Les-Miserables

So long as there shall exist, by virtue of law and custom, decrees of damnation pronounced by society, artificially creating hells amid the civilization of earth, and adding the element of human fate to divine destiny; so long as the three great problems of the century— the degradation of man through pauperism, the corruption of woman through hunger, the crippling of children through lack of light— are unsolved; so long as social asphyxia is possible in any part of the world;—in other words, and with a still wider significance, so long as ignorance and poverty exist on earth, books of the nature of Les Miserables cannot fail to be of use.
HAUTEVILLE HOUSE, 1862.

FANTINE

CHAPTER I

M. MYRIEL
In 1815, M. Charles-Francois-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D—— He was an old man of about seventy-five years of age; he had occupied the see of D—— since 1806.
Although this detail has no connection whatever with the real substance of what we are about to relate, it will not be superfluous, if merely for the sake of exactness in all points, to mention here the various rumors and remarks which had been in circulation about him from the very moment when he arrived in the diocese. True or false, that which is said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all in their destinies, as that which they do. M. Myriel was the son of a councillor of the Parliament of Aix; hence he belonged to the nobility of the bar. It was said that his father, destining him to be the heir of his own post, had married him at a very early age, eighteen or twenty, in accordance with a custom which is rather widely prevalent in parliamentary families. In spite of this marriage, however, it was said that Charles Myriel created a great deal of talk. He was well formed, though rather short in stature, elegant, graceful, intelligent; the whole of the first portion of his life had been devoted to the world and to gallantry.

The Revolution came; events succeeded each other with precipitation; the parliamentary families, decimated, pursued, hunted down, were dispersed. M. Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy at the very beginning of the Revolution. There his wife died of a malady of the chest, from which she had long suffered. He had no children. What took place next in the fate of M. Myriel? The ruin of the French society of the olden days, the fall of his own family, the tragic spectacles of ‘93, which were, perhaps, even more alarming to the emigrants who viewed them from a distance, with the magnifying powers of terror,—did these cause the ideas of renunciation and solitude to germinate in him? Was he, in the midst of these distractions, these affections which absorbed his life, suddenly smitten with one of those mysterious and terrible blows which sometimes overwhelm, by striking to his heart, a man whom public catastrophes would not shake, by striking at his existence and his fortune? No one could have told: all that was known was, that when he returned from Italy he was a priest.

In 1804, M. Myriel was the Cure of B—— [Brignolles]. He was already advanced in years, and lived in a very retired manner.
About the epoch of the coronation, some petty affair connected with his curacy—just what, is not precisely known—took him to Paris. Among other powerful persons to whom he went to solicit aid for his parishioners was M. le Cardinal Fesch. One day, when the Emperor had come to visit his uncle, the worthy Cure, who was waiting in the anteroom, found himself present when His Majesty passed. Napoleon, on finding himself observed with a certain curiosity by this old man, turned round and said abruptly:—
‘Who is this good man who is staring at me?’
‘Sire,’ said M. Myriel, ‘you are looking at a good man, and I at a great man. Each of us can profit by it.’
That very evening, the Emperor asked the Cardinal the name of the Cure, and some time afterwards M. Myriel was utterly astonished to learn that he had been appointed Bishop of D——
What truth was there, after all, in the stories which were invented as to the early portion of M. Myriel’s life? No one knew. Very few families had been acquainted with the Myriel family before the Revolution.
M. Myriel had to undergo the fate of every newcomer in a little town, where there are many mouths which talk, and very few heads which think. He was obliged to undergo it although he was a bishop, and because he was a bishop. But after all, the rumors with which his name was connected were rumors only,—noise, sayings, words; less than words— palabres, as the energetic language of the South expresses it.
However that may be, after nine years of episcopal power and of residence in D——, all the stories and subjects of conversation which engross petty towns and petty people at the outset had fallen into profound oblivion. No one would have dared to mention them; no one would have dared to recall them.
M. Myriel had arrived at D—— accompanied by an elderly spinster, Mademoiselle Baptistine, who was his sister, and ten years his junior.
Their only domestic was a female servant of the same age as Mademoiselle Baptistine, and named Madame Magloire, who, after having been the servant of M. le Cure, now assumed the double title of maid to Mademoiselle and housekeeper to Monseigneur.
Mademoiselle Baptistine was a long, pale, thin, gentle creature; she realized the ideal expressed by the word ‘respectable”; for it seems that a woman must needs be a mother in order to be venerable. She had never been pretty; her whole life, which had been nothing but a succession of holy deeds, had finally conferred upon her a sort of pallor and transparency; and as she advanced in years she had acquired what may be called the beauty of goodness. What had been leanness in her youth had become transparency in her maturity; and this diaphaneity allowed the angel to be seen. She was a soul rather than a virgin. Her person seemed made of a shadow; there was hardly sufficient body to provide for sex; a little matter enclosing a light; large eyes forever drooping;— a mere pretext for a soul’s remaining on the earth.
Madame Magloire was a little, fat, white old woman, corpulent and bustling; always out of breath,—in the first place, because of her activity, and in the next, because of her asthma.
On his arrival, M. Myriel was installed in the episcopal palace with the honors required by the Imperial decrees, which class a bishop immediately after a major-general. The mayor and the president paid the first call on him, and he, in turn, paid the first call on the general and the prefect.
The installation over, the town waited to see its bishop at work. Click here continue reading.....

Tale of Two Cities

The Period

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way—in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. South-cott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.

In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers’ warehouses for security; the highwayman in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by his fellowtradesman whom he stopped in his character of ‘the Captain,’ gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mall was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got shot dead himself by the other four, ‘in consequence of the failure of his ammunition:’ after which the mall was robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond cross es from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles’s, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer’s boy of sixpence.
All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures—the creatures of this chronicle among the rest—along the roads that lay before them. Click here to continue.....

Fyodor Dostoevsky: The Idiot

Towards the end of November, during a thaw, at nine o’clock one morning, a train on the Warsaw and Petersburg railway was approaching the latter city at full speed. The morning was so damp and misty that it was only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in breaking; and it was impossible to distinguish anything more than a few yards away from the carriage windows.
     Some of the passengers by this particular train were returning from abroad; but the third-class carriages were the best filled, chiefly with insignificant persons of various occupations and degrees, picked up at the different stations nearer town. All of them seemed weary, and most of them had sleepy eyes and a shivering expression, while their complexions generally appeared to have taken on the colour of the fog outside.
     When day dawned, two passengers in one of the thirdclass carriages found themselves opposite each other. Both were young fellows, both were rather poorly dressed, both had remarkable faces, and both were evidently anxious to start a conversation. If they had but known why, at this particular moment, they were both remarkable persons, they would undoubtedly have wondered at the strange chance which had set them down opposite to one another in a thirdclass carriage of the Warsaw Railway Company.

     One of them was a young fellow of about twenty-seven, not tall, with black curling hair, and small, grey, fiery eyes. His nose was broad and flat, and he had high cheek bones; his thin lips were constantly compressed into an impudent, ironical—it might almost be called a malicious—smile; but his forehead was high and well formed, and atoned for a good deal of the ugliness of the lower part of his face. A special feature of this physiognomy was its death-like pallor, which gave to the whole man an indescribably emaciated appearance in spite of his hard look, and at the same time a sort of passionate and suffering expression which did not harmonize with his impudent, sarcastic smile and keen, self-satisfied bearing. He wore a large fur—or rather astrachan— overcoat, which had kept him warm all night, while his neighbour had been obliged to bear the full severity of a Russian November night entirely unprepared. His wide sleeveless mantle with a large cape to it—the sort of cloak one sees upon travellers during the winter months in Switzerland or North Italy—was by no means adapted to the long cold journey through Russia, from Eydkuhnen to St. Petersburg.
     The wearer of this cloak was a young fellow, also of about twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, slightly above the middle height, very fair, with a thin, pointed and very light coloured beard; his eyes were large and blue, and had an intent look about them, yet that heavy expression which some people affirm to be a peculiarity. as well as evidence, of an epileptic subject. His face was decidedly a pleasant one for all that; refined, but quite colourless, except for the circum stance that at this moment it was blue with cold. He held
a bundle made up of an old faded silk handkerchief that apparently contained all his travelling wardrobe, and wore thick shoes and gaiters, his whole appearance being very un-Russian.
     His black-haired neighbour inspected these peculiarities, having nothing better to do, and at length remarked, with that rude enjoyment of the discomforts of others which the common classes so often show:
‘Cold?’
‘Very,’ said his neighbour, readily. ‘and this is a thaw, too. Fancy if it had been a hard frost! I never thought it would be so cold in the old country. I’ve grown quite out of the way of it.’
‘What, been abroad, I suppose?’
‘Yes, straight from Switzerland.’
‘Wheugh! my goodness!’ The black-haired young fellow
whistled, and then laughed.
     The conversation proceeded. The readiness of the fairhaired young man in the cloak to answer all his opposite neighbour’s questions was surprising. He seemed to have no suspicion of any impertinence or inappropriateness in the fact of such questions being put to him. Replying to them, he made known to the inquirer that he certainly had been long absent from Russia, more than four years; that he had been sent abroad for his health; that he had suffered from some strange nervous malady—a kind of epilepsy, with convulsive spasms. His interlocutor burst out laughing several times at his answers; and more than ever, when to the question, ‘ whether he had been cured?’ the patient replied:
‘No, they did not cure me.’
‘Hey! that’s it! You stumped up your money for nothing, and we believe in those fellows, here!’ remarked the blackhaired individual, sarcastically.
‘Gospel truth, sir, Gospel truth!’ exclaimed another passenger, a shabbily dressed man of about forty, who looked like a clerk, and possessed a red nose and a very blotchy face.
‘Gospel truth! All they do is to get hold of our good Russian money free, gratis, and for nothing. ‘
‘Oh, but you’re quite wrong in my particular instance,’ said the Swiss patient, quietly. ‘Of course I can’t argue the matter, because I know only my own case; but my doctor gave me money—and he had very little—to pay my journey back, besides having kept me at his own expense, while there, for nearly two years.’
‘Why? Was there no one else to pay for you?’ asked the blackhaired one.
‘No—Mr. Pavlicheff, who had been supporting me there, died a couple of years ago. I wrote to Mrs. General Epanchin at the time (she is a distant relative of mine), but she did not answer my letter. And so eventually I came back.’
‘And where have you come to?’
‘That is—where am I going to stay? I—I really don’t quite know yet, I—‘
Both the listeners laughed again. ‘I suppose your whole set-up is in that bundle, then?’
asked the first. (Readmore the whole story from this book)

Poems

In the Tree House at Night
By James L. Dickey

And now the green household is dark.
The half-moon completely is shining
On the earth-lighted tops of the trees.
To be dead, a house must be still.
The floor and the walls wave me slowly;
I am deep in them over my head.
The needles and pine cones about me

Are full of small birds at their roundest,
Their fist without mercy gripping
Hard down through the tree to the roots
To sing back at light when they feel it.
We lie here like angels in bodies,
My brothers and I, one dead,
The other asleep from much living,

In mid-air huddled beside me.
Dark climbed to us here as we climbed
Up the nails I have hammered all day
Through the sprained, comic rungs of the ladder
Of broom handles, crate slats, and laths
Foot by foot up the trunk to the branches
Where we came out at last over lakes

Of leaves, of fields disencumbered of earth
That move with the moves of the spirit.
Each nail that sustains us I set here;
Each nail in the house is now steadied
By my dead brother’s huge, freckled hand.
Through the years, he has pointed his hammer
Up into these limbs, and told us

That we must ascend, and all lie here.
Step after step he has brought me,
Embracing the trunk as his body,
Shaking its limbs with my heartbeat,
Till the pine cones danced without wind
And fell from the branches like apples.
In the arm-slender forks of our dwelling

I breathe my live brother’s light hair.
The blanket around us becomes
As solid as stone, and it sways.
With all my heart, I close
The blue, timeless eye of my mind.
Wind springs, as my dead brother smiles
And touches the tree at the root;

A shudder of joy runs up
The trunk; the needles tingle;
One bird uncontrollably cries.
The wind changes round, and I stir
Within another’s life. Whose life?
Who is dead? Whose presence is living?
When may I fall strangely to earth,

Who am nailed to this branch by a spirit?
Can two bodies make up a third?
To sing, must I feel the world’s light?
My green, graceful bones fill the air
With sleeping birds. Alone, alone
And with them I move gently.
I move at the heart of the world.

Short story: Teenage Love Story

She walks into the hallway and I catch my breath. My eyes light up when she smiles at me, but  she doesn't notice it. She walks up to me and gives me a casual greeting and I reply hoping I  said the right thing. We stand there conversing and not knowing what to say I talk about some  girl I have just met looking at her all the time trying to tell her that if she would just let me love  her no one else would mean anything to me. She says a casual goodbye and walks away  hurriedly likes she's eager to get away from me and I stand there faking a smile and saying "see  you later", when all I want to do is pull her to me, turn her around and say give me that chance  and we could be everything.

But she's doesn't care for me like that.
It's graudation and I stand there looking at her as she walks down the stage with her certificate. Even now I still loved her, she still was my best friend. I turned and headed to the door where she was standing.
 "Jake, can you believe  it!" she said as she hugged me.
"Yes Kate", we're finally out of high school"

She pulled out of my arms and smiled up at me.

"I'll miss you Jake."

I was a bit puzzled, "Miss me? I'm not going anywhere, we still have prom."

"Yes but it won't be just us forever. There will be new people in our lives sooner or later."

I sighed. "Yes Kate I know, but  I'll always remember you."

With that I watched her walk away thinking that if she could just give me that chance it would be us two forever.

But I knew she didn't care for me like that.

I gave up wishing. It had been years ago since we were teenagers and she would never love me the way I love her, but still as I stood there looking at her as she fixed my tie I couldn't help but to wish she was the one I was marrying in a few minutes.
"I am so happy you came Katy"
She smiled at me, "You didn't think I would miss my best friend's wedding?"
There was a rap on the door, "It's time Jake" a voice on the other end said.
I looked at her, I had to tell her how I felt

"Katy … " I said, "Have you found your special someone?"

She looked a me a sad look in her eyes,

"Yes Jake, I found him, I had him for a long time".

The word I was about to tell her died in my throat.

"Oh , I am happy for you then." I said  and couldn't help feeling a bit sad  that it wasn't me.

"Jake … I'm going now" she said her eyes filled with tears.

"Katy …"I said, not knowing what to say to her.

"Bye Jake, I will always remember you" she said as she walked out the door.

I stared at her retreating back knowing that this was the end.

Ten years later I stand looking at the coffin of the girl who was my best friend as I listened to what her friend was saying …

"I walk into the hallway and I see him. I catch his eyes and give him a smile hoping that it came out alright. My heart was racing. The sight of him takes my breath away. I go up to him and he greets me casually like he would rather be anywhere but here talking to me. He talks about his new love interest and I stay there trying not to burst out in tears. He looks at me and I avoid his eyes thinking he's picturing me as her. I couldn't take it anymore so I mutter goodbye hoping he would stop me. But all he says is "see you later" and I walk away my heart breaking while I wished he would give me the chance to be with him.

Page 3

We'd be perfect together. But he doesn't care for me like that …"

And I leaned over and cried my heart out.

Short Romantic Love Stories

A girl and guy were speeding over 100 mph on a motorcycle.
Girl: Slow down. I'm scared.
Guy: No this is fun.
Girl: No its not. Please, it's too scary!
Guy: Then tell me you love me.
Girl: Fine, I love you. Slow down! Guy: Now give me a big hug. (Girl hugs him)
Guy: Can you take my helmet off and put it on? It's bugging me.
In the paper the next day: A motorcycle had crashed into a building because of brake failure. Two people were on the motorcycle, but only one survived. The truth was that halfway down the road, the guy realized that his brakes broke, but he didn't want to let the girl know. Instead, he had her say she loved him, felt her hug one last time, then had her wear his helmet so she would live even though it meant he would die.

 

---------0000--------

 

There was a girl named Becca and a boy named Joe. Becca was in a burning house. None of the firefighters could get in the house because the fire was too big. Joe dressed in one of the fire suits and got into the house. When he got up the stairs, the steps fell off behind him. When he got into her room he sealed the door up behind him. He held her tight, kissed her, huged her, then said that he loved her. She asked what was wrong, and he said that he was going to die. Her eyes widened as she began to cry. He picked her up and jumped out of the four story house. He landed on his back with her on top of him. He died to save her life.

 

--------0000-------

 

There was a blind girl who was filled with animosity and despised the world. She didn't have many friends, just a boyfriend who loved her deeply, like no one else. She always used to say that she'd marry him if she could see him. Suddenly, one day someone donated her a pair of eyes. And that's when she finally saw her boyfriend. She was astonished to see that her boyfriend was blind. He told her, "You can see me now, can we get married?" She replied, "And do what? We'd never be happy. I have my eye sight now, but you're still blind. It won't work out, I'm sorry."
With a tear in his eye and a smile on his face, he meekly said, "I understand. I just want you to always be happy. Take care of yourself, and my eyes."

 

 

Journey of Lifa, Heart and Love

Saat sedih
Bukanlah saat kita kehilangan
Apa yang kita cintai
Tetapi
Saat sedih
Adalah saat dimana,
Kita menyadari bahwa
Kita selalu menyia-nyiakan hidup ini
-Raymond Alfred-

Semua Layak Bahagia Seorang Pria
Berusaha menyakinkan Sang Kekasih
Agar mau menjadikan dirinya
Sebagai seorang suami
Sang pria
Melakukan berbagai macam cara
Meluluhkan hati sang kekasih
Hingga pada akhirnya,
Sang kekasih pun takluk
Sang kekasih awalnya menolak,
Sang kekasih bukannya tak mau
Sang kekasih bukannya tak ingin
Namun,
Sang kekasih berusaha menyakinkan diri sendiri
Sang kekasih berusaha melihat
Seberapa besar usaha si pria
Dan,
Pada akhirnya ia pun mau
Ada standar yang harus dilakukan
Ada syarat yang harus dipenuhi
Ada aturan yang harus dihormati
Keduanya ingin bahagia,
Keduanya layak bahagia,
Namun semuanya,
Butuh proses dan usaha
Serta tak lupa DOA-Raymond Alfred-
“Lakukan hal apapun dengan maksimal, apapun hasilnya, tetaplah bersyukur”

Doa
Tuhan begitu mencintai
Anak-anak kecil,
Bukan karena usia mereka yang masih belia
Tetapi,
Karena tingkah laku mereka
Yang begitu polos dan penuh ketulusan
Namun,
Bukan berarti Tuhan tidak mencintai
Orang-orang dewasa
Hanya saja,
Orang-orang dewasa sudah mampu berpikir
Sehingga,
Kepolosan dan ketulusan jarang sekali terlihat
Biasanya,
Doa yang diucapkan oleh anak-anak
Akan didengar dan dikabulkan oleh Tuhan
Sebab,
Segala doa yang mereka ucapkan
Dilakukan dengan penuh ketulusan dan demi kebaikan
Namun,
Bukan berarti Tuhan tidak akan mendengar dan mengabulkan
Doa yang diucapkan oleh orang-orang dewasa
Sebab,
Tuhan itu adil, bagi mereka yang percaya
Hanya saja,
Akan butuh proses yang dinamakan
Kesabaran dan usaha agar doa tersebut terkabul
Maka,
Jika ingin doa anda didengar dan dikabulkan
Berdoalah seperti anak-anak
Yang melakukan setiap tindakan, dengan penuh ketulusan
Bersikaplah layaknya orang dewasa
Yang melakukan setiap tindakan, dengan penuh pertimbangan
Dan yakinlah, cepat atau lambat
Doa anda pasti akan terkabul
-Raymond Alfred-

Wanita
Wanita adalah makhluk yang paling mulia
Makhluk paling mulia ketika ia menjadi seorang ibu
Makhluk paling mulia ketika ia menyayangi seorang pria
Makhluk paling mulia ketika ia mengasihi anaknya
Wanita adalah makhluk yang berpikir dengan emosi
Makhluk dengan emosi ketika ia harus menentukan keputusan
Makhluk dengan emosi ketika ia mencintai
Makhluk dengan emosi ketika harus memilih
Wanita memang karya terindah ciptaan Tuhan
Mereka dibekali kekuatan, meski tak tampak secara lahiriah
Mereka dibekali kemampuan, mengasihi dan merawat
Terkadang mereka bisa menjadi seperti seekor singa
Yang mengaum dan terlihat ganas
Namun,
Terkadang mereka bisa menjadi seperti seekor malaikat
Yang mengasihi dan menyayangi
Karena mereka cenderung menggunakan emosi
Ketimbang logika
Bersyukurlah para pria,
Yang telah memiliki wanita di dekatnya
Bersyukurlah, lindungi dan sayangilah mereka
Karena mereka adalah titipan Tuhan
Yang paling indah di muka bumi ini
Bagi para pria,
Yang belum memiliki wanita di dekatnya
Tetaplah bersemangat dan temukan wanita
Yang telah di sediakan Tuhan bagimu,
Kemudian,
Hargailah mereka sebaik mungkin
Perlakukanlah mereka dengan cara yang indah
Dengarkanlah setiap kata yang mereka ucapkan
-Raymond Alfred-