Becky

“Our problem is not to trace the emergence of a world market, of a sufficiently active class of private entrepreneurs, or even (in England) of a state dedicated to the proposition that the maximization of private profit was the foundation of government policy...By the 1780s we can take the existence of all these for granted...”
― Eric Hobsbawm, The Age of Revolution, 1789–1848

“It is justice, not charity, that is wanting in the world!”
― Mary Wollstonecraft, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

“Repeat the names,” my mother instructs, and we listen while Paschal recites the names of the months.
“Vintage, Fog, Frost, Snow, Rain …” He hesitates on the sixth month.
“Wind,” she says helpfully. We are all sitting at the caissier’s desk, and it is very important he get this right.
“Wind,” he repeats after her. “Seed, Blossoms, M-Mead—”
“Meadows,” I say.
“Meadows, Harvesting, Heat, and Fruit.”
Isabel claps. “Very good.”
“And what year is this?” my mother asks.
Paschal frowns. “Seventeen ninety-three?”
“No,” Isabel says forcefully. “It is Year Two.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“The first year began on September twenty-second, seventeen ninety-two.” The day France declared itself the First Republic.
“But how?” He doesn’t see how he could have been alive before time began.
“That is the decree of the Convention,” she explains.”
― Michelle Moran, Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

“Hunger was pushed out of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines; Hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper; Hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the man sawed off; Hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal, among its refuse, of anything to eat. Hunger was the inscription on the baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that was offered for sale. Hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder; Hunger was shred into atomics in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.”
― Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities