[87303] in Discussion of MIT-community interests
LED Flashlight Coupon
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Shadowhawk Flashlights)
Tue Aug 23 18:05:52 2016
Date: Tue, 23 Aug 2016 16:55:22 -0400
From: "Shadowhawk Flashlights" <shadowhawk_flashlights@poppinessdesigns.com>
To: <mit-talk-mtg@charon.mit.edu>
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<td align=3D"center"> <p id=3D"tap">Can' t see this Ad because of ima=
ges being off? <a href=3D"http://www.poppinessdesigns.com/77386gh4FeRu0Pc4whvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW676/italicized-Serafin"> Simply touch this.</a></p> <p> =
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<td align=3D"center" style=3D"padding: 10px; "><a href=3D"=
http://www.poppinessdesigns.com/77386gh4FeRu0Pc4whvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW676/italicized-Serafin" id=3D"subj" target=3D"">Shadowhawk X800 LED Flashlight Coupon</a></td>=
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<td align=3D"center" id=3D"imag"><a href=3D"http://www.poppinessdesigns.com/77386gh4FeRu0Pc4whvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW676/italicized-Serafin"><img id=3D"im=
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<td align=3D"center"><a href=3D"http://www.poppinessdesigns.com/italicized-Serafin/bac8ZE64vu-e1Uc4WhvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONW8ec"><img src=3D"http://www.poppinessdesigns.com/cadaver-Sanderson/4a4B7aW4eU4Ec4ThvVdVKyxdhVtFMuKmji0hvV0ONWd04" =
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nbsp; </p> <p> </p> <p align=3D"center" style=3D"font: 14px; "><spa=
n id=3D"content">His eyes which he turned upon Razumov seemed to be startin=
g out of his head. This grotesqueness of aspect no longer shocked Razumov. =
He said with gloomy conviction-- " Haldin will never speak." &quo=
t; That remains to be seen," muttered the General. " I am certain=
," insisted Razumov. " A man like this never speaks. . . . Do you=
imagine that I am here from fear?" he added violently. He felt ready =
to stand by his opinion of Haldin to the last extremity. " Certainly n=
ot," protested the General, with great simplicity of tone. " And =
I don' t mind telling you, Mr. Razumov, that if he had not come with his ta=
le to such a staunch and loyal Russian as you, he would have disappeared li=
ke a stone in the water . . . which would have had a detestable effect,&quo=
t; he added, with a bright, cruel smile under his stony stare. " So yo=
u see, there can be no suspicion of any fear here." The Prince interve=
ned, looking at Razumov round the back of the armchair. " Nobody doubt=
s the moral soundness of your action. Be at ease in that respect, pray.&quo=
t; He turned to the General uneasily. " That' s why I am here. You may=
be surprised why I should . . . ." The General hastened to interrupt.=
" Not at all. Extremely natural. You saw the importance. . . ." =
" Yes," broke in the Prince. " And I venture to ask insisten=
tly that mine and Mr. Razumov' s intervention should not become public. He =
is a young man of promise--of remarkable aptitudes." " I haven' t=
a doubt of it," murmured the General. " He inspires confidence.&=
quot; " All sorts of pernicious views are so widespread nowadays--they=
taint such unexpected quarters-- that, monstrous as it seems, he might suf=
fer. . . his studies. . . his. . ." The General, with his elbows on th=
e desk, took his head between his hands. " Yes. Yes. I am thinking it =
out. . . . How long is it since you left him at your rooms, Mr. Razumov?&qu=
ot; Razumov mentioned the hour which nearly corresponded with the time of h=
is distracted flight from the big slum house. He had made up his mind to ke=
ep Ziemianitch out of the affair completely. To mention him at all would me=
an imprisonment for the " bright soul," perhaps cruel floggings, =
and in the end a journey to Siberia in chains. Razumov, who had beaten Ziem=
ianitch, felt for him now a vague, remorseful tenderness. The General, givi=
ng way for the first time to his secret sentiments, exclaimed contemptuousl=
y-- " And you say he came in to make you this confidence like this--fo=
r nothing--_a propos des bottes_." Razumov felt danger in the air. The=
merciless suspicion of despotism had spoken openly at last. Sudden fear se=
aled Razumov' s lips. The silence of the room resembled now the silence of =
a deep dungeon, where time does not count, and a suspect person is sometime=
s forgotten for ever. But the Prince came to the rescue. " Providence =
itself has led the wretch in a moment of mental aberration to seek Mr. Razu=
mov on the strength of some old, utterly misinterpreted exchange of ideas--=
some sort of idle speculative conversation--months ago--I am told--and comp=
letely forgotten till now by Mr. Razumov." " Mr. Razumov," q=
ueried the General meditatively, after a short silence, " do you often=
indulge in speculative conversation?" " No, Excellency," an=
swered Razumov, coolly, in a sudden access of self-confidence. " I am =
a man of deep convictions. Crude opinions are in the air. They are not alwa=
ys worth combating. But even the silent contempt of a serious mind may be m=
isinterpreted by headlong utopists." The General stared from between h=
is hands. Prince K--- murmured-- " A serious young man. _Un esprit sup=
erieur_." " I see that, _mon cher Prince_," said the General=
" Mr. Razumov is quite safe with me. I am interested in him. He has,=
it seems, the great and useful quality of inspiring confidence. What I was=
wondering at is why the other should mention anything at all--I mean even =
the bare fact alone--if his object was only to obtain temporary shelter for=
a few hours. For, after all, nothing was easier than to say nothing about =
it unless, indeed, he were trying, under a crazy misapprehension of your tr=
ue sentiments, to enlist your assistance--eh, Mr. Razumov?" It seemed =
to Razumov that the floor was moving slightly. This grotesque man in a tigh=
t uniform was terrible. It was right that he should be terrible. " I c=
an see what your Excellency has in your mind. But I can only answer that I =
don' t know why." " I have nothing in my mind," murmured the=
General, with gentle surprise. " I am his prey--his helpless prey,&qu=
ot; thought Razumov. The fatigues and the disgusts of that afternoon, the n=
eed to forget, the fear which he could not keep off, reawakened his hate fo=
r Haldin. " Then I can' t help your Excellency. I don' t know what he =
meant. I only know there was a moment when I wished to kill him. There was =
also a moment when I wished myself dead. I said nothing. I was overcome. I =
provoked no confidence--I asked for no explanations--" Razumov seemed =
beside himself; but his mind was lucid. It was really a calculated outburst=
" It is rather a pity," the General said, " that you did n=
ot. Don' t you know at all what he means to do?" Razumov calmed down a=
nd saw an opening there. " He told me he was in hopes that a sledge wo=
uld meet him about half an hour after midnight at the seventh lamp-post on =
the left from the upper end of Karabelnaya. At any rate, he meant to be the=
re at that time. He did not even ask me for a change of clothes." &quo=
t; _Ah voila_!" said the General, turning to Prince K with an air of s=
atisfaction. " There is a way to keep your _protege_, Mr. Razumov, qui=
te clear of any connexion with the actual arrest. We shall be ready for tha=
t gentleman in Karabelnaya." The Prince expressed his gratitude. There=
was real emotion in his voice. Razumov, motionless, silent, sat staring at=
the carpet. The General turned to him. " Half an hour after midnight.=
Till then we have to depend on you, Mr. Razumov. You don' t think he is li=
kely to change his purpose?" " How can I tell?" said Razumov=
" Those men are not of the sort that ever changes its purpose."=
" What men do you mean?" " Fanatical lovers of liberty in g=
eneral. Liberty with a capital L, Excellency. Liberty that means nothing pr=
ecise. Liberty in whose name crimes are committed." The General murmur=
ed-- " I detest rebels of every kind. I can' t help it. It' s my natur=
e!" He clenched a fist and shook it, drawing back his arm. " They=
shall be destroyed, then." " They have made a sacrifice of their=
lives beforehand," said Razumov with malicious pleasure and looking t=
he General straight in the face. " If Haldin does change his purpose t=
o- night, you may depend on it that it will not be to save his life by flig=
ht in some other way. He would have thought then of something else to attem=
pt. But that is not likely." The General repeated as if to himself, &q=
uot; They shall be destroyed." Razumov assumed an impenetrable express=
ion. The Prince exclaimed-- " What a terrible necessity!" The Gen=
eral' s arm was lowered slowly. " One comfort there is. That brood lea=
ves no posterity. I' ve always said it, one effort, pitiless, persistent, s=
teady--and we are done with them for ever." Razumov thought to himself=
that this man entrusted with so much arbitrary power must have believed wh=
at he said or else he could not have gone on bearing the responsibility. &q=
uot; I detest rebels. These subversive minds! These intellectual _debauches=
_! My existence has been built on fidelity. It' s a feeling. To defend it I=
am ready to lay down my life--and even my honour--if that were needed. But=
pray tell me what honour can there be as against rebels--against people th=
at deny God Himself-- perfect unbelievers! Brutes. It is horrible to think =
of." During this tirade Razumov, facing the General, had nodded slight=
ly twice. Prince K---, standing on one side with his grand air, murmured, c=
asting up his eyes-- " _Helas!_" Then lowering his glance and wit=
h great decision declared-- " This young man, General, is perfectly fi=
t to apprehend the bearing of your memorable words." The General' s wh=
ole expression changed from dull resentment to perfect urbanity. " I w=
ould ask now, Mr. Razumov," he said, " to return to his home. Not=
e that I don' t ask Mr. Razumov whether he has justified his absence to his=
guest. No doubt he did this sufficiently. But I don' t ask. Mr. Razumov in=
spires confidence. It is a great gift. I only suggest that a more prolonged=
absence might awaken the criminal' s suspicions and induce him perhaps to =
change his plans." He rose and with a scrupulous courtesy escorted his=
visitors to the ante-room encumbered with flower-pots. Razumov parted with=
the Prince at the corner of a street. In the carriage he had listened to s=
peeches where natural sentiment struggled with caution. Evidently the Princ=
e was afraid of encouraging any hopes of future intercourse. But there was =
a touch of tenderness in the voice uttering in the dark the guarded general=
phrases of goodwill. And the Prince too said-- " I have perfect confi=
dence in you, Mr. Razumov." " They all, it seems, have confidence=
in me," thought Razumov dully. He had an indulgent contempt for the m=
an sitting shoulder to shoulder with him in the confined space. Probably he=
was afraid of scenes with his wife. She was said to be proud and violent. =
It seemed to him bizarre that secrecy should play such a large part in the =
comfort and safety of lives. But he wanted to put the Prince' s mind at eas=
e; and with a proper amount of emphasis he said that, being conscious of so=
me small abilities and confident in his power of work, he trusted his futur=
e to his own exertions. He expressed his gratitude for the helping hand. Su=
ch dangerous situations did not occur twice in the course of one life--he a=
dded. " And you have met this one with a firmness of mind and correctn=
ess of feeling which give me a high idea of your worth," the Prince sa=
id solemnly. " You have now only to persevere--to persevere." On =
getting out on the pavement Razumov saw an ungloved hand extended to him th=
rough the lowered window of the brougham. It detained his own in its grasp =
for a moment, while the light of a street lamp fell upon the Prince' s long=
face and old-fashioned grey whiskers. " I hope you are perfectly reas=
sured now as to the consequences. . . " " After what your Excelle=
ncy has condescended to do for me, I can only rely on my conscience." =
" _Adieu_," said the whiskered head with feeling. Razumov bowed. =
The brougham glided away with a slight swish in the snow--he was alone on t=
he edge of the pavement. He said to himself that there was nothing to think=
about, and began walking towards his home. He walked quietly. It was a com=
mon experience to walk thus home to bed after an evening spent somewhere wi=
th his fellows or in the cheaper seats of a theatre. After he had gone a li=
ttle way the familiarity of things got hold of him. Nothing was changed. Th=
ere was the familiar corner; and when he turned it he saw the familiar dim =
light of the provision shop kept by a German woman. There were loaves of st=
ale bread, bunches of onions and strings of sausages behind the small windo=
w-panes. They were closing it. The sickly lame fellow whom he knew so well =
by sight staggered out into the snow embracing a large shutter. Nothing wou=
ld change. There was the familiar gateway yawning black with feeble glimmer=
s marking the arches of the different staircases. The sense of life' s cont=
inuity depended on trifling bodily impressions. The trivialities of daily e=
xistence were an armour for the soul. And this thought reinforced the inwar=
d quietness of Razumov as he began to climb the stairs familiar to his feet=
in the dark, with his hand on the familiar clammy banister. The exceptiona=
l could not prevail against the material contacts which make one day resemb=
le another. To-morrow would be like yesterday. It was only on the stage tha=
t the unusual was outwardly acknowledged. " I suppose," thought R=
azumov, " that if I had made up my mind to blow out my brains on the l=
anding I would be going up these stairs as quietly as I am doing it now. Wh=
at' s a man to do? What must be must be. Extraordinary things do happen. Bu=
t when they have happened they are done with. Thus, too, when the mind is m=
ade up. That question is done with. And the daily concerns, the familiariti=
es of our thought swallow it up--and the life goes on as before with its my=
sterious and secret sides quite out of sight, as they should be. Life is a =
public thing." Razumov unlocked his door and took the key out; entered=
very quietly and bolted the door behind him carefully. He thought, " =
He hears me," and after bolting the door he stood still holding his br=
eath. There was not a sound. He crossed the bare outer room, stepping delib=
erately in the darkness. Entering the other, he felt all over his table for=
the matchbox. The silence, but for the groping of his hand, was profound. =
Could the fellow be sleeping so soundly? He struck a light and looked at th=
e bed. Haldin was lying on his back as before, only both his hands were und=
er his head. His eyes were open. He stared at the ceiling. Razumov held the=
match up. He saw the clear-cut features, the firm chin, the white forehead=
and the topknot of fair hair against the white pillow. There he was, lying=
flat on his back. Razumov thought suddenly, " I have walked over his =
chest." He continued to stare till the match burnt itself out; then st=
ruck another and lit the lamp in silence without looking towards the bed an=
y more. He had turned his back on it and was hanging his coat on a peg when=
he heard Haldin sigh profoundly, then ask in a tired voice--</span></p> <p=
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<p>LED Flashlight Coupon<br /> There has arisen in society, a figure whi=
ch is certainly the most mournful, and in some respects the most awful, upo=
n which the eye of the moralist can dwell. That unhappy being whose very na=
me is a shame to speak; who counterfeits with a cold heart the transports o=
f affection, and submits herself as the passive instrument of lust; who is =
scorned and insulted as the vilest of her sex, and doomed for the most part=
to disease and abject wretchedness and an early death, appears in every ey=
e as the perpetual symbol of the degradation and sinfulness of man. Herself=
the supreme type of vice, she is ultimately the most efficient guardian of=
virtue. But for her the unchallenged purity of countless happy homes would=
be polluted, and not a few who, in the pride of their untempted chastity, =
think of her with an indignant shudder, would have known the agony of remor=
se and despair. She remains while creeds and civilisations rise and fall, t=
he eternal priestess of humanity, blasted for the sins of the people."=
Lecky' s _History of European Morals_, Chap. V. One of the many problems w=
hich have been intensified by the war is the problem of the relations of th=
e sexes. Difficult as it has always been, the difficulty inevitably becomes=
greater when there is a grave disproportion--an excess in numbers of one s=
ex over the other. And in this country, whereas there was a disproportion o=
f something like a million more women than men before the war broke out, th=
ere is now a disproportion of about one and three-quarter millions. This ac=
cidental and (I believe) temporary difficulty--a difficulty not " natu=
ral" and necessary to human life, but artificial and peculiar to certa=
in conditions which may be altered--does not, of course, create the problem=
we have to deal with: but it forces that problem on our attention by sheer=
force of suffering inflicted on so large a scale. It compels us to ask our=
selves on what we base, and at what we value the moral standard which, if i=
t is to be preserved, must mean a tremendous sacrifice on the part of so la=
rge a number of women as is involved in their acceptance of life-long celib=
acy. There is no subject on which it is more difficult to find a common gro=
und than this. To some people it seems to be immoral even to ask the questi=
on--on what are your moral standards based? To others what we call our &quo=
t; moral standards" are so obviously absurd and " unnatural"=
that the question has for them no meaning. And between these extremes ther=
e are so many varieties of opinion that one can take nothing as generally a=
ccepted by men and women. I want, therefore, to leave aside the ordinary co=
nventions--not because they are necessarily bad, but because they are not t=
o my purpose, which is to discover whether there is a real morality which w=
e can justify to ourselves without appeal to any authority however great, o=
r to any tradition however highly esteemed: a morality which is based on th=
e real needs, the real aspirations of humanity itself. And I begin by calli=
ng your attention to the morality of Jesus of Nazareth, not because He is d=
ivine, but because He was a great master of the human heart, and more than =
others " knew what was in man." You will notice at once the heigh=
t of His morality--the depth of His mercy. He demands such purity of spirit=
, such loyalty of heart, that the most loyal of His disciples shrank appall=
ed: " Whosoever shall look upon a woman to lust after her hath committ=
ed adultery with her already in his heart." ... " Whosoever shall=
put away his wife and marry another, committeth adultery against her."=
; From such a standard Christ' s disciples shrank--" If the case of th=
e man be so with his wife, it is not good to marry." And one evangelis=
t almost certainly inserted in this absolute prohibition the exception--&qu=
ot; Saving for the cause of fornication" --feeling that the Master _co=
uld_ not have meant anything else. But, in fact, there is little doubt that=
Jesus did both say and mean that marriage demanded lifelong fidelity on ei=
ther side; just as He really taught that a lustful thought was adultery in =
the sight of God. But if Christendom has been staggered at the austerity of=
Christ' s morality not less has it been shocked at the quality of His merc=
y. His gentleness to the sensual sinner has been compared, with amazement, =
to the sternness of His attitude to the sins of the spirit. Not the proflig=
ate or the harlot but the Pharisee and the scribe were those who provoked H=
is sternest rebukes. And perhaps the most characteristic of all His dealing=
s with such matters was that incident of the woman taken in adultery, when =
He at once reaffirmed the need of absolute chastity for men--demand undream=
ed of by the woman' s accusers--and put aside the right to condemn which in=
all that assembly He alone could claim--" Neither do I condemn thee; =
go, and sin no more." Having then in mind this most lofty and compassi=
onate of moralists, let us turn to the problem of to-day. Here are nearly 2=
,000,000 women who, if the austere demands of faithful monogamy are to be o=
beyed, will never know the satisfaction of a certain physical need. Now it =
is the desire of every normal human being to satisfy all his instincts. And=
this is as true of women as of men. What I have to say applies indeed to m=
any men to-day, for many men are unable to marry because they have been so =
broken by war--or otherwise--so shattered or maimed or impoverished that th=
ey do not feel justified in marrying. But I want to emphasize with all my p=
ower that the hardness of enforced celibacy presses as cruelly on women as =
on men. Women, difficult as some people find it to believe, are human being=
s; and because women are so, they want work, and interest, and love--both g=
iven and received--and children, and, in short, the satisfaction of every _=
human_ need. The idea that existence is enough for them--that they need not=
work, and do not suffer if their sex instincts are repressed or starved--i=
s a convenient but most cruel illusion. People often tell me, and nearly al=
ways unconsciously _assume_, that women have no sex hunger--no sex needs at=
all until they marry, and that even then their need is not at all so imper=
ious as men' s, or so hard to repress. Such people are nearly always either=
men, or women who have married young and happily and borne many children, =
and had a very full and interesting outside life as well! Such women will a=
ssure me with the utmost complacency that the sex-instincts of a woman are =
very easily controllable, and that it is preposterous to speak as if their =
repression really cost very much. I think with bitterness of that age-long =
repression, of its unmeasured cost; of the gibe contained in the phrase &qu=
ot; old maid," with all its implication of a narrowed life, a prudish =
mind, an acrid tongue, an embittered disposition. I think of the imbeciliti=
es in which the repressed instinct has sought its pitiful baffled release, =
of the adulation lavished on a parrot, a cat, a lap-dog; or of the emotiona=
l " religion," the parson-worship, on which every fool is clever =
enough to sharpen his wit. And all these cramped and stultified lives have =
not availed to make the world understand that women have had to pay for the=
ir celibacy! " The toad beneath the harrow knows Exactly where each to=
oth-point goes. The butterfly beside the road Preaches contentment to that =
toad." Modern psychology is lifting the veil to-day from the suffering=
which repression causes. It is a pity that its most brilliant exponents sh=
ould ascribe to a single instinct--however potent--_all_ the ills that affl=
ict mankind, for such one-sidedness defeats its own object; but, at least, =
the modern psychologist is trying to show us " exactly where each toot=
h-point goes" in the repression of the sex-instinct among women as amo=
ng men. Nor does the fact that the _tabu_ of society has actually in many c=
ases enabled a woman to inhibit the development of her own nature, obviate =
the fact that she does so at great cost, even when she least understands wh=
at she does. I affirm this, and with insistence, that the normal--the avera=
ge--woman sacrifices a great deal if she accepts life-long celibacy. She sa=
crifices quite as much as a man. In those cases--too frequent even now--whe=
re she is not educated or expected to earn her own living or to have a care=
er, I maintain that she loses more than a man who is expected to work. I do=
not say, and I do not believe, that passion in a woman is the same as in a=
man, or that they suffer in precisely the same way. I believe indeed that =
if men and women understood each other a little better they would hurt each=
other a good deal less. But I am persuaded that we shall not even begin to=
reach a wise morality so long as we persist in basing our demands on the i=
mbecile assumption that women suffer nothing or little by the unsatisfactio=
n of the sex side of their nature. I emphasize this point here, because it =
is involved in the present state of affairs. I have reminded you that there=
are nearly 2,000,000 women whose lives are to be considered. If the number=
were quite small, it might comfortably be assumed that the women who remai=
ned unmarried were those who, in any case, had no vocation for marriage. Fo=
r it is, of course, true that there are such women, as there are such men. =
The normal man and woman desire marriage and parenthood, and are fitted for=
it; but there are always exceptions who either do not desire it, or, desir=
ing it, feel bound to put it aside at the call of some other vocation, whic=
h they feel to be supremely theirs, and which is not compatible with marria=
ge. They sacrifice; but they do so joyfully, not for repression, but for a =
different life, another vocation. And where the number of the unmarried is =
small, it may without essential injustice be supposed that these are the na=
tural celibates. But you cannot suppose that of 2,000,000! Among the number=
how many are young widows, girls engaged to marry men now dead, and how ma=
ny whose _natural_ vocation was marriage, motherhood, home-making, and all =
that is meant by such things as these? If this be the normal vocation of th=
e normal woman how many of these have been deprived of all that seemed to t=
hem to make life worth living? Is it astonishing if they rebel? If they det=
ermine to snatch at anything that yet lies in their grasp? If they affirm &=
quot; the right to motherhood" when they want children, or the satisfa=
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