Nhi Phan

“In the meantime, he anxiously awaited visitors, and on occasion even attempted some visits of his own—including one to his nearby Bellevue neighbor, the charming and notorious courtesan Valtesse de la Bigne. Red-haired and beautiful, Valtesse de la Bigne had brought several rich and titled men to financial ruin. She had also captivated some of the most sophisticated men in town, including Manet, who referred to her as “la belle Valtesse” and had painted her the year before. Born Louise Emilie Delabigne, Valtesse de la Bigne was sufficiently intelligent and charming to draw an entourage of admiring writers and artists such as Manet. Zola also paid court to Valtesse—although in his case from a desire to get the characters and setting right for his upcoming novel Nana. Flattered by his journalistic interest, Valtesse even agreed to show him her bedroom—until then off-limits to all but her most highly paying patrons. Zola (who seems to have limited his visit to note taking) used her over-the-top boudoir as the model for Nana’s bedroom. Even if the fictional Nana was nowhere near the sophisticated creature that Valtesse had become, the bed said it all. It was “a bed such as had never existed before,” Zola wrote, “a throne, an altar, to which Paris would come in order to worship her sovereign nudity.”
― Mary McAuliffe, Dawn of the Belle Epoque: The Paris of Monet, Zola, Bernhardt, Eiffel, Debussy, Clemenceau, and Their Friends

“She dances,
She dances around the burning flames with passion,
Under the same dull stars,
Under the same hell with crimson embers crashing,
Under the same silver chains that wires,
All her beauty and who she is inside,
She's left with the loneliness of human existence,
She's left questioning how she's survived,
She's left with this awakening of brutal resilience,
Her true beauty that she denies,
As much she's like to deny it,
As much as it continues to shine,
That she doesn't even have to admit,
Because we all know it's true,
Her glory and success,
After all she's been through,
Her triumph and madness,
AND YET,
SHE STANDS.

Broken legs- but she's still standing,
Still dancing in this void,
You must wonder how she's still dancing,
You must wonder how she's not destroyed,
She doesn't even begin to drown within the flames,
But little do you realize,
Within these chains,
She weeps and she cries,
But she still goes on,
And just you thought you could stop her?
You thought you'd be the one?
Well, let me tell you, because you thought wrong.
Nothing will ever silence her,
Because I KNOW,
I know that she is admiringly strong,
Her undeniable beauty,
The triumph of her song,
She's shining bright like a ruby,
Reflecting in the golden sand,
She's shining brighter like no other,
She's far more than human or man,
AND YET,
SHE STANDS.

She continues to dance with free-spirit,
Even though she's locked in these chains,
Though she never desired to change it,
Even throughout the agonizing pain,
Throughout all the distress,
Anxiety, depression, tears and sorrow,
She still dances so beautify in her dress,
She looks forward to tomorrow,
Not because of a fresh start but a new page,
A new day full of opportunities,
Despite being trapped in her cage,
She still smiles after being beaten so brutally,
A smile that could brighten anyone's day,
She's so much more than anyone could ask for,
She's so much more than I could ever say,
She's a girl absolutely everyone should adore,
She never gets in the way,
Even after her hearts been broken,
Even after the way she has been treated,
After all these severe emotions,
After all all the blood she's bled,
AND YET,
SHE STANDS.

Even if sometimes she wonders why she's still here,
She wonders why she's not dead,
But there's this one thing that had been here throughout every tear,
Throughout the blazing fire leaving her cheeks cherry red,
Everyday this thing has given her a place to exist,
This thing, person, these people,
Like warm sunlight it had so softly kissed,
The apples of her cheeks,
Even when she's feeling feeble,
Always there at her worst and at her best
Because of you and all the other people,
She has this thing deep inside her chest,
That she will cherish forever,
Even once you're gone,
Because today she smiles like no other,
Even when the sun sets at dawn,
Because today is the day,
She just wants you to remember,
In dark and stormy weather,
It gets better.
And after what she's been through she knows,
Throughout the highs and the lows,
Because of you and all others,
After crossing the seas,
She has come to understand,
You have formed this key,
This key to free her from this land,
This endless gorge that swallowed her,
Her and other men,
She had never knew, nor had she planned,
That because of you,
She's free.
AND YET,
THIS VERY DAY,
SHE DANCES.
EVEN IN THE RAIN.”
― Gabrielle Renee

“Martin was more than happy to let Spencer take over the conversation, for it finally granted him an opportunity to observe Mrs. Wheaton- who had just achieved the impossible. She had made him laugh. Truly, she was one of a kind. She always had been, he supposed, recalling again that day at the train station.
While the polite conversation continued all around him, he allowed his gaze to meander downward and was pleased to admire the alluring feminine curves "Miss Foster" had developed over the past decade, including a lush, generous bosom, which would fare quite nicely in a lighter gown with a lower neckline, he thought. Dressed as she was at present, she reminded him of a pleasure yacht with her sails trimmed too tight, rendering her incapable of moving freely at the speed she was built for.
He wondered suddenly how this aloof young widow would respond to a little wind in her sails and a skillful skipper like himself at her helm. Would he be able to bring the best out of her, like he did with the Orpheus?
Yes, he thought with absolute confidence while he admired the grace of her gloved hand as she touched one finger to the corner of her mouth to dab at an errant drop of tea. He certainly could bring the best out of her, and also bring out that spark she kept hidden from the world. A marvelous, masculine satisfaction flowed through him at the thought of it.”
― Julianne MacLean, Surrender to a Scoundrel

“The first symptom of true love in a young man
is timidity; in a young girl, boldness. This is surprising, yet nothing is more simple. It is the two sexes tending
to approach each other and assuming, each the other’s
qualities.
That day, Cosette’s glance drove Marius beside himself,
and Marius’ glance set Cosette to trembling. Marius went
away confident, and Cosette uneasy. From that day forth,
they adored each other.
The first thing that Cosette felt was a confused and profound
melancholy. It seemed to her that her soul had become
black since the day before. She no longer recognized it. The
whiteness of soul in young girls, which is composed of coldness
and gayety, resembles snow. It melts in love, which is
its sun.
Cosette did not know what love was. She had never heard
the word uttered in its terrestrial sense. She did not know
what name to give to what she now felt. Is any one the less ill
because one does not know the name of one’s malady?
She loved with all the more passion because she loved ignorantly.
She did not know whether it was a good thing or a
bad thing, useful or dangerous, eternal or temporary, allowable
or prohibited; she loved. She would have been greatly
astonished, had any one said to her: ‘You do not sleep? But
that is forbidden! You do not eat? Why, that is very bad! You
have oppressions and palpitations of the heart? That must
not be! You blush and turn pale, when a certain being clad
in black appears at the end of a certain green walk? But that
is abominable!’ She would not have understood, and she
would have replied: ‘What fault is there of mine in a matter
in which I have no power and of which I know nothing?’
It turned out that the love which presented itself was
exactly suited to the state of her soul. It was admiration
at a distance, the deification
of a stranger. It was the apparition of youth to youth, the
dream of nights become a reality yet remaining a dream,
the longed-for phantom realized and made flesh at last, but
having as yet, neither name, nor fault, nor spot, nor exigence,
nor defect; in a word, the distant lover who lingered
in the ideal, a chimaera with a form. Any nearer and more
palpable meeting would have alarmed Cosette at this first
stage, when she was still half immersed in the exaggerated
mists of the cloister. She had all the fears of children and
all the fears of nuns combined. The spirit of the convent,
with which she had been permeated for the space of five
years, was still in the process of slow evaporation from her
person, and made everything tremble around her. In this
situation he was not a lover, he was not even an admirer, he
was a vision. She set herself to adoring Marius as something
charming, luminous, and impossible.
As extreme innocence borders on extreme coquetry, she
smiled at him with all frankness.
Every day, she looked forward to the hour for their walk
with impatience, she found Marius there, she felt herself
unspeakably happy, and thought in all sincerity that she
was expressing her whole thought when she said to Jean
Valjean:—
‘What a delicious garden that Luxembourg is!’
Marius and Cosette were in the dark as to one another.
They did not address each other, they did not salute each
other, they did not know each other; they saw each other;
and like stars of heaven which are separated by millions of
leagues, they lived by gazing at each other.
It was thus that Cosette gradually became a woman and
developed, beautiful and loving, with a consciousness of
beauty and in ignorance of love.”
― Victor Hugo