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Like everything else, we must habituate the senses to a fresh impression, gentle or violent, sad or joyous. “Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin-judge, but do not confine yourself to one trial. “Do you know,” said Franz, “I have a very great inclination to judge for myself of the truth or exaggeration of your eulogies.” “That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin it is hashish-the purest and most unadulterated hashish of Alexandria-the hashish of Abou-Gor, the celebrated maker, the only man, the man to whom there should be built a palace, inscribed with these words, A grateful world to the dealer in happiness.” “Then,” cried Franz, “it is hashish! I know that-by name at least.” What these happy persons took for reality was but a dream but it was a dream so soft, so voluptuous, so enthralling, that they sold themselves body and soul to him who gave it to them, and obedient to his orders as to those of a deity, struck down the designated victim, died in torture without a murmur, believing that the death they underwent was but a quick transition to that life of delights of which the holy herb, now before you, had given them a slight foretaste.” Into these pavilions he admitted the elect, and there, says Marco Polo, gave them to eat a certain herb, which transported them to Paradise, in the midst of ever-blooming shrubs, ever-ripe fruit, and ever-lovely virgins. In this valley were magnificent gardens planted by Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens isolated pavilions. “Well, you know he reigned over a rich valley which was overhung by the mountain whence he derived his picturesque name.
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“Did you ever hear,” he replied, “of the Old Man of the Mountain, who attempted to assassinate Philippe Auguste?” Franz did not disturb him whilst he absorbed his favourite sweetmeat, but when he had finished, he inquired: Is it not tempting what I offer you, and is it not an easy thing, since it is only to do thus? look!”Īt these words he uncovered the small cup which contained the substance so lauded, took a teaspoonful of the magic sweetmeat, raised it to his lips, and swallowed it slowly with his eyes half shut and his head bent backwards. Are you ambitious, and do you seek after the greatnesses of the earth? taste this, and in an hour you will be a king, not a king of a petty kingdom hidden in some corner of Europe like France, Spain, or England, but king of the world, king of the universe, king of creation without bowing at the feet of Satan, you will be king and master of all the kingdoms of the earth.
#Quote from the count of monte cristo free
Are you a man of imagination-a poet? taste this, and the boundaries of possibility disappear the fields of infinite space open to you, you advance free in heart, free in mind, into the boundless realms of unfettered reverie. Are you a man for the substantials, and is gold your god? taste this, and the mines of Peru, Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to you.
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“Ah, thus it is that our material origin is revealed,” cried Sinbad “we frequently pass so near to happiness without seeing, without regarding it, or if we do see and regard it, yet without recognizing it. “But,” replied Franz, “this ambrosia, no doubt, in passing through mortal hands has lost its heavenly appellation and assumed a human name in vulgar phrase, what may you term this composition, for which, to tell the truth, I do not feel any particular desire?” “Well, then, that green preserve is nothing less than the ambrosia which Hebe served at the table of Jupiter.” “You cannot guess,” said he, “what there is in that small vase, can you?” When the meal is over “Sinbad” offers “Aladdin” a special treat: The latter chooses the name “Aladdin”, and the pair retire to a sumptuously decorated cave for an evening meal. This man-our hero, Edmond Dantès-insists on concealing his identity with a pseudonym, “Sinbad the Sailor”, and suggests that Franz might wish to do the same. On reaching the island Franz and his crew discover a small group of bandits camped there, with a leader dressed in Arabian clothes. The story so far: Baron Franz d’Épinay has hired a boat to take him to the uninhabited Mediterranean island of Monte Cristo where he hopes to do a spot of hunting. The following passage from chapter 31 turns out to be quite well-known as it happens, but only to those who’ve read the original text, not the Reader’s Digest version. One of the things I enjoy about reading novels like these that “everyone knows” (ie: everyone knows mostly from truncated film or television adaptations) is finding something surprising about the story that you’ve never seen mentioned before. I mentioned at the weekend that my current reading is the Dumas père doorstop The Count of Monte Cristo. Illustration by Pierre-Gustave-Eugène Staal.