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Richard Rosanvallon

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Richard Rosanvallon last won the day on July 13 2016

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About Richard Rosanvallon

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    You should see me on a bad day

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  1. [1836/1837][EN] Ugh, you.

    Richard chuckled under his breath. A poet with a tortured soul and a sense of humour. Well, this only went to show that Victoria would not have done a much better job picking out a husband than her parents had on her behalf: because Victoria could not understand a sense of humour, and had no patience for tortured souls. They were not shoes, and as such, they were not worthy of her notice. “Ah well, but such people are one in a million, surely,” he said with a wan little smile. “Most of us just have our regular Monday morning souls to be getting on with. Torturing takes time.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless, of course, you seek to further complete that picture for yourself? An admirable job so far but I fear that it does lack a certain depth. You should draw more extensively perhaps from the imagination, or consult a few books on the topic... I don’t know if any come with pretty pictures, though.” They finished their starter and the main course was fortunately brought immediately. Sitting and waiting was becoming less appealing by the second. “Perhaps you could dangle your admirable assets around the literary section of the Cambridge library every once in a while,” he went on to suggest. “To be sure, the books there have never experienced such a sight; nor I bet have most of the students. Become someone’s muse, heartily woe the day that you married me and severed yourself from him forever... or her, of course.” He sipped from his drink again and commenced on his meal. “After all, if it’s an illicit affair it might as well be a with a girl and perhaps you would find more common ground.” Once again, shoes.
  2. [1836/1837][EN] Ugh, you.

    “Not quite, my beloved,” Richard said lightly, as he refilled his wine, because waiting for the waiter just was no longer going to work with the way their amazing romantic dinner was going. He sipped from it, did not gulp, never needed that, it was too desperate, too… odd. It wasn’t that he would be embarrassed about it: so far it should have become clear that Richard did not much care about how he appeared to others, members of the public, those amongst his acquaintance, and definitely not his family. As for his friends… well, those he had, knew him for who he was, knew that he was peculiar, appreciated him nevertheless or just not always (because he could actually be pretty clever, funny, smart). The rest, he did not care about either. “I said that it would be impossible to both understand and respect you. Because the more you understand, the less the magic makes the mystery.” Anyway. You’d say there had been no need to spell it out. But see, he understood Victoria, so he knew that there in fact was a need to spell it out. He smiled, somewhat sardonically. Unbeknownst to his wife, Richard could be said to have an ‘artistic sense’: he wrote poems, he painted. This was unbeknownst to her and he would certainly keep it that way, for he didn’t want her opinion on his works, on him, either. Not because he’d be embarrassed, just because he wouldn’t care… and because he didn’t even read his own poems or look at his own paintings, they were usually quite dark, a sudden disastrous streak of the imagination, or productivity, and he didn’t normally go back on them. “Oh, an artistic sense, hm? And what would you have in mind in that regard? A fashion line? A driven, injured soul?”
  3. [1836/1837][EN] Ugh, you.

    A jerk. Really? That was all he got for his troubles? This basically made all the fun go out of even his tactic to cope with the lack of fun he was chronically having with Victoria, i.e. to find new, creative and eloquent ways to piss her off. If she wasn’t even going to respond, if she was going to just stare at him with that angry and admittedly beautiful glare, then what was the point of even trying this? Keeping himself amused within his own mind was, as so often, not working, his mind could not provide new information, could not surprise him, not at least until he’d sufficiently dulled his senses and his capacity for thought so that his own mind, his own imagination, could become strangers to him from one minute to the next. He needed a little input, a little inspiration, a little bit more... And that was something he was perfectly aware Victoria could not provide. Yet he continued to try. For they were married, and he was stuck with her as much as she was stuck with him. He was tired of it, frustrated with it, and at the same time on the good days he could almost not avoid to put energy into it for it was reality and reality was something even Richard must occasionally touch upon. Again, depending on his levels of intoxication only. He chuckled darkly. “Oh, but I do understand you, my beloved.” He gestured to the waiter to top up his glass as he too dug into his food, hoping that his body and mind would continue to allow him to convince them that they found this sustenance enticing. It was a good restaurant but he was not a good... human, and often enough he would find himself losing interest in all foodstuffs very rapidly, anything but the drink turning to ash in his mouth. Nowadays, though, it seemed to be okay. Today, it seemed okay. As the waiter left he continued. “And I might argue that with you, those criteria you mentioned are somewhat mutually exclusive. Wouldn’t you say?”
  4. [1836/1837][EN] Ugh, you.

    See? See!? This was why he and Victoria didn’t get along! Well, it was one of many reasons he and Victoria didn’t get along, but for the purpose of the moment or the night, this was it. That even when he went along with her story, paid proper attention to what she’d said, and passed relevant and not completely interchangeable commentary on her bit of news, she found it well within her range to make out all his words as offensive. And he didn’t mind - not exactly, some part of him again had actually been going for this exact reaction, some part of him was already bored enough with her if she was rude and volatile and didn’t want to risk encountering her when she was friendly and on her best behaviour because that might make his brain drip out of his ears in fact - but he wasn’t well pleased either. Because yes, Victoria could not do it right. Not anymore and perhaps it had never been in her power. He wanted everything from her that he could not specify, he knew who she was, he knew that he had seen to the very depths of her character. She could no longer surprise him. And he hadn’t enjoyed it in the slightest. He grimaced, and gulped another helping of wine, wishing it was something much stronger, something that would make a dent in his straitjacket of sobriety. “Ah, yes. Such a pure understanding of the world, where naught can be valued without its comparison. The imagination, the surface, the impression, would never provide such unqualified understanding, would they, my frailly beating heart, my beloved cherry blossom?” He clicked his tongue. “Would you prefer the conversation of the devout ornithologist, speckled sparrow mine? Perhaps I might endeavour to encapsulate nature’s beauty’s in language’s most aesthetic form, too, and try my hand at some poetic escapades.” Dinner was served. “Who would you have married, had you had a choice?”
  5. [1836/1837][EN] Ugh, you.

    To give Richard his due, he had not started out as cruel, clever and uncaring with regards to Victoria as he was now. He’d tried for a little while, ish, at least to be merely less than animated instead of downright cutting, but it hadn’t worked out. She’d loathed him from day one - he could not fault her though he occasionally wondered why - and he’d loathed her pretty much from day two of their engagement. They were simply not well suited. He was always bored, and she was always boring. All right, in fairness, she probably thought the exact same thing about him. And between the two of them and common supposition, presumably, his interests were more generally considered dull than hers. For some bizarre reason where those occupations you were supposed to enjoy were the same ones you made everyone else suffer through. He’d never comprehended it - he didn’t want to. It drove him to distraction. And there were things he liked to do, there were people whose company he liked to keep, every now and again when the mood took him and then he was actually fun to be around, even if the next day he was incapable of getting out of bed not because of the hangover but just because of the... depletion. Also, sure, Matthew was a part of not that circle but people he did somewhat like. Still, hearing about his impending wedding - or, hypothetical wedding at this point, of course, it was entirely possible that it was all going to come to nothing because he still had to ask - was about as interesting as the menu had been. Not, unless they could get into another fight about it. “Oh, really? Well... she seems nice. And she’s interested in everything he says and that’s impressive with Matthew. He loves birds.”
  6. [1836/1837][EN] Ugh, you.

    Bewilderment looked pretty on Victoria. This was one of the few benefits of her character and looks combined, because the one virtually ensured that the second would frequently have to present itself in such a fashion. Richard could, of course, on good days and even days like these (which was an okay day, would have qualified as good because at least he’d had the energy to move), appreciate the fact that she was beautiful: the large, piercing, somewhat slanted eyes, the symmetry of her features, the delicate line of her shoulders to her neck. There was nothing about her he could love but these were things he could value, again, on those good days anyway. They were what eventually had led to their having daughters. Well, that, and plenty of booze. And possibly a slight desire to just make her shut up. He hated having kids, by the way. He hated having to hope that they would take after their mum, because he was even worse. It looked pretty on Victoria but it annoyed him nevertheless, it bored him, because he needed someone who would bounce back his spiteful commentary and give better than she got and Victoria was never going to be that person, was never going to understand half of the things he said, much less return comparable fire. She just whined. “They are doing well,” he informed her, enunciating the words clearly for his own amusement. “I did not know that Matthew had been looking for a ring?” Usually, when he spoke to Matthew it was about alchemy, although they had some personal conversations in between. Richard was not… exactly well liked, at his work, but he wasn’t loathed. People interacted with him as though he was an alien from another planet. It paid to be polite and to pay attention, but you were never exactly sure what he was going to do.
  7. [1836/1837][EN] Ugh, you.

    “Oh, my precious wind through mountain grass, rest assured there was no side picking involved,” Richard said, as airily as the compliment which he had chosen to employ, in the full knowledge that Victoria found those all equally hopeful. “Unless you would suggest that to take someone’s order is an inexcusable sign of bias, an opinion with which, naturally, belonging to you, it would never behoove me to disagree... nonetheless, I would venture to hope that perhaps you might consider the practical implications of such a principled stance. You might put restaurateurs straight out of business.” Honestly, with Victoria being Victoria he had probably lost her halfway the second sentence already, which in fairness was not fully a critique of her intellect or lack thereof for he was also reducing her words to an absurdity never implied or considered. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t saying this for her. He was saying this for himself. Like a chess game you played with yourself as an opponent, Richards inner monologue which he had always found abysmal company whether he was on a high or a low was these days at least his only chance of intelligent conversation. He wasn’t happy. But he kept himself amused. “Despite all that, perhaps, if you have a particular doubt as to the impartiality of our current waiter, I am sure that we can have him excused. Just don’t do that to the sommelier, please, honeybee delight, they are not so replaceable and foul injustice is somewhat preferable over pairing a white wine with lamb racks.” He smiled. “And what forethought! To buy a dress she can only grow out of when once she has grown into it! Perhaps for now we shall turn it into a little tent.” He Actually now and again did spend some time with Kestrel, doing things Victoria did not approve of. Only on good days. He wasn’t so much of a bastard that he’d inflict his bad days on an innocent child. Even if it was Victoria’s. “I worked, mainly, toiling away with chemical reactions. I don’t think it would interest you. We were not so fortunate to accidentally stumble on a perfect recipe for moisturizer.”
  8. [1836/1837][EN] Ugh, you.

    Victoria occasionally thought they should be a good couple. Richard occasionally thought he wanted a drink. It was remarkable how often those two thoughts coincided. All right, it was not so remarkable, perhaps – he wanted a drink quite often, also when Victoria was once again leaving well enough alone – but nevertheless, though there was no perfect correlation there absolutely was causation at the root of this matter. Naturally, with how much and how stubbornly he drank, it never really did have much effect nowadays, but… that didn’t matter, it was placebo as much as anything else at this point. “Oh, you do, do you? Perhaps I like conflict in my sustenance. I certainly seem to seek it in my other occupations.” He raised an eyebrow at her, sipped from his wine, and beckoned the waiter. “I shall order the steak and some salad, and may I be struck by lightning should it upset the general order of our wonderful world.” And he was perfectly aware that she would hate him doing that in public. And he was perfectly aware he didn’t care. “So, my delightful buttercup, how was your surely trying day? Shall I be able to add to it?”
  9. [1836/1837] All is fair in love and war

    Geen zorgen, zussie: Richard was ook niet bepaald te vinden voor een interventie. Sowieso had hij het niet zo op interventies, want ze werkten bij hem ook nooit, en hij vond ze maar wat vervelend, maar hij was zeker niet te spreken over eentje over liefdesverdriet. Kom op, dat was gewoon zeventien zijn – of achttien, was Maddie alweer achttien tegenwoordig, nee, zeventien nog vermoedde hij – iedereen had dan wel een beetje liefdesverdriet. Het was beter dan geen liefde hebben. En hij snapte niet dat Melody, die per slot van rekening net als hij getrouwd was met een hoofdpijndossier eerste klasse, dat niet gewoon wilde beamen en wilde drinken op Madeline’s passie en problemen. Het was leven, nietwaar. Het was meer dan bestaan. En het viel te ambiëren. Mads zag er gelukkig prima uit en helemaal niet ineengedoken op een bank met een bak ijs, wat maar weer alleszins netjes was, en hij ging met haar naar de bar, begroette daar zijn andere zus met een vlugge knuffel al bleef hij wijselijk uit de buurt van Valeria – Melody vond het maar niks als hij met het kind praatte en hij al evenmin. “Madeline, je ziet er stralend uit als altijd. Mel, zie je, er is niets aan ’t handje – je moet toch niet zo’n drama maken om een jongen, gewoon een nieuwe bestellen als ze niet langer functioneren.”
  10. [1836/1837] It's just another graceless night

    [OOC]15+ Richard is a mess. Always has been always will be.[/OOC] Richard was nog niet eerder in de gelegenheid geweest om de nieuwe nachtclub uit te proberen. Hij was de afgelopen maanden verdwenen in zijn onderzoek, zoals hij dat af en toe deed, bij vlagen – elke gedachte eraan, elke activiteit die hij verrichtte in het licht ervan, het ondersteunend – en in een nachtclub zitten was dan niet echt bevorderlijk in dat kader. Hij had zelfs nauwelijks gedronken de laatste tijd. Hij vergat het gewoon, zoals hij alles vergat, als hij een bui had als deze. Maar nu had dat geleid tot een gepubliceerd artikel, tot een aantal vragen voor verder onderzoek die aan student-assistenten waren uitbesteed, en tot een op zijn donder krijgen dat hij het niet wat rustiger aan had gedaan; en vandaar zat hij nu hier, want de energie was vervlogen al even snel als hij was gekomen en hij had niet langer iets wat hij kon of wilde doen. Hij miste alcohol nooit, tijdens zijn buien. En toch was het alsof zijn lichaam het miste maar zijn geest gewoon niet, want als hij eenmaal weer begon te drinken dan was het alsof hij zichzelf nooit meer kon stillen. Hij was hier geweest met wat vrienden van de uni en had zich behoorlijk goed gedragen – ja ja, daartoe was hij in staat, al was zijn niet energieke zelf momenteel zo uitgebrand dat het hem alleszins moeite had gekost – maar toen zij weer naar huis gingen was hij blijven zitten, omdat hij het niet op kon brengen om op te staan, omdat hij niet naar huis wilde, omdat hij nog steeds dorst had. En hij was niet direct blij toen een meisje nog twee drankjes voor hen beiden bestelde. Ook al was het whisky en was drie whisky... zegmaar... wel, zou interessant zijn hoe het bij de tengere jongedame viel. “Goedenavond,” groette hij haar kortaf. “Vermaak... Wat is dat meer dan een verder uitstel dan verveling. Als je het zoekt, weet je eigenlijk al dat je het niet hebt, en we hechten er meer waarde aan dan het verdient.”
  11. [1835/1836|EN] You were far too young, dear, to get so close to the clouds

    Adjusting to the transition between Violet and Christina always took a little bit of effort. Christina was both sharp as a razor and blunt as, well, a rock, and Violet, to be frank, was none of these things nor would she ever be. Though he loved her with all the emotion his eroded heart could bestow, Richard was acutely aware that by anyone else’s standards there were moments that Vi could be… just a little bit dim. He knew that it was mostly steadfast optimism, mostly due to a naiveté that wasn’t in fact exactly the same as stupidity though it would often translate into actions that could be considered as such, but even so, the things she did and said and her absolute lack of perception were sometimes quite astonishing. After all, he was a phenomenally bad actor, that was inherent to his particular flavour of mental illness, and yet she’d never noticed anything. The Bowmans were all barb and backstabbing, and she was clueless with regards to that, too. And whenever Christina made a feint, she happily went along without the slightest notion of what was going on. I mean, even the way Christina spoke to her. Soothing, but without room for discussion. And she went along with it. Yeah, Vi wasn’t the brightest. It didn’t matter to him. He loved her for her lack of perceptiveness, loved her for her incomplete understanding of the world, for her innocence and for her gullibility. He loved her for her generally bright view, which was definitely a case of opposites attracting, he loved her because she liked people, while he was only pleasant to the species when in a good mood and inebriated. Mostly, he loved her because she was so artlessly good. He could never manage. But he liked that she let him into the world that she saw. Not that he could ever stay. He followed Christina, too, because he didn’t want to say anything wrong in front of Violet, would rather explode than place her in danger for knowing too much, but as soon as the door was locked and they were secure he frowned at her, still too tired and beat down to get angry. “We’ve had this conversation, cousin dearest, have we not?” He gestured half-heartedly at the house. “What makes you think that the fact that I now have more children to be blackmailed over would have made me less likely to go along with it in any way?”
  12. [1835/1836] DTF: Down To Fight

    Ik zit een beetje in dezelfde positie als Margaux, (Kieran is Margaux, toch? Als ik iemand vreselijk beledig, twee mensen vreselijk beledig, mijn oprechte excuses, ik houd jullie nieuwe karakters gewoon niet bij maar ik ben dol op jullie allemaal!) als in dat er van alles is gebeurd in het leven van de Bowmans op dit punt wat momenteel nog niet is uitgespeeld. Gelukkig valt het ook mij makkelijk om daar met Richard overheen te praten, en wel om twee belangrijke redenen: ten eerste, wat alle andere Bowmans uitspookten kon Richard over het algemeen niet in het minst bommen, en ten tweede, wat zijn familie ook deed, het betekende in elk geval dat hij weer behoefte had aan een drankje. Of twee. Of twintig. Wat in elk geval belangrijk is om te weten is dat hij dus alweer een paar maanden thuis was (whoop whoop!) en dat hij zich dus alweer stierlijk verveelde. Ja. Goh. Hij was er ook niet trots op, verder. Hij had nog zo zijn best gedaan. Vi en hij waren nog steeds ontzettend gelukkig samen, wanneer hij haar zag maakte zijn hart nog altijd dat kleine sprongetje, zelfs als er verder niets gebeurde met zijn luie, wrede zelf (voornamelijk zijn brein was het probleem). Ze hadden nu vier kinderen, twee tweelingen, twee jongens en twee meisjes en dat was ook heerlijk en hij hield meer van hen dan hij gedacht had ooit nog van iemand te kunnen houden, hoe paste er naast zijn liefde voor Violet nog steeds zoveel bij? (Richard, nooit schrijver worden, ik haat je gedachten.) Jazz en Oliver waren inmiddels ook weer hersteld van zijn lange afwezigheid, te goed om hem te kunnen vleien maar afgezien van zijn gekrenkte ego was hij er natuurlijk zielsblij mee. Wat betreft Laurenzo en Delphine, die hadden er waarschijnlijk niets van meegekregen. Wisten zij veel. Hij was hier niet geweest toen ze geboren werden. En dat ging goed, dat ging allemaal goed. Zijn baan op de universiteit was ook weer leuk. Ging ook weer goed. En met hem was het ook een tijdje goed gegaan en nu was hij weer hier. Op de grond van een bar. Dat was een situatie waarin het niet geslaagd was om na te denken. A. over hoe je er gekomen was en B. over wat er zich verder op de vloer van de bar bevond. “O, ow,” zei hij knorrig, en hij veegde wat bloed van zijn lip. “Serieus, Jimmy? Nog steeds vanwege dat meisje? Dat was jaren geleden!” Jimmy zei niets – Jimmy was niet zo’n prater, van wat Richard zich kon herinneren - maar hij keek niet bijster onder de indruk. Richard dook voor de volgende mep. “Kom op! Ik heb haar alleen maar thuis gebracht.” “Ha! Wie doet dat nou,” gromde Jimmy. “Een meisje thuisbrengen.” Richard rolde met zijn ogen. “Um. Het gebeurt vaker.” “Ja, watjes zeker.” “Oké, ik ben een watje. Mag ik nu weer verder drinken?” Jimmy keek beduusd; Richard richtte zich weer op zijn drinken en bedacht zich hoe stom hetgeen wat hij hierna ging zeggen was. “In jouw geval zou ik het ook niet aanraden. Dat stellen meisjes vast helemaal niet op prijs, als je weet waar ze wonen.” En toen braken er dingen, enzo. De melee van een bar fight was altijd zoiets: iets stoms, en iets kleins, en het volgende moment was iedereen met iedereen aan het vechten. Jimmy kreeg het al snel genoeg aan de stok met iemand op wiens tenen hij was gaan staan (of was dat de broer van een ander meisje weer?) en Richard besloot zijn whiskey maar ergens anders op te gaan drinken. Helaas landde er direct een schoen in. “Hé, daar wordt het echt niet beter op,” bromde Richard afkeurend, terwijl hij wat er nog van over was in de schoen omkiepte. “Zeg, kun jij bij de fles daar achter de bar? Waarschijnlijk gaat hij er toch binnen vijf minuten aan, dus ’t zou zonde zijn hem niet ten volle te benutten.”
  13. [1835/1836] We were never cut out to be parents, huh, sis?

    Nee, Melody had het nooit zo goed met Richard kunnen vinden. Richard kon haar dat niet kwalijk nemen, eigenlijk. Ten eerste was het regelrecht moeilijk geweest, was het nog steeds moeilijk, om het goed met hem te vinden; hij had nooit een makkelijke persoonlijkheid gehad, verwend en veeleisend in zijn jongere jaren, en vervolgens vanaf het ene op het andere moment ontvlambaar, onvoorspelbaar en manisch-depressief – niet dat Richard de kennis had om het in die laatste term te vatten, maar hij kon heel goed zien waarom hij niet de meest aangename grote broer geweest zou zijn. Zeker in een huishouden waar een goede grote broer zoveel meer had kunnen betekenen, waar Lewis en Ariana zoveel gaten hadden laten vallen, waar om de beste invloed te zijn hij alleen maar van zijn zusjes had hoeven houden. Wat hij oprecht deed. Hij kon er alleen niet zo goed mee omgaan, want tja, als je een bewijs zocht van het falen van hun ouders in het ouderschap dan was je best mogelijke anekdote Richard’s complete zijn. Niet dat de mate waarin Melody een hekel aan hem had (gehad) helemaal aan hem lag, overigens. Het was ook gewoon... de Bowmans waren niet uitzonderlijk eerlijk. Maak de oudste zoon van de oudste zoon de erfgenaam en kijk wat dat doet met je gelijkheid. Richard was altijd het belangrijkst geweest voor zijn ouders, eerst hun belangrijkste kind, toen hun belangrijkste hoofdpijn. Ariana hield van kinderen, van baby’s, en Madeline was op die manier iets interessanter, want ze zou altijd Ariana’s kleintje zijn, maar feitelijk konden de meiden even goed wel als niet bestaan en al Richard’s problemen hadden altijd het huishouden bepaald, al zijn ruzies, die keer dat hij was weggelopen, die keer dat ze hem weg hadden gestuurd, die keer dat hij was opgepakt... en voor Lewis was Richard ook het belangrijkst, al was dat al evenmin prettig als Ariana’s waardering, want Richard was de jongen in wie Lewis zichzelf herkende, en die hij zoetjes aan al zijn eigen fouten zag herhalen. Iets wat hij niet op prijs kon stellen. Ook dat wist Richard niet, of niet helemaal, al begon hij het meer te begrijpen. En, eh, het maakte niet uit voor de Bowmans per se, maar... Melody redde zichzelf wel. Door alles altijd goed te doen leek dat haast vanzelfsprekend. Terwijl Richard, en Madeline... “Als je af en toe hier weg wil ben je bij ons heel welkom, hoor,” bood hij zijn zusje zonder aarzelen aan, want hij eiste van zichzelf dat dit een goede dag was en op een goede dag zou hij dit zeggen. “Vi zou het ook vast weer leuk vinden je te zien, en de kinderen kunnen samen spelen.” Hij kon zich niet voorstellen hoe het moest zijn om in het huis van een ander te gaan wonen, hij woonde al tijden op zichzelf voordat... Vi, en bij het idee van bij haar ouders in te moeten trekken ging eerlijk gezegd direct zijn hand naar zijn toverstok. “En thuis zijn bevalt.” Hij haalde zijn schouders op. Daarmee was het meeste wel gezegd. “De tweede twee waren een stuk minder schokkend dan de eerste twee, dat weet ik wel.” Hij grijnsde. “Maar, moeder zijn... valt het mee of tegen?”
  14. 30 September div.ooc_bbc { display:block; width:100%; background-color:rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.7); padding:4px; } div.ooc_bbc span.ooc_bbc_titel { color:#666; font-family:Courier New, Courier, monospace; padding:1px 5px; } OOC:Tijdens dit topic is Richard weer thuis! Alleen hebben we dat nog niet uitgespeeld. Dus als deze post hier en daar vaag is, dan, uh, VOLG DE INTERESSANTE INTERMEDIAIRE INSTALLMENTS die nog moeten verschijnen. Hij verveelde zich. Van alle onhandige, kleurrijke karaktereigenschappen die Richard bezat, vond hij dat misschien nog wel de vervelendste. En dat wilde wat zeggen, want hij had meer dan voldoende karaktertrekken waar hij bepaald niet trots op was, om nog maar niet te spreken van het zooitje dat hij haatte maar wat hij over zijn lijk niet weg zou willen doen, en tussen die troep leek de neiging om zich af en toe te vervelen vrij mild, nietwaar? Maar dat was het niet, niet voor Richard; want die wist inmiddels maar al te goed wat verveling met hem deed, hoeveel dichterbij depressie was wanneer de verveling was gekomen. Daarenboven vond hij het ook gewoon verschrikkelijk dat zijn verveling betekende, in effect, dat hij nooit ergens tevreden mee kon zijn. Als het verhaaltje over was, en lang en gelukkig begon, was hij niet langer een geschikte kandidaat; lang en gelukkig duurde bij hem krap twee weken en dan begon het weer te jeuken, begon hij weer te denken, zakte hij weer langzaam af tot in de... kroeg. Vaak dacht hij dat als hij die eigenschap maar niet had, hij zoveel gelukkiger zou zijn. En met hem, iedereen om zich heen. Maar het maakte niet uit, hij kreeg hem niet weg; Richard Bowman, dames en heren, de definitie van ‘onverbeterlijk’. Hij zorgde er gewoon voor, probeerde er voor te zorgen, dat het niet opviel. Probeerde alle dagen hetzelfde te laten zijn en er oprecht van te genieten. Misschien dat als hij maar lang genoeg bleef lachen, dat hij daar dan vanzelf een nieuwe fascinatie in zou vinden; misschien dat hij zijn brein kon overtuigen om zich niet meer zo aan te stellen en gewoon mee te gaan in deze fijne tijd na een van de naarste jaren die hij ooit had gehad. En als dat al niet lukte, wel, dan zorgde hij in elk geval dat hij alleen last had van zijn buien, en niet de kinderen, en niet Violet. God, Violet... gelukkig was die niet uitzonderlijk opmerkzaam. En hij probeerde taakjes te verzinnen. Nieuwe dingen te gaan doen. Probeerde ook ervoor te zorgen dat Vi een beetje ontzien werd; tijden was ze alleen geweest met de twee tweelingen, nu wilde hij een beetje inhalen. Dat hield hem goed bezig; soms, als hij luisterde naar het gepruttel van Jass en Oliver, of de kleintjes in hun slaap zag lachen, was hij oprecht even verder van verveling dan hij ooit gedacht had te kunnen zijn. Duurde nooit lang, maar in dat moment was het alles. Enfin, zodoende had hij vandaag besloten langs te gaan bij Mel met de kids. Zijn zusje had onlangs een dochtertje gekregen en het was vast een goed idee om ze allemaal bij elkaar te zetten. Het zou alleszins prettig zijn als de volgende generatie Bowmans beter met elkaar om kon gaan. Misschien zouden ze dan eens overwegen om elkaar niet te vermoorden. Strak plan, hmm? “Mel! Je ziet er goed uit,” begroette hij zijn zus, zonder enige verontschuldiging of uitleg, nadat hij de kinderen op de kinderkamer had neergepoot. “Hoe gaat het? Hoe is het hier?” Enigszins argwanend keek hij om zich heen. Er waren geen uitzonderingen op de regel ‘From the Bowman family, everything else is up’, niet voor Richard althans, maar als ze er waren zouden de Kingsley-Savages in de buurt komen. div.ooc_bbc { display:block; width:100%; background-color:rgba(255, 255, 255, 0.7); padding:4px; } div.ooc_bbc span.ooc_bbc_titel { color:#666; font-family:Courier New, Courier, monospace; padding:1px 5px; } OOC:Prive!
  15. [1835/1836|EN] You were far too young, dear, to get so close to the clouds

    No, Richard would never say that Violet wasn't allowed to complain about things. How could he? How could he justifiably tell her that everything was fine, that she just had to buckle up and be less sad about it? About this? This, of which he knew how much it hurt her? He knew – did not understand, but knew, knew almost instinctively – how important he was to her, how much she relied on him being around. It had been clear from her letters, though she'd never said it (his parents hadn't felt that was important enough to censor, evidently, and Richard was kind of glad about that, because now at least he knew, not that it could change anything, not that he would ever be able to change anything again). It had been obvious from how she'd held up without him, the lack of paintings, the lack of smiles; he could easily picture it, though he didn't really want to do that, but, once again, he couldn't help it. And in a way it had been noticeable even before, even when they had been together, even when everything had been fine, because it had been finer than it ought have ever been and she had been happier with him than he, even without this, could have warranted. They had met, and then never wanted to be apart. So how could he tell her not to complain, even if her every look was an icy spike through the core of his being? Even if there was nothing he could do? Especially now that there was nothing he could do, he couldn't tell her not to complain about it. Listening to her complaints was the only action that remained open to him, for however much it was worth. And for the few days it lasted. Merlin, Violet.. “I know, my love,” he murmured, and, forcing himself to rise, which was surprisingly easy on the anguish he felt at the visceral knowledge of having to leave her again, of not knowing when, if, he'd be back, he crossed the two steps to her and embraced her, his arms around her belying the truth, denying the moment of letting go. It hurt, but like everything with Violet, it was a pain he wouldn't forego even if he could, a pain that was a part of him like she was. “But you know how hard it is to find this kind of help. And Dr. Fairweather and I were really getting somewhere.” Getting to different places, admittedly. Richard had been getting drunk, and Dr. Fairweather had been growing steadily richer. Not the kind of truth Violet should be informed of. Neither was the answer to her next question. Plainly, Richard didn't think Violet would ever be allowed to visit him. Definitely not with the children, the children were his parents' bargaining chip as well as their best future hope, those children weren't ever going anywhere out of their sight again, not even if Christina got involved – oh, yes, since that little stunt Richard knew his mother had increased her vigilance to guard against another such debacle. But even if Vi could bear to leave her babies, something which silently he doubted, for she was a doting mother, he didn't think she'd be allowed to come. His parents must know the temptation that'd mean for him, and their whole running away to get married moment had kind of strengthened the impression that they could not be trusted together. Yet, he could barely bring himself to admit that right now, and perhaps it would be only more cruel. Vi thrived on hope, and she was an optimist. If his parents could just find excuses, she might feel a little better for a little while longer sustained by the lie. “Maybe,” he therefore answered, hating himself. “I'll need a bit of time to get my head on straight again, but after that, it'd be great.” He ran a hand through her sweet-smelling hair. “Perhaps don't bring the kids, though. It's a long journey for them.” He forced a smile. “And we'll write, of course. And maybe you should visit with Victoria again sometime? Get the children together.” His sister-in-law (and former fiancée) hated his guts, but no one better to cheer up Violet, and... well, she was perfectly welcome to abuse him in the process. Who knows, maybe even he could feel a little better working from the lie.