneath. The Aiguille Verte especially, being so steep and isolated, seemed almost like a holographic mast with sails, plowing into the rolling waves, chasing after the Mont Blanc summit with its billowing spinnaker...

On the contrary, I have seen big winners, individuals who have overcome themselves and have crossed the finish line in tears, their strength gone, but not from physical exhaustion—though that is also there—but because they have achieved what they thought was only the fruit of dreams. I have seen people sit on the ground after crossing the finish line of the Ultra-Trail du Mont-Blanc, and sit there for hours with blank looks, smiling broadly to themselves, still not believing that what they have achieved isn’t a hallucination. Fully aware that when they wake up, they will be able to say that they did it, that they succeeded, that they vanquished their fears and transformed their dreams into something real. I have seen individuals who, though they have come in after the leaders have had time to shower, eat lunch, and even take a good siesta, feel that they are the winners. They wouldn’t change that feeling for anything in the world. And I envy them, because, in essence, isn’t this a part of why we run? To find out whether we can overcome our fears, that the tape we smash when we cross the line isn’t only the one the volunteers are holding, but also the one we have set in our minds? Isn’t victory being able to push our bodies and minds to their limits and, in doing so, discovering that they have led us to find ourselves anew and to create new dreams?

« Norbert de Varenne parlait d’une voix claire, mais retenue, qui aurait sonné dans le silence de la nuit s’il l’avait laissée s’échapper. Il semblait surexcité et triste, d’une de ces tristesses qui tombent parfois sur les âmes et les rendent vibrantes comme la terre sous la gelée. Il reprit : « Qu’importe, d’ailleurs, un peu plus ou un peu moins de génie, puisque tout doit finir ! » Et il se tut. Duroy, qui se sentait le cœur gai, ce soir-là, dit, en souriant : « Vous avez du noir, aujourd’hui, cher maître. » Le poète répondit. « J’en ai toujours, mon enfant, et vous en aurez autant que moi dans quelques années. La vie est une côte. Tant qu’on monte, on regarde le sommet, et on se sent heureux ; mais, lorsqu’on arrive en haut, on aperçoit tout d’un coup la descente, et la fin qui est la mort. Ça va lentement quand on monte, mais ça va vite quand on descend. À votre âge, on est joyeux. On espère tant de choses, qui n’arrivent jamais d’ailleurs. Au mien, on n’attend plus rien... que la mort. » Duroy se mit à rire : « Bigre, vous me donnez froid dans le dos. » Norbert de Varenne reprit : « Non, vous ne me comprenez pas aujourd’hui, mais vous vous rappellerez plus tard ce que je vous dis en ce moment. » « Il arrive un jour, voyez- vous, et il arrive de bonne heure pour beaucoup, où c’est fini de rire, comme on dit, parce que derrière tout ce qu’on regarde, c’est la mort qu’on aperçoit. » « Oh ! vous ne comprenez même pas ce mot-là, vous, la mort. À votre âge, ça ne signifie rien. Au mien, il est terrible. » « Oui, on le comprend tout d’un coup, on ne sait pas pourquoi ni à propos de quoi, et alors tout change d’aspect, dans la vie. Moi, depuis quinze ans, je la sens qui me travaille comme si je portais en moi une bête rongeuse. Je l’ai sentie peu à peu, mois par mois, heure par heure, me dégrader ainsi qu’une maison qui s’écroule. Elle m’a défiguré si complètement que je ne me reconnais pas. Je n’ai plus rien de moi, de moi l’homme radieux, frais et fort que j’étais à trente ans. Je l’ai vue teindre en blanc mes cheveux noirs, et avec quelle lenteur savante et méchante ! Elle m’a pris ma peau ferme, mes muscles, mes dents, tout mon corps de jadis, ne me laissant qu’une âme désespérée qu’elle enlèvera bientôt aussi. » « Oui, elle m’a émietté, la gueuse, elle a accompli doucement et terriblement la longue destruction de mon être, seconde par seconde. Et maintenant je me sens mourir en tout ce que je fais. Chaque pas m’approche d’elle, chaque mouvement, chaque souffle hâte son odieuse besogne. Respirer, dormir, boire, manger, travailler, rêver, tout ce que nous faisons, c’est mourir. Vivre enfin, c’est mourir ! » » (de « Bel-Ami » par Guy de Maupassant)

De la partie la plus noire de mon âme, à travers la zone hachurée me monte ce désir d'être tout à coup blanc. Je ne veux pas être reconnu comme Noir, mais comme Blanc. Or [...] qui peut la faire, sinon la Blanche? En m'aimant, elle me prouve que je suis digne d'un amour blanc.

The second ingredient on which our identity is based is the same as for the chariot. In the process of reflecting the world, we organize it into entities: we conceive of the world by grouping and segmenting it as best we can in a continuous process that is more or less uniform and stable, the better to interact with it. We group together into a single entity the rocks that we call Mont Blanc, and we think of it as a unified thing. We draw lines over the world, dividing it into sections; we establish boundaries, we approximate the world by breaking it down into pieces. It is the structure of our nervous system that works in this way. It receives sensory stimuli, elaborates information continuously, generating behavior. It does so through networks of neurons, which form flexible dynamic systems that continuously modify themselves, seeking to predict109—as far as possible—the flow of information intake. In order to do this, the networks of neurons evolve by associating more or less stable fixed points of their dynamic with recurring patterns that they find in the incoming information, or—indirectly—in the procedures of elaboration themselves. This is what seems to emerge from the very lively current research on the brain.110 If this is so, then “things,” like “concepts,” are fixed points in the neuronal dynamic, induced by recurring structures of the sensorial input and of the successive elaborations. They mirror a combination of aspects of the world that depends on recurrent structures of the world and on their relevance in their interactions with us. This is what a chariot consists of. Hume would have been pleased to know about these developments in our understanding of the brain.

To their right, behind a row of nearer peaks, stood Mont Blanc, the tallest in Western Europe—a monument to those things humans can crawl their way up but not alter.

Martin pointed out the Mont Blanc massif, where the Planpincieux glacier was in danger of imminent collapse after several days of above-normal temperatures.

Elle a l'impression d'être debout au bord d'une falaise, de voir les nuages blancs qui flottent à ses pieds, elle sait qu'au-dessous s'étend une gorge insondable. Elle se débat vraiment, mais lui a perdu toute raison, il est comme une bête sauvage décidée à se battre jusqu'à la mort. A bout de forces, elle se défend en vain. Parce que son corps est resté si longtemps solitaire, que le désespoir a détruit son désir, qu'elle oppose une résistance sincère et énergique, parce qu'à cet instant elle n'y est pas préparée, de façon inattendue, elle est submergée par une immense sensation de jouissance telle qu'elle n'en avait jamais connu. Cette plénitude efface tout ce qu'elle avait vécu auparavant. On peut mourir sans regret quand on a connu un tel instant. Cette joie irradie jusqu'aux moindres parcelles de son corps, sa jouissance n'a jamais atteint de tels sommets. Elle a un goût d'éternité, comme une cérémonie d'adieux parfaitement réussie. Lui aussi ressent cet instant comme exceptionnel. Il s'écarte pour s'étendre sur le dos à côté d'elle et observe le ciel étoilé. A cet instant, le chant des porteurs d'eau monte de la rivière perdue dans le brouillard comme un chœur formé de cent voix à l'unisson, puissant et pourtant maîtrisé. Étendus l'un près de l'autre, ils sont saisis par un sentiment étrange et inconnu. Un lourd pressentiment pèse sur eux. p 158-159

The Mont Blanc, with 2,925 tons of explosives in barrels and kegs, packed in hermetically sealed holds inside a super-heated hull, was now the most powerful bomb the war and the world had ever produced.

More specifically, I’d hike enough to become accustomed to twelve to fifteen mile treks, perhaps doing them three to four times monthly in the six to twelve months leading up to the trip.

couple of Mont Blanc pens

It was like this: I asked myself one day this question—what if Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if he had not had Toulon nor Egypt nor the passage of Mont Blanc to begin his career with, but instead of all those picturesque and monumental things, there had simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who had to be murdered too to get money from her trunk (for his career, you understand). Well, would he have brought himself to that if there had been no other means? Wouldn't he have felt a pang at its being so far from monumental and... and sinful, too? Well, I must tell you that I worried myself fearfully over that 'question' so that I was awfully ashamed when I guessed at last (all of a sudden, somehow) that it would not have given him the least pang, that it would not even have struck him that it was not monumental... that he would not have seen that there was anything in it to pause over, and that, if he had had no other way, he would have strangled her in a minute without thinking about it! Well, I too... left off thinking about it... murdered her, following his example. And that's exactly how it was! Do you think it funny? Yes, Sonia, the funniest thing of all is that perhaps that's just how it was.

I asked myself one day this question—what if Napoleon, for instance, had happened to be in my place, and if he had not had Toulon nor Egypt nor the passage of Mont Blanc to begin his career with, but instead of all those picturesque and monumental things, there had simply been some ridiculous old hag, a pawnbroker, who had to be murdered too to get money from her trunk (for his career, you understand).

Mont-Blanc was chugging up the coast, burrowing through the deep waves kicked up by a coastal storm and weighed down with 6 million pounds of high explosives to attack German soldiers.

Put it all together, and the power of Mont-Blanc’s cargo works out to about 3 kilotons of TNT—or about a fifth of the 15 kilotons the “Little Boy” atomic bomb unleashed on Hiroshima.

believed nobody knew gratitude until they’d seen a grateful Frenchman. She’d finally had to put her foot down and explain, in her clumsy French, that if he didn’t let her pay for her meals, she wasn’t going to be able to keep coming to eat here. But she hadn’t been able to stop him from rushing her through the line whenever he saw her. She looked around her surreptitiously, hoping the owner was in the kitchen or, even better, taking the evening off. Maybe she could eat and leave before he saw her. Her gaze landed on

we also first beheld Unveiled the summit of Mont Blanc, and grieved To have a soulless image on the eye That had usurped upon a living thought That never more could be.

The RMS Titanic struck an iceberg on the night of April fourteenth 1912, and sank in the North Atlantic waters in the wee hours of the following morning. She took more than 1,500 souls with her. While this death toll is devastating, it is by no means the greatest at-sea catastrophe in western history. Even besides wartime disasters, the explosion of the Mont-Blanc in Nova Scotia killed almost two thousand in 1917, the 1707 Sicily Naval Disaster killed almost the same number of people, and several other shipwrecks with smaller death tolls were arguably more dramatic. Yet fascination with the Titanic has persisted since she rested on the ocean floor, long before James Cameron’s 1997 blockbuster film. Why?

They came to a tall juniper hedge beyond which extended a flagstoned walkway that bordered the side of the manor. As they made their way to an opening of the hedge, they heard a pair of masculine voices engaged in conversation. The voices were not loud. In fact, the strictly moderated volume of the conversation betrayed that something secret— and therefore intriguing— was being discussed. Pausing behind the hedge, Daisy motioned for Evie to be still and quiet. “… doesn’t promise to be much of a breeder…” one of them was saying. The comment was met with a low but indignant objection. “Timid? Holy hell, the woman has enough spirit to climb Mont-Blanc with a pen-knife and a ball of twine. Her children will be perfect hellions.” Daisy and Evie stared at each other with mutual astonishment. Both voices were easily recognizable as those belonging to Lord Llandrindon and Matthew Swift. “Really,” Llandrindon said skeptically. “My impression is that she is a literary-minded girl. Rather a bluestocking.” “Yes, she loves books. She also happens to love adventure. She has a remarkable imagination accompanied by a passionate enthusiasm for life and an iron constitution. You’re not going to find a girl her equal on your side of the Atlantic or mine.” “I had no intention of looking on your side,” Llandrindon said dryly. “English girls possess all the traits I would desire in a wife.” They were talking about her, Daisy realized, her mouth dropping open. She was torn between delight at Matthew Swift’s description of her, and indignation that he was trying to sell her to Llandrindon as if she were a bottle of patent medicine from a street vendor’s cart. “I require a wife who is poised,” Llandrindon continued, “sheltered, restful…” “Restful? What about natural and intelligent? What about a girl with the confidence to be herself rather than trying to imitate some pallid ideal of subservient womanhood?” “I have a question,” Llandrindon said. “Yes?” “If she’s so bloody remarkable, why don’t you marry her?” Daisy held her breath, straining to hear Swift’s reply. To her supreme frustration his voice was muffled by the filter of the hedges. “Drat,” she muttered and made to follow them. Evie yanked her back behind the hedge. “No,” she whispered sharply. “Don’t test our luck, Daisy. It was a miracle they didn’t realize we were here.” “But I wanted to hear the rest of it!” “So did I.” They stared at each other with round eyes. “Daisy…” Evie said in wonder, “… I think Matthew Swift is in love with you.

I think you can experience no greater sense of freedom than what you feel when you run on a ridge that seems to hang in the air. It's like running along the edge of the blade of a sword, taking care not to fall over one side as you accelerate with every step to leave the blade and the danger behind, though at the same time you don't want it to ever end. There is danger, but you can think only of flying, of giving your legs the freedom to go faster and faster, letting your body dance as it keeps its balance. It doesn't matter when or where—you could be descending the ridge on the Bosses of Mont Blanc, the ridges on the Olla de Núria or Carlit—that feeling of freedom never changes.

Sailors on nearby ships heard the series of signals and, realizing that a collision was imminent, gathered to watch as SS Imo bore down on SS Mont-Blanc. Though both ships had cut their engines by this point, their momentum carried them right on top of each other at slow speed. Unable to ground his ship for fear of a shock that would set off his explosive cargo, Mackey ordered SS Mont-Blanc to steer hard to port and crossed the Norwegian ship's bows in a last-second bid to avoid a collision. The two ships were almost parallel to each other, when SS Imo suddenly sent out three signal blasts, indicating the ship was reversing its engines. The combination of the cargoless ship's height in the water and the transverse thrust of her right-hand propeller caused the ship's head to swing into SS Mont-Blanc. SS Imo's prow pushed into the French vessel's No. 1 hold on her starboard side.

At 9:04:35 am, the out-of-control fire on board SS Mont-Blanc finally set off her highly explosive cargo. The ship was completely blown apart and a powerful blast wave radiated away from the explosion at more than 1,000 metres per second. Temperatures of 5,000 °C and pressures of thousands of atmospheres accompanied the moment of detonation at the centre of the explosion. White-hot shards of iron fell down upon Halifax and Dartmouth. SS Mont-Blanc's forward 90 mm gun, its barrel melted away, landed approximately 3.5 miles north of the explosion site near Albro Lake in Dartmouth, while the shank of her anchor, weighing half a ton, landed 2 miles south at Armdale.

Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that Play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. And this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a treadmill is work, while rolling tenpins or climbing Mont Blanc is only amusement. There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign.

Ateísmo burgués del siglo XIX, llamó Hugo Hiriart a la religiosidad en la que imagino vivir. No sé cómo apareció esta terminante descripción en el espléndido discurso en torno a la Ilíada, con el que entró a formar parte de la Academia Mexicana de la Lengua. Pero me sentí cómoda arropándome en semejante categoría. Hasta cuando me creo moderna soy anticuada. Esto de ser ateo viene del siglo XIX. Hasta del tardío XVIII. Mi bisabuelo liberal ya era obsoleto. Con todo, yo tengo mi fe. Creo en la madre naturaleza y en los seres humanos que son generosos y buenos. Ahí está el dios de esta atea. Creo en Elizabeth Bennet, en Úrsula Iguarán, en Isaac Dinesen. Creo en la Maga y en la valentía de Leonor. Creo que tiene razón Mateo cuando lo aflige que haya guerra en Ucrania, cuando dilucida que si aletea una mariposa en África, tiembla en México. Creo en Verónica cuando se niega a heredarles a nuestros hijos la mugre del río Atoyac. Creo en los trabajadores obsesivos, como Roberto, Kathya, Héctor y Catalina. Creo en los misterios del fondo del mar, en el cine, en la poesía del Siglo de Oro y en la del siglo XX. Creo en la memoria, en la escuela primaria, en el amor de los quince años y en el sexo de los cincuenta. Creo en las comedias musicales, las jacarandas y los rascacielos. Creo en el caldo de frijoles y el arroz blanco, creo en el horizonte y en que un día tendré más nietos. Creo en la música de Rosario, en las películas de Catalina, en el libro que me cuenta Mateo. Creo en las historias que Virginia trae del Metro, creo que tenemos remedio, creo en los lápices del número tres, en la punta de las plumas Mont Blanc, en la ciencia del doctor Goldberg, en la incredulidad del doctor Estañol, en los barcos con que soñaba una mujer frente a la bahía de Cozumel, en el perro volando que vió doña Emma en un ciclón, en la frente lúcida y la nariz perfecta de la antropóloga Guzmán, en la Sierra Negra cuando la recorre Daniela, en las mujeres que han llamado a su grupo “Los varitas de nardo” y son diez gordas reunidas para cambiar sus hornos de leña por unos que contaminen menos. Creo en el hipo con que mi perro anuncia que está soñando un vuelo alrededor del mundo, creo en el diccionario de la RAE y en las cartas que mandan mis amigos. Creo que aún camina bien mi camioneta vieja y que mis hermanos hicieron una empresa en donde había un sueño. Creo, ingenua yo, en que les irá mal a los malos. Creo en la luz de mi iPhone, en la cocina de mi abuela, en la esperanza de quienes, a pesar del miedo, siguen viviendo en Michoacán. Bendigo el correo electrónico, las orquídeas y los zapatos cómodos. Les rezo a las puestas de sol, a la vitamina B12, a mis rodillas y a las fotos de mis antepasados. Comulgo con quienes saben conversar, oigo misa en las sobremesas de mi casa. Soy una atea con varios dioses. Tantos y de tan buen grado que ahora, presa de la aflicción que es la desmemoria, voy a acudir al único dios de la trilogía de mi madre que me sigue pareciendo confiable: Espíritu Santo, fuente de luz: ilumíname. ¿A qué horas tiré el trébol y cómo es que olvidé tan memorable catástrofe?

Todavía relumbra Mont Blanc en la distancia, afirmando en la tierra su imperial fortaleza y majestad: luz múltiple, múltiple resonancia; y mucha muerte y vida dentro de su belleza.

...what if Napoleon, for example, had been in my position, and instead of having a Toulon, and an Egypt, and a crossing of Mont Blanc to begin his career with, what if instead of all those beautiful and monumental things he had quite simply had nothing but an absurd old woman, a petty bureaucrat's widow, whom he was also going to have to murder, so he could steal all the money out of her chest...Don't you think that's amusing?

In addition to the fireball, concussion, the deadly shower of shrapnel, the battering-ram of air and the eruptive damage of the low pressure system, there was another death-dealing phenomena- a wall of water. The explosion of the Mont Blanc affected the water as well as the air. The concussion split the bottom and sides of the ship, violently pushing the water of the harbour away from the blast centre.

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