Actor Jay Tavare Is Being Exposed As A Fraud?! WTF? ~ Urban Halo

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

Actor Jay Tavare Is Being Exposed As A Fraud?! WTF?

6:56 PM

Unknown

4315 comments

According to several women and the Native American communities at large, actor Jay Tavare, isn't what he seems. As a matter of fact, many have gone as far as labeling him a fraud with a penchant for violence towards women.
Women, who either identify themselves as Native American or other, have cited issues of domestic violence against the actor. To further support their claim, much like entrepreneur, Michelle Shining Elk, these women had evidence, such as documented recorded death threats, to ensure that they won restraining orders against him. Tavare has had well documented circumstances of domestic violence towards women culminating in a string of restraining orders against him in several courts throughout the continental United States and possibly more on the way.
To make matters worst, several women, particularly the elderly, have filed complaints and sought legal action against the actor because of false promises he made to them to ensure that he could swindle money/discretionary income from their pockets until he had bled them dry.
The Native American community as a whole had performed their own investigation about Tavare and there findings were rather explosive. He's not Native American, there's no record of the family he claims let alone tribe/clan and was exploiting them for personal monetary gain by using fictitious charities to do it. The objective was to send money, via money gram or money order, to him directly using a PO Box versus the charity because there were no such charities to begin with. This explains the expensive, exotic luxury cars that he drives in addition to whatever he pulls through his purported gigolo tactics.
Tavare's name is really Richard Jai Janini and he's of Persian heritage. You may best remember him as the Indian chief, Waka Mani, in the film, 'Unbowed'.

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4315 comments:

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Anonymous said...: No jay you're the desperate one. Tuli is another one of your victims who wants you put in Jail hahahahaha!; November 5, 2014 at 1:34 PM
Anonymous said...: She was jealous in many ways—sometimes in an open humorous fashion, sometimes more subtly, never content till "we" had extended our patronage, and, if possible, our pity. She began to patronize and pity Ansell, and most sincerely trusted that he would get his fellowship. Otherwise what was the poor fellow to do? Ridiculous as it may seem, she was even jealous of Nature. One day her husband escaped from Ilfracombe to Morthoe, and came back ecstatic over its fangs of slate, piercing an oily sea. "Sounds like an hippopotamus," she said peevishly. And when they returned to Sawston through the Virgilian counties, she disliked him looking out of the windows, for all the world as if Nature was some dangerous woman.

He resumed his duties with a feeling that he had never left them. Again he confronted the assembled house. This term was again the term; school still the world in miniature. The music of the four-part fugue entered into him more deeply, and he began to hum its little phrases. The same routine, the same diplomacies, the same old sense of only half knowing boys or men—he returned to it all: and all that changed was the cloud of unreality, which ever brooded a little more densely than before. He spoke to his wife about this, he spoke to her about everything, and she was alarmed, and wanted him to see a doctor. But he explained that it was nothing of any practical importance, nothing that interfered with his work or his appetite, nothing more than a feeling that the cow was not really there. She laughed, and "how is the cow today?" soon passed into a domestic joke.; November 5, 2014 at 1:34 PM
Anonymous said...: Here's one for ya Jay:

I dated Jay Tavare 23 years ago and, if he was telling the truth, he was not an American citizen at that time because he wanted me to marry him and when I said no he married Kimberlee Rayburn. He also bashed my face in with a gun and I have recent text of him admitting this.

Morgan; November 5, 2014 at 1:35 PM
Anonymous said...: Ansell was in his favourite haunt—the reading-room of the British Museum. In that book-encircled space he always could find peace. He loved to see the volumes rising tier above tier into the misty dome. He loved the chairs that glide so noiselessly, and the radiating desks, and the central area, where the catalogue shelves curve, round the superintendent's throne. There he knew that his life was not ignoble. It was worth while to grow old and dusty seeking for truth though truth is unattainable, restating questions that have been stated at the beginning of the world. Failure would await him, but not disillusionment. It was worth while reading books, and writing a book or two which few would read, and no one, perhaps, endorse. He was not a hero, and he knew it. His father and sister, by their steady goodness, had made this life possible. But, all the same, it was not the life of a spoilt child.

In the next chair to him sat Widdrington, engaged in his historical research. His desk was edged with enormous volumes, and every few moments an assistant brought him more. They rose like a wall against Ansell. Towards the end of the morning a gap was made, and through it they held the following conversation.

"I've been stopping with my cousin at Sawston."

"M'm."

"It was quite exciting. The air rang with battle. About two-thirds of the masters have lost their heads, and are trying to produce a gimcrack copy of Eton. Last term, you know, with a great deal of puffing and blowing, they fixed the numbers of the school. This term they want to create a new boarding-house."

"They are very welcome."

"But the more boarding-houses they create, the less room they leave for day-boys. The local mothers are frantic, and so is my queer cousin. I never knew him so excited over sub-Hellenic things. There was an indignation meeting at his house. He is supposed to look after the day-boys' interests, but no one thought he would—least of all the people who gave him the post. The speeches were most eloquent. They argued that the school was founded for day-boys, and that it's intolerable to handicap them. One poor lady cried, 'Here's my Harold in the school, and my Toddie coming on. As likely as not I shall be told there is no vacancy for him. Then what am I to do? If I go, what's to become of Harold; and if I stop, what's to become of Toddie?' I must say I was touched. Family life is more real than national life—at least I've ordered all these books to prove it is—and I fancy that the bust of Euripides agreed with me, and was sorry for the hot-faced mothers. Jackson will do what he can. He didn't quite like to state the naked truth-which is, that boardinghouses pay. He explained it to me afterwards: they are the only, future open to a stupid master. It's easy enough to be a beak when you're young and athletic, and can offer the latest University smattering. The difficulty is to keep your place when you get old and stiff, and younger smatterers are pushing up behind you. Crawl into a boarding-house and you're safe. A master's life is frightfully tragic. Jackson's fairly right himself, because he has got a first-class intellect. But I met a poor brute who was hired as an athlete. He has missed his shot at a boarding-house, and there's nothing in the world for him to do but to trundle down the hill."; November 5, 2014 at 1:35 PM
Anonymous said...: Ansell yawned.

"I saw Rickie too. Once I dined there."

Another yawn.

"My cousin thinks Mrs. Elliot one of the most horrible women he has ever seen. He calls her 'Medusa in Arcady.' She's so pleasant, too. But certainly it was a very stony meal."

"What kind of stoniness"

"No one stopped talking for a moment."

"That's the real kind," said Ansell moodily. "The only kind."

"Well, I," he continued, "am inclined to compare her to an electric light. Click! she's on. Click! she's off. No waste. No flicker."

"I wish she'd fuse."

"She'll never fuse—unless anything was to happen at the main."

"What do you mean by the main?" said Ansell, who always pursued a metaphor relentlessly.

Widdrington did not know what he meant, and suggested that Ansell should visit Sawston to see whether one could know.

"It is no good me going. I should not find Mrs. Elliot: she has no real existence."

"Rickie has."

"I very much doubt it. I had two letters from Ilfracombe last April, and I very much doubt that the man who wrote them can exist." Bending downwards he began to adorn the manuscript of his dissertation with a square, and inside that a circle, and inside that another square. It was his second dissertation: the first had failed.

"I think he exists: he is so unhappy."

Ansell nodded. "How did you know he was unhappy?"

"Because he was always talking." After a pause he added, "What clever young men we are!"

"Aren't we? I expect we shall get asked in marriage soon. I say, Widdrington, shall we—?"

"Accept? Of course. It is not young manly to say no."

"I meant shall we ever do a more tremendous thing,—fuse Mrs. Elliot."

"No," said Widdrington promptly. "We shall never do that in all our lives." He added, "I think you might go down to Sawston, though."

"I have already refused or ignored three invitations."; November 5, 2014 at 1:36 PM
Anonymous said...: "So I gathered."

"What's the good of it?" said Ansell through his teeth. "I will not put up with little things. I would rather be rude than to listen to twaddle from a man I've known.

"You might go down to Sawston, just for a night, to see him."

"I saw him last month—at least, so Tilliard informs me. He says that we all three lunched together, that Rickie paid, and that the conversation was most interesting."

"Well, I contend that he does exist, and that if you go—oh, I can't be clever any longer. You really must go, man. I'm certain he's miserable and lonely. Dunwood House reeks of commerce and snobbery and all the things he hated most. He doesn't do anything. He doesn't make any friends. He is so odd, too. In this day-boy row that has just started he's gone for my cousin. Would you believe it? Quite spitefully. It made quite a difficulty when I wanted to dine. It isn't like him either the sentiments or the behaviour. I'm sure he's not himself. Pembroke used to look after the day-boys, and so he can't very well take the lead against them, and perhaps Rickie's doing his dirty work—and has overdone it, as decent people generally do. He's even altering to talk to. Yet he's not been married a year. Pembroke and that wife simply run him. I don't see why they should, and no more do you; and that's why I want you to go to Sawston, if only for one night."

Ansell shook his head, and looked up at the dome as other men look at the sky. In it the great arc lamps sputtered and flared, for the month was again November. Then he lowered his eyes from the cold violet radiance to the books.

"No, Widdrington; no. We don't go to see people because they are happy or unhappy. We go when we can talk to them. I cannot talk to Rickie, therefore I will not waste my time at Sawston."

"I think you're right," said Widdrington softly. "But we are bloodless brutes. I wonder whether-If we were different people—something might be done to save him. That is the curse of being a little intellectual. You and our sort have always seen too clearly. We stand aside—and meanwhile he turns into stone. Two philosophic youths repining in the British Museum! What have we done? What shall we ever do? Just drift and criticize, while people who know what they want snatch it away from us and laugh."

"Perhaps you are that sort. I'm not. When the moment comes I shall hit out like any ploughboy. Don't believe those lies about intellectual people. They're only written to soothe the majority. Do you suppose, with the world as it is, that it's an easy matter to keep quiet? Do you suppose that I didn't want to rescue him from that ghastly woman? Action! Nothing's easier than action; as fools testify. But I want to act rightly."

"The superintendent is looking at us. I must get back to my work."

"You think this all nonsense," said Ansell, detaining him. "Please remember that if I do act, you are bound to help me."; November 5, 2014 at 1:37 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay- keep acting a fool that you are and I'll post all your threatening emails and text messages I have from you admitting fucking my 16 yr old sister and trying to kill me! Go ahead keep posting shit. Make my day you fool.; November 5, 2014 at 1:37 PM
Anonymous said...: Widdrington looked a little grave. He was no anarchist. A few plaintive cries against Mrs. Elliot were all that he prepared to emit.

"There's no mystery," continued Ansell. "I haven't the shadow of a plan in my head. I know not only Rickie but the whole of his history: you remember the day near Madingley. Nothing in either helps me: I'm just watching."

"But what for?"

"For the Spirit of Life."

Widdrington was surprised. It was a phrase unknown to their philosophy. They had trespassed into poetry.

"You can't fight Medusa with anything else. If you ask me what the Spirit of Life is, or to what it is attached, I can't tell you. I only tell you, watch for it. Myself I've found it in books. Some people find it out of doors or in each other. Never mind. It's the same spirit, and I trust myself to know it anywhere, and to use it rightly."

But at this point the superintendent sent a message.

Widdrington then suggested a stroll in the galleries. It was foggy: they needed fresh air. He loved and admired his friend, but today he could not grasp him. The world as Ansell saw it seemed such a fantastic place, governed by brand-new laws. What more could one do than to see Rickie as often as possible, to invite his confidence, to offer him spiritual support? And Mrs. Elliot—what power could "fuse" a respectable woman?

Ansell consented to the stroll, but, as usual, only breathed depression. The comfort of books deserted him among those marble goddesses and gods. The eye of an artist finds pleasure in texture and poise, but he could only think of the vanished incense and deserted temples beside an unfurrowed sea.

"Let us go," he said. "I do not like carved stones."

"You are too particular," said Widdrington. "You are always expecting to meet living people. One never does. I am content with the Parthenon frieze." And he moved along a few yards of it, while Ansell followed, conscious only of its pathos.

"There's Tilliard," he observed. "Shall we kill him?"

"Please," said Widdrington, and as he spoke Tilliard joined them. He brought them news. That morning he had heard from Rickie: Mrs. Elliot was expecting a child.

"A child?" said Ansell, suddenly bewildered.

"Oh, I forgot," interposed Widdrington. "My cousin did tell me."

"You forgot! Well, after all, I forgot that it might be, We are indeed young men." He leant against the pedestal of Ilissus and remembered their talk about the Spirit of Life. In his ignorance of what a child means he wondered whether the opportunity he sought lay here.; November 5, 2014 at 1:38 PM
Anonymous said...: Here's one for ya Jay:

I dated Jay Tavare 23 years ago and, if he was telling the truth, he was not an American citizen at that time because he wanted me to marry him and when I said no he married Kimberlee Rayburn. He also bashed my face in with a gun and I have recent text of him admitting this.

Morgan; November 5, 2014 at 1:38 PM
Anonymous said...: "I am very glad," said Tilliard, not without intention. "A child will draw them even closer together. I like to see young people wrapped up in their child."

"I suppose I must be getting back to my dissertation," said Ansell. He left the Parthenon to pass by the monuments of our more reticent beliefs—the temple of the Ephesian Artemis, the statue of the Cnidian Demeter. Honest, he knew that here were powers he could not cope with, nor, as yet, understand.

The mists that had gathered round Rickie seemed to be breaking. He had found light neither in work for which he was unfitted nor in a woman who had ceased to respect him, and whom he was ceasing to love. Though he called himself fickle and took all the blame of their marriage on his own shoulders, there remained in Agnes certain terrible faults of heart and head, and no self-reproach would diminish them. The glamour of wedlock had faded; indeed, he saw now that it had faded even before wedlock, and that during the final months he had shut his eyes and pretended it was still there. But now the mists were breaking.

That November the supreme event approached. He saw it with Nature's eyes. It dawned on him, as on Ansell, that personal love and marriage only cover one side of the shield, and that on the other is graven the epic of birth. In the midst of lessons he would grow dreamy, as one who spies a new symbol for the universe, a fresh circle within the square. Within the square shall be a circle, within the circle another square, until the visual eye is baffled. Here is meaning of a kind. His mother had forgotten herself in him. He would forget himself in his son.

He was at his duties when the news arrived—taking preparation. Boys are marvellous creatures. Perhaps they will sink below the brutes; perhaps they will attain to a woman's tenderness. Though they despised Rickie, and had suffered under Agnes's meanness, their one thought this term was to be gentle and to give no trouble.

"Rickie—one moment—"

His face grew ashen. He followed Herbert into the passage, closing the door of the preparation room behind him. "Oh, is she safe?" he whispered.

"Yes, yes," said Herbert; but there sounded in his answer a sombre hostile note.; November 5, 2014 at 1:39 PM
Anonymous said...: Please post those text messages you mention Morgan; November 5, 2014 at 1:40 PM
Anonymous said...: "Our boy?"

"Girl—a girl, dear Rickie; a little daughter. She—she is in many ways a healthy child. She will live—oh yes." A flash of horror passed over his face. He hurried into the preparation room, lifted the lid of his desk, glanced mechanically at the boys, and came out again.

Mrs. Lewin appeared through the door that led into their own part of the house.

"Both going on well!" she cried; but her voice also was grave, exasperated.

"What is it?" he gasped. "It's something you daren't tell me."

"Only this"—stuttered Herbert. "You mustn't mind when you see—she's lame."

Mrs. Lewin disappeared. "Lame! but not as lame as I am?"

"Oh, my dear boy, worse. Don't—oh, be a man in this. Come away from the preparation room. Remember she'll live—in many ways healthy—only just this one defect."

The horror of that week never passed away from him. To the end of his life he remembered the excuses—the consolations that the child would live; suffered very little, if at all; would walk with crutches; would certainly live. God was more merciful. A window was opened too wide on a draughty day—after a short, painless illness his daughter died. But the lesson he had learnt so glibly at Cambridge should be heeded now; no child should ever be born to him again.

That same term there took place at Dunwood House another event. With their private tragedy it seemed to have no connection; but in time Rickie perceived it as a bitter comment. Its developments were unforeseen and lasting. It was perhaps the most terrible thing he had to bear.; November 5, 2014 at 1:40 PM
Anonymous said...: Varden had now been a boarder for ten months. His health had broken in the previous term,—partly, it is to be feared, as the result of the indifferent food—and during the summer holidays he was attacked by a series of agonizing earaches. His mother, a feeble person, wished to keep him at home, but Herbert dissuaded her. Soon after the death of the child there arose at Dunwood House one of those waves of hostility of which no boy knows the origin nor any master can calculate the course. Varden had never been popular—there was no reason why he should be—but he had never been seriously bullied hitherto. One evening nearly the whole house set on him. The prefects absented themselves, the bigger boys stood round and the lesser boys, to whom power was delegated, flung him down, and rubbed his face under the desks, and wrenched at his ears. The noise penetrated the baize doors, and Herbert swept through and punished the whole house, including Varden, whom it would not do to leave out. The poor man was horrified. He approved of a little healthy roughness, but this was pure brutalization. What had come over his boys? Were they not gentlemen's sons? He would not admit that if you herd together human beings before they can understand each other the great god Pan is angry, and will in the end evade your regulations and drive them mad. That night the victim was screaming with pain, and the doctor next day spoke of an operation. The suspense lasted a whole week. Comment was made in the local papers, and the reputation not only of the house but of the school was imperilled. "If only I had known," repeated Herbert—"if only I had known I would have arranged it all differently. He should have had a cubicle." The boy did not die, but he left Sawston, never to return.

The day before his departure Rickie sat with him some time, and tried to talk in a way that was not pedantic. In his own sorrow, which he could share with no one, least of all with his wife, he was still alive to the sorrows of others. He still fought against apathy, though he was losing the battle.

"Don't lose heart," he told him. "The world isn't all going to be like this. There are temptations and trials, of course, but nothing at all of the kind you have had here."

"But school is the world in miniature, is it not, sir?" asked the boy, hoping to please one master by echoing what had been told him by another. He was always on the lookout for sympathy—: it was one of the things that had contributed to his downfall.

"I never noticed that myself. I was unhappy at school, and in the world people can be very happy."

Varden sighed and rolled about his eyes. "Are the fellows sorry for what they did to me?" he asked in an affected voice. "I am sure I forgive them from the bottom of my heart. We ought to forgive our enemies, oughtn't we, sir?"

"But they aren't your enemies. If you meet in five years' time you may find each other splendid fellows."

The boy would not admit this. He had been reading some revivalistic literature. "We ought to forgive our enemies," he repeated; "and however wicked they are, we ought not to wish them evil. When I was ill, and death seemed nearest, I had many kind letters on this subject."; November 5, 2014 at 1:41 PM
Anonymous said...: Here's one for ya Jay:

I dated Jay Tavare 23 years ago and, if he was telling the truth, he was not an American citizen at that time because he wanted me to marry him and when I said no he married Kimberlee Rayburn. He also bashed my face in with a gun and I have recent text of him admitting this.

Morgan; November 5, 2014 at 1:41 PM
Anonymous said...: Here's one for ya Jay:

I dated Jay Tavare 23 years ago and, if he was telling the truth, he was not an American citizen at that time because he wanted me to marry him and when I said no he married Kimberlee Rayburn. He also bashed my face in with a gun and I have recent text of him admitting this.

Morgan; November 5, 2014 at 1:42 PM
Anonymous said...: Rickie knew about these "many kind letters." Varden had induced the silly nurse to write to people—people of all sorts, people that he scarcely knew or did not know at all—detailing his misfortune, and asking for spiritual aid and sympathy.

"I am sorry for them," he pursued. "I would not like to be like them."

Rickie sighed. He saw that a year at Dunwood House had produced a sanctimonious prig. "Don't think about them, Varden. Think about anything beautiful—say, music. You like music. Be happy. It's your duty. You can't be good until you've had a little happiness. Then perhaps you will think less about forgiving people and more about loving them."

"I love them already, sir." And Rickie, in desperation, asked if he might look at the many kind letters.

Permission was gladly given. A neat bundle was produced, and for about twenty minutes the master perused it, while the invalid kept watch on his face. Rooks cawed out in the playing-fields, and close under the window there was the sound of delightful, good-tempered laughter. A boy is no devil, whatever boys may be. The letters were chilly productions, somewhat clerical in tone, by whomsoever written. Varden, because he was ill at the time, had been taken seriously. The writers declared that his illness was fulfilling some mysterious purpose: suffering engendered spiritual growth: he was showing signs of this already. They consented to pray for him, some majestically, others shyly. But they all consented with one exception, who worded his refusal as follows:—

Dear A.C. Varden,—

I ought to say that I never remember seeing you. I am sorry that you are ill, and hope you are wrong about it. Why did you not write before, for I could have helped you then? When they pulled your ear, you ought to have gone like this (here was a rough sketch). I could not undertake praying, but would think of you instead, if that would do. I am twenty-two in April, built rather heavy, ordinary broad face, with eyes, etc. I write all this because you have mixed me with some one else, for I am not married, and do not want to be. I cannot think of you always, but will promise a quarter of an hour daily (say 7.00-7.15 A.M.), and might come to see you when you are better—that is, if you are a kid, and you read like one. I have been otter-hunting—

Yours sincerely,

Stephen Wonham; November 5, 2014 at 1:42 PM
Anonymous said...: Riekie went straight from Varden to his wife, who lay on the sofa in her bedroom. There was now a wide gulf between them. She, like the world she had created for him, was unreal.

"Agnes, darling," he began, stroking her hand, "such an awkward little thing has happened."

"What is it, dear? Just wait till I've added up this hook."

She had got over the tragedy: she got over everything.

When she was at leisure he told her. Hitherto they had seldom mentioned Stephen. He was classed among the unprofitable dead.

She was more sympathetic than he expected. "Dear Rickie," she murmured with averted eyes. "How tiresome for you."

"I wish that Varden had stopped with Mrs. Orr."

"Well, he leaves us for good tomorrow."

"Yes, yes. And I made him answer the letter and apologize. They had never met. It was some confusion with a man in the Church Army, living at a place called Codford. I asked the nurse. It is all explained."

"There the matter ends."

"I suppose so—if matters ever end."

"If, by ill-luck, the person does call. I will just see him and say that the boy has gone."

"You, or I. I have got over all nonsense by this time. He's absolutely nothing to me now." He took up the tradesman's book and played with it idly. On its crimson cover was stamped a grotesque sheep. How stale and stupid their life had become!

"Don't talk like that, though," she said uneasily. "Think how disastrous it would be if you made a slip in speaking to him."

"Would it? It would have been disastrous once. But I expect, as a matter of fact, that Aunt Emily has made the slip already."

His wife was displeased. "You need not talk in that cynical way. I credit Aunt Emily with better feeling. When I was there she did mention the matter, but only once. She, and I, and all who have any sense of decency, know better than to make slips, or to think of making them."; November 5, 2014 at 1:43 PM
Anonymous said...: Here's one for ya Jay:

I dated Jay Tavare 23 years ago and, if he was telling the truth, he was not an American citizen at that time because he wanted me to marry him and when I said no he married Kimberlee Rayburn. He also bashed my face in with a gun and I have recent text of him admitting this.

Morgan; November 5, 2014 at 1:44 PM
Anonymous said...: Agnes kept up what she called "the family connection." She had been once alone to Cadover, and also corresponded with Mrs. Failing. She had never told Rickie anything about her visit nor had he ever asked her. But, from this moment, the whole subject was reopened.

"Most certainly he knows nothing," she continued. "Why, he does not even realize that Varden lives in our house! We are perfectly safe—unless Aunt Emily were to die. Perhaps then—but we are perfectly safe for the present."

"When she did mention the matter, what did she say?"

"We had a long talk," said Agnes quietly. "She told me nothing new—nothing new about the past, I mean. But we had a long talk about the present. I think" and her voice grew displeased again—"that you have been both wrong and foolish in refusing to make up your quarrel with Aunt Emily."

"Wrong and wise, I should say."

"It isn't to be expected that she—so much older and so sensitive—can make the first step. But I know she'd he glad to see you."

"As far as I can remember that final scene in the garden, I accused her of 'forgetting what other people were like.' She'll never pardon me for saying that."

Agnes was silent. To her the phrase was meaningless. Yet Rickie was correct: Mrs. Failing had resented it more than anything.

"At all events," she suggested, "you might go and see her."

"No, dear. Thank you, no."

"She is, after all—" She was going to say "your father's sister," but the expression was scarcely a happy one, and she turned it into, "She is, after all, growing old and lonely."

"So are we all!" he cried, with a lapse of tone that was now characteristic in him.

"She oughtn't to be so isolated from her proper relatives."

There was a moment's silence. Still playing with the book, he remarked, "You forget, she's got her favourite nephew."

A bright red flush spread over her cheeks. "What is the matter with you this afternoon?" she asked. "I should think you'd better go for a walk."

"Before I go, tell me what is the matter with you." He also flushed. "Why do you want me to make it up with my aunt?"

"Because it's right and proper."

"So? Or because she is old?"

"I don't understand," she retorted. But her eyes dropped. His sudden suspicion was true: she was legacy hunting.; November 5, 2014 at 1:44 PM
Anonymous said...: "Agnes, dear Agnes," he began with passing tenderness, "how can you think of such things? You behave like a poor person. We don't want any money from Aunt Emily, or from any one else. It isn't virtue that makes me say it: we are not tempted in that way: we have as much as we want already."

"For the present," she answered, still looking aside.

"There isn't any future," he cried in a gust of despair.

"Rickie, what do you mean?"

What did he mean? He meant that the relations between them were fixed—that there would never be an influx of interest, nor even of passion. To the end of life they would go on beating time, and this was enough for her. She was content with the daily round, the common task, performed indifferently. But he had dreamt of another helpmate, and of other things.

"We don't want money—why, we don't even spend any on travelling. I've invested all my salary and more. As far as human foresight goes, we shall never want money." And his thoughts went out to the tiny grave. "You spoke of 'right and proper,' but the right and proper thing for my aunt to do is to leave every penny she's got to Stephen."

Her lip quivered, and for one moment he thought that she was going to cry. "What am I to do with you?" she said. "You talk like a person in poetry."

"I'll put it in prose. He's lived with her for twenty years, and he ought to be paid for it."

Poor Agnes! Indeed, what was she to do? The first moment she set foot in Cadover she had thought, "Oh, here is money. We must try and get it." Being a lady, she never mentioned the thought to her husband, but she concluded that it would occur to him too. And now, though it had occurred to him at last, he would not even write his aunt a little note.

He was to try her yet further. While they argued this point he flashed out with, "I ought to have told him that day when he called up to our room. There's where I went wrong first."

"Rickie!"

"In those days I was sentimental. I minded. For two pins I'd write to him this afternoon. Why shouldn't he know he's my brother? What's all this ridiculous mystery?"

She became incoherent.

"But WHY not? A reason why he shouldn't know."

"A reason why he SHOULD know," she retorted. "I never heard such rubbish! Give me a reason why he should know."

"Because the lie we acted has ruined our lives."

She looked in bewilderment at the well-appointed room.; November 5, 2014 at 1:45 PM
Anonymous said...: "It's been like a poison we won't acknowledge. How many times have you thought of my brother? I've thought of him every day—not in love; don't misunderstand; only as a medicine I shirked. Down in what they call the subconscious self he has been hurting me." His voice broke. "Oh, my darling, we acted a lie then, and this letter reminds us of it and gives us one more chance. I have to say 'we' lied. I should be lying again if I took quite all the blame. Let us ask God's forgiveness together. Then let us write, as coldly as you please, to Stephen, and tell him he is my father's son."

Her reply need not be quoted. It was the last time he attempted intimacy. And the remainder of their conversation, though long and stormy, is also best forgotten.

Thus the first effect of Varden's letter was to make them quarrel. They had not openly disagreed before. In the evening he kissed her and said, "How absurd I was to get angry about things that happened last year. I will certainly not write to the person." She returned the kiss. But he knew that they had destroyed the habit of reverence, and would quarrel again. On his rounds he looked in at Varden and asked nonchalantly for the letter. He carried it off to his room. It was unwise of him, for his nerves were already unstrung, and the man he had tried to bury was stirring ominously. In the silence he examined the handwriting till he felt that a living creature was with him, whereas he, because his child had died, was dead. He perceived more clearly the cruelty of Nature, to whom our refinement and piety are but as bubbles, hurrying downwards on the turbid waters. They break, and the stream continues. His father, as a final insult, had brought into the world a man unlike all the rest of them, a man dowered with coarse kindliness and rustic strength, a kind of cynical ploughboy, against whom their own misery and weakness might stand more vividly relieved. "Born an Elliot—born a gentleman." So the vile phrase ran. But here was an Elliot whose badness was not even gentlemanly. For that Stephen was bad inherently he never doubted for a moment and he would have children: he, not Rickie, would contribute to the stream; he, through his remote posterity, might mingled with the unknown sea.

Thus musing he lay down to sleep, feeling diseased in body and soul. It was no wonder that the night was the most terrible he had ever known. He revisited Cambridge, and his name was a grey ghost over the door. Then there recurred the voice of a gentle shadowy woman, Mrs. Aberdeen, "It doesn't seem hardly right." Those had been her words, her only complaint against the mysteries of change and death. She bowed her head and laboured to make her "gentlemen" comfortable. She was labouring still. As he lay in bed he asked God to grant him her wisdom; that he might keep sorrow within due bounds; that he might abstain from extreme hatred and envy of Stephen. It was seldom that he prayed so definitely, or ventured to obtrude his private wishes. Religion was to him a service, a mystic communion with good; not a means of getting what he wanted on the earth. But tonight, through suffering, he was humbled, and became like Mrs. Aberdeen. Hour after hour he awaited sleep and tried to endure the faces that frothed in the gloom—his aunt's, his father's, and, worst of all, the triumphant face of his brother. Once he struck at it, and awoke, having hurt his hand on the wall. Then he prayed hysterically for pardon and rest.; November 5, 2014 at 1:45 PM
Anonymous said...: Wake up people! Jay is a fucking crimcreep! He ain't no fucking ass celebrity -just a old ass fucker, still using those same corny ass pics of himself looking like a dollar store male stripper.His spandex wearing, roll of quarters in the front of his crotch days are almost over. He should be making commercials for adult diapers now instead of skipping around trying to be in movies with his head stuck up somebodies ass.Mannnn, give it up, you have a much better chance of finding a leprechaun in your shoe then being a star!, You had your chance and blew it, because you were too busy sticking your worm into anything that smells like fish! To Tuli, girl don't be afraid to live, Don't let this bastard steal your joy!To the other women messed over by him, people hear you! Don't get discouraged by the few skanks who do his bidding. They need to feel needed even if they know he's using them. Ugly women. need love too! To the one who came on here to defend her master -talking about how Jay takes her out to eat I know that's a fucking lie! Jay wouldn't give you eye water to cry with if you needed it! He's a cheap motherfucker, calculating how many pennies he has left to buy that cockeyed dog of his food! The only place Jay can take you out to eat is to the garbage dumpster behind his apartment building. And to Jay, grow some fucking balls and accept age,my man. You will never rate the hunk scale again ,looking like an Iranian Michael Myers .No wonder you only come out after dark.; November 5, 2014 at 1:48 PM
Anonymous said...: Yet again did he awake, and from a more mysterious dream. He heard his mother crying. She was crying quite distinctly in the darkened room. He whispered, "Never mind, my darling, never mind," and a voice echoed, "Never mind—come away—let them die out—let them die out." He lit a candle, and the room was empty. Then, hurrying to the window, he saw above mean houses the frosty glories of Orion.

Henceforward he deteriorates. Let those who censure him suggest what he should do. He has lost the work that he loved, his friends, and his child. He remained conscientious and decent, but the spiritual part of him proceeded towards ruin.

The coming months, though full of degradation and anxiety, were to bring him nothing so terrible as that night. It was the crisis of this agony. He was an outcast and a failure. But he was not again forced to contemplate these facts so clearly. Varden left in the morning, carrying the fatal letter with him. The whole house was relieved. The good angel was with the boys again, or else (as Herbert preferred to think) they had learnt a lesson, and were more humane in consequence. At all events, the disastrous term concluded quietly.

In the Christmas holidays the two masters made an abortive attempt to visit Italy, and at Easter there was talk of a cruise in the Aegean. Herbert actually went, and enjoyed Athens and Delphi. The Elliots paid a few visits together in England. They returned to Sawston about ten days before school opened, to find that Widdrington was again stopping with the Jacksons. Intercourse was painful, for the two families were scarcely on speaking terms; nor did the triumphant scaffoldings of the new boarding-house make things easier. (The party of progress had carried the day.) Widdrington was by nature touchy, but on this occasion he refused to take offence, and often dropped in to see them. His manner was friendly but critical. They agreed he was a nuisance. Then Agnes left, very abruptly, to see Mrs. Failing, and while she was away Rickie had a little stealthy intercourse.; November 5, 2014 at 1:49 PM
Anonymous said...: Here's one for ya Jay:

I dated Jay Tavare 23 years ago and, if he was telling the truth, he was not an American citizen at that time because he wanted me to marry him and when I said no he married Kimberlee Rayburn. He also bashed my face in with a gun and I have recent text of him admitting this.

Morgan; November 5, 2014 at 1:49 PM
Anonymous said...: Her absence, convenient as it was, puzzled him. Mrs. Silt, half goose, half stormy-petrel, had recently paid a flying visit to Cadover, and thence had flown, without an invitation, to Sawston. Generally she was not a welcome guest. On this occasion Agnes had welcomed her, and—so Rickie thought—had made her promise not to tell him something that she knew. The ladies had talked mysteriously. "Mr. Silt would be one with you there," said Mrs. Silt. Could there be any connection between the two visits?

Agnes's letters told him nothing: they never did. She was too clumsy or too cautious to express herself on paper. A drive to Stonehenge; an anthem in the Cathedral; Aunt Emily's love. And when he met her at Waterloo he learnt nothing (if there was anything to learn) from her face.

"How did you enjoy yourself?"

"Thoroughly."

"Were you and she alone?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes other people."

"Will Uncle Tony's Essays be published?"

Here she was more communicative. The book was at last in proof. Aunt Emily had written a charming introduction; but she was so idle, she never finished things off.

They got into an omnibus for the Army and Navy Stores: she wanted to do some shopping before going down to Sawston.

"Did you read any of the Essays?"

"Every one. Delightful. Couldn't put them down. Now and then he spoilt them by statistics—but you should read his descriptions of Nature. He agrees with you: says the hills and trees are alive! Aunt Emily called you his spiritual heir, which I thought nice of her. We both so lamented that you have stopped writing." She quoted fragments of the Essays as they went up in the Stores' lift.

"What else did you talk about?"

"I've told you all my news. Now for yours. Let's have tea first."

They sat down in the corridor amid ladies in every stage of fatigue—haggard ladies, scarlet ladies, ladies with parcels that twisted from every finger like joints of meat. Gentlemen were scarcer, but all were of the sub-fashionable type, to which Rickie himself now belonged.

"I haven't done anything," he said feebly. "Ate, read, been rude to tradespeople, talked to Widdrington. Herbert arrived this morning. He has brought a most beautiful photograph of the Parthenon."; November 5, 2014 at 1:50 PM
Anonymous said...: Wake up people! Jay is a fucking crimcreep! He ain't no fucking ass celebrity -just a old ass fucker, still using those same corny ass pics of himself looking like a dollar store male stripper.His spandex wearing, roll of quarters in the front of his crotch days are almost over. He should be making commercials for adult diapers now instead of skipping around trying to be in movies with his head stuck up somebodies ass.Mannnn, give it up, you have a much better chance of finding a leprechaun in your shoe then being a star!, You had your chance and blew it, because you were too busy sticking your worm into anything that smells like fish! To Tuli, girl don't be afraid to live, Don't let this bastard steal your joy!To the other women messed over by him, people hear you! Don't get discouraged by the few skanks who do his bidding. They need to feel needed even if they know he's using them. Ugly women. need love too! To the one who came on here to defend her master -talking about how Jay takes her out to eat I know that's a fucking lie! Jay wouldn't give you eye water to cry with if you needed it! He's a cheap motherfucker, calculating how many pennies he has left to buy that cockeyed dog of his food! The only place Jay can take you out to eat is to the garbage dumpster behind his apartment building. And to Jay, grow some fucking balls and accept age,my man. You will never rate the hunk scale again ,looking like an Iranian Michael Myers .No wonder you only come out after dark.; November 5, 2014 at 1:51 PM
Anonymous said...: "Mr. Widdrington?"

"Yes."

"What did you talk about?"

She might have heard every word. It was only the feeling of pleasure that he wished to conceal. Even when we love people, we desire to keep some corner secret from them, however small: it is a human right: it is personality. She began to cross-question him, but they were interrupted. A young lady at an adjacent table suddenly rose and cried, "Yes, it is you. I thought so from your walk." It was Maud Ansell.

"Oh, do come and join us!" he cried. "Let me introduce my wife." Maud bowed quite stiffly, but Agnes, taking it for ill-breeding, was not offended.

"Then I will come!" she continued in shrill, pleasant tones, adroitly poising her tea things on either hand, and transferring them to the Elliots' table. "Why haven't you ever come to us, pray?"

"I think you didn't ask me!"

"You weren't to be asked." She sprawled forward with a wagging finger. But her eyes had the honesty of her brother's. "Don't you remember the day you left us? Father said, 'Now, Mr. Elliot—' Or did he call you 'Elliot'? How one does forget. Anyhow, father said you weren't to wait for an invitation, and you said, 'No, I won't.' Ours is a fair-sized house,"—she turned somewhat haughtily to Agnes,—"and the second spare room, on account of a harp that hangs on the wall, is always reserved for Stewart's friends."

"How is Mr. Ansell, your brother?" Maud's face fell. "Hadn't you heard?" she said in awe-struck tones.

"No."

"He hasn't got his fellowship. It's the second time he's failed. That means he will never get one. He will never be a don, nor live in Cambridge and that, as we had hoped."

"Oh, poor, poor fellow!" said Mrs. Elliot with a remorse that was sincere, though her congratulations would not have been. "I am so very sorry."

But Maud turned to Rickie. "Mr. Elliot, you might know. Tell me. What is wrong with Stewart's philosophy? What ought he to put in, or to alter, so as to succeed?"

Agnes, who knew better than this, smiled.

"I don't know," said Rickie sadly. They were none of them so clever, after all.

"Hegel," she continued vindictively. "They say he's read too much Hegel. But they never tell him what to read instead. Their own stuffy books, I suppose. Look here—no, that's the 'Windsor.'" After a little groping she produced a copy of "Mind," and handed it round as if it was a geological specimen. "Inside that there's a paragraph written about something Stewart's written about before, and there it says he's read too much Hegel, and it seems now that that's been the trouble all along." Her voice trembled. "I call it most unfair, and the fellowship's gone to a man who has counted the petals on an anemone."; November 5, 2014 at 1:51 PM
Anonymous said...: DAYUUM SISTER YOU GOT MY VOTE. TELL IT!; November 5, 2014 at 1:51 PM
Anonymous said...: Rickie had no inclination to smile.

"I wish Stewart had tried Oxford instead."

"I don't wish it!"

"You say that," she continued hotly, "and then you never come to see him, though you knew you were not to wait for an invitation."

"If it comes to that, Miss Ansell," retorted Rickie, in the laughing tones that one adopts on such occasions, "Stewart won't come to me, though he has had an invitation."

"Yes," chimed in Agnes, "we ask Mr. Ansell again and again, and he will have none of us."

Maud looked at her with a flashing eye. "My brother is a very peculiar person, and we ladies can't understand him. But I know one thing, and that's that he has a reason all round for what he does. Look here, I must be getting on. Waiter! Wai-ai-aiter! Bill, please. Separately, of course. Call the Army and Navy cheap! I know better!"

"How does the drapery department compare?" said Agnes sweetly.

The girl gave a sharp choking sound, gathered up her parcels, and left them. Rickie was too much disgusted with his wife to speak.

"Appalling person!" she gasped. "It was naughty of me, but I couldn't help it. What a dreadful fate for a clever man! To fail in life completely, and then to be thrown back on a family like that!"

"Maud is a snob and a Philistine. But, in her case, something emerges."

She glanced at him, but proceeded in her suavest tones, "Do let us make one great united attempt to get Mr. Ansell to Sawston."

"No."

"What a changeable friend you are! When we were engaged you were always talking about him."

"Would you finish your tea, and then we will buy the linoleum for the cubicles."

But she returned to the subject again, not only on that day but throughout the term. Could nothing be done for poor Mr. Ansell? It seemed that she could not rest until all that he had once held dear was humiliated. In this she strayed outside her nature: she was unpractical. And those who stray outside their nature invite disaster. Rickie, goaded by her, wrote to his friend again. The letter was in all ways unlike his old self. Ansell did not answer it. But he did write to Mr. Jackson, with whom he was not acquainted.; November 5, 2014 at 1:52 PM
Anonymous said...: EVERYONE- Keep reposting all Jay Tavare's truth. He's trying to cover it up with random literature but it ain't working lol; November 5, 2014 at 1:53 PM
Anonymous said...: "Dear Mr. Jackson,—

"I understand from Widdrington that you have a large house. I would like to tell you how convenient it would be for me to come and stop in it. June suits me best.—

"Yours truly,

"Stewart Ansell"

To which Mr. Jackson replied that not only in June but during the whole year his house was at the disposal of Mr. Ansell and of any one who resembled him.

But Agnes continued her life, cheerfully beating time. She, too, knew that her marriage was a failure, and in her spare moments regretted it. She wished that her husband was handsomer, more successful, more dictatorial. But she would think, "No, no; one mustn't grumble. It can't be helped." Ansell was wrong in sup-posing she might ever leave Rickie. Spiritual apathy prevented her. Nor would she ever be tempted by a jollier man. Here criticism would willingly alter its tone. For Agnes also has her tragedy. She belonged to the type—not necessarily an elevated one—that loves once and once only. Her love for Gerald had not been a noble passion: no imagination transfigured it. But such as it was, it sprang to embrace him, and he carried it away with him when he died. Les amours gui suivrent sont moins involuntaires: by an effort of the will she had warmed herself for Rickie.

She is not conscious of her tragedy, and therefore only the gods need weep at it. But it is fair to remember that hitherto she moves as one from whom the inner life has been withdrawn.; November 5, 2014 at 1:53 PM
Anonymous said...: "I am afraid," said Agnes, unfolding a letter that she had received in the morning, "that things go far from satisfactorily at Cadover."

The three were alone at supper. It was the June of Rickie's second year at Sawston.

"Indeed?" said Herbert, who took a friendly interest. "In what way?

"Do you remember us talking of Stephen—Stephen Wonham, who by an odd coincidence—"

"Yes. Who wrote last year to that miserable failure Varden. I do."

"It is about him."

"I did not like the tone of his letter."

Agnes had made her first move. She waited for her husband to reply to it. But he, though full of a painful curiosity, would not speak. She moved again.

"I don't think, Herbert, that Aunt Emily, much as I like her, is the kind of person to bring a young man up. At all events the results have been disastrous this time."

"What has happened?"

"A tangle of things." She lowered her voice. "Drink."

"Dear! Really! Was Mrs. Failing fond of him?"

"She used to be. She let him live at Cadover ever since he was a little boy. Naturally that cannot continue."

Rickie never spoke.

"And now he has taken to be violent and rude," she went on.

"In short, a beggar on horseback. Who is he? Has he got relatives?"

"She has always been both father and mother to him. Now it must all come to an end. I blame her—and she blames herself—for not being severe enough. He has grown up without fixed principles. He has always followed his inclinations, and one knows the result of that."

Herbert assented. "To me Mrs. Failing's course is perfectly plain. She has a certain responsibility. She must pay the youth's passage to one of the colonies, start him handsomely in some business, and then break off all communications."

"How funny! It is exactly what she is going to do."

"I shall then consider that she has behaved in a thoroughly honourable manner." He held out his plate for gooseberries. "His letter to Varden was neither helpful nor sympathetic, and, if written at all, it ought to have been both. I am not in the least surprised to learn that he has turned out badly. When you write next, would you tell her how sorry I am?"

"Indeed I will. Two years ago, when she was already a little anxious, she did so wish you could undertake him.; November 5, 2014 at 1:54 PM
Anonymous said...: Great idea- repost all the post from the beginning of this. Keep exposing the truth about Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani aka Victoria Martinez or who ever the fuck bin laden is lol; November 5, 2014 at 1:54 PM
Anonymous said...: WHOEVER You are above, with the sixteen year old sister GO TO THE POLICE. EVERYONE ON HERE WILL BE YOUR WITNESS OF HIS CHARACTER.; November 5, 2014 at 1:54 PM
Anonymous said...: "I could not alter a grown man." But in his heart he thought he could, and smiled at his sister amiably. "Terrible, isn't it?" he remarked to Rickie. Rickie, who was trying not to mind anything, assented. And an onlooker would have supposed them a dispassionate trio, who were sorry both for Mrs. Failing and for the beggar who would bestride her horses' backs no longer. A new topic was introduced by the arrival of the evening post.

Herbert took up all the letters, as he often did.

"Jackson?" he exclaimed. "What does the fellow want?" He read, and his tone was mollified, "'Dear Mr. Pembroke,—Could you, Mrs. Elliot, and Mr. Elliot come to supper with us on Saturday next? I should not merely be pleased, I should be grateful. My wife is writing formally to Mrs. Elliot'—(Here, Agnes, take your letter),—but I venture to write as well, and to add my more uncouth entreaties.'—An olive-branch. It is time! But (ridiculous person!) does he think that we can leave the House deserted and all go out pleasuring in term time?—Rickie, a letter for you."

"Mine's the formal invitation," said Agnes. "How very odd! Mr. Ansell will be there. Surely we asked him here! Did you know he knew the Jacksons?"

"This makes refusal very difficult," said Herbert, who was anxious to accept. "At all events, Rickie ought to go."

"I do not want to go," said Rickie, slowly opening his own letter. "As Agnes says, Ansell has refused to come to us. I cannot put myself out for him."

"Who's yours from?" she demanded.

"Mrs. Silt," replied Herbert, who had seen the handwriting. "I trust she does not want to pay us a visit this term, with the examinations impending and all the machinery at full pressure. Though, Rickie, you will have to accept the Jacksons' invitation."

"I cannot possibly go. I have been too rude; with Widdrington we always meet here. I'll stop with the boys—" His voice caught suddenly. He had opened Mrs. Silt's letter.

"The Silts are not ill, I hope?"

"No. But, I say,"—he looked at his wife,—"I do think this is going too far. Really, Agnes."

"What has happened?"

"It is going too far," he repeated. He was nerving himself for another battle. "I cannot stand this sort of thing. There are limits."

He laid the letter down. It was Herbert who picked it up, and read: "Aunt Emily has just written to us. We are so glad that her troubles are over, in spite of the expense. It never does to live apart from one's own relatives so much as she has done up to now. He goes next Saturday to Canada. What you told her about him just turned the scale. She has asked us—"

"No, it's too much," he interrupted. "What I told her—told her about him—no, I will have it out at last. Agnes!"; November 5, 2014 at 1:55 PM
Anonymous said...: keep it comin Jayjay...we got alllll day bhahahha; November 5, 2014 at 1:55 PM
Anonymous said...: "Yes?" said his wife, raising her eyes from Mrs. Jackson's formal invitation.

"It's you—it's you. I never mentioned him to her. Why, I've never seen her or written to her since. I accuse you."

Then Herbert overbore him, and he collapsed. He was asked what he meant. Why was he so excited? Of what did he accuse his wife. Each time he spoke more feebly, and before long the brother and sister were laughing at him. He felt bewildered, like a boy who knows that he is right but cannot put his case correctly. He repeated, "I've never mentioned him to her. It's a libel. Never in my life." And they cried, "My dear Rickie, what an absurd fuss!" Then his brain cleared. His eye fell on the letter that his wife had received from his aunt, and he reopened the battle.

"Agnes, give me that letter, if you please."

"Mrs. Jackson's?"

"My aunt's."

She put her hand on it, and looked at him doubtfully. She saw that she had failed to bully him.

"My aunt's letter," he repeated, rising to his feet and bending over the table towards her.

"Why, dear?"

"Yes, why indeed?" echoed Herbert. He too had bullied Rickie, but from a purer motive: he had tried to stamp out a dissension between husband and wife. It was not the first time he had intervened.

"The letter. For this reason: it will show me what you have done. I believe you have ruined Stephen. You have worked at it for two years. You have put words into my mouth to 'turn the scale' against him. He goes to Canada—and all the world thinks it is owing to me. As I said before—I advise you to stop smiling—you have gone a little too far."

They were all on their feet now, standing round the little table. Agnes said nothing, but the fingers of her delicate hand tightened upon the letter. When her husband snatched at it she resisted, and with the effect of a harlequinade everything went on the floor—lamb, mint sauce, gooseberries, lemonade, whisky. At once they were swamped in domesticities. She rang the bell for the servant, cries arose, dusters were brought, broken crockery (a wedding present) picked up from the carpet; while he stood wrathfully at the window, regarding the obscured sun's decline.

"I MUST see her letter," he repeated, when the agitation was over. He was too angry to be diverted from his purpose. Only slight emotions are thwarted by an interlude of farce.

"I've had enough of this quarrelling," she retorted. "You know that the Silts are inaccurate. I think you might have given me the benefit of the doubt. If you will know—have you forgotten that ride you took with him?"; November 5, 2014 at 1:55 PM
Anonymous said...: Jays running scared ha!; November 5, 2014 at 1:57 PM
Anonymous said...: "I—" he was again bewildered. "The ride where I dreamt—"

"The ride where you turned back because you could not listen to a disgraceful poem?"

"I don't understand."

"The poem was Aunt Emily. He read it to you and a stray soldier. Afterwards you told me. You said, 'Really it is shocking, his ingratitude. She ought to know about it' She does know, and I should be glad of an apology."

He had said something of the sort in a fit of irritation. Mrs. Silt was right—he had helped to turn the scale.

"Whatever I said, you knew what I meant. You knew I'd sooner cut my tongue out than have it used against him. Even then." He sighed. Had he ruined his brother? A curious tenderness came over him, and passed when he remembered his own dead child. "We have ruined him, then. Have you any objection to 'we'? We have disinherited him."

"I decide against you," interposed Herbert. "I have now heard both sides of this deplorable affair. You are talking most criminal nonsense. 'Disinherit!' Sentimental twaddle. It's been clear to me from the first that Mrs. Failing has been imposed upon by the Wonham man, a person with no legal claim on her, and any one who exposes him performs a public duty—"

"—And gets money."

"Money?" He was always uneasy at the word. "Who mentioned money?"

"Just understand me, Herbert, and of what it is that I accuse my wife." Tears came into his eyes. "It is not that I like the Wonham man, or think that he isn't a drunkard and worse. He's too awful in every way. But he ought to have my aunt's money, because he's lived all his life with her, and is her nephew as much as I am. You see, my father went wrong." He stopped, amazed at himself. How easy it had been to say! He was withering up: the power to care about this stupid secret had died.

When Herbert understood, his first thought was for Dunwood House.

"Why have I never been told?" was his first remark.

"We settled to tell no one," said Agnes. "Rickie, in his anxiety to prove me a liar, has broken his promise."

"I ought to have been told," said Herbert, his anger increasing. "Had I known, I could have averted this deplorable scene."

"Let me conclude it," said Rickie, again collapsing and leaving the dining-room. His impulse was to go straight to Cadover and make a business-like statement of the position to Stephen. Then the man would be armed, and perhaps fight the two women successfully, But he resisted the impulse. Why should he help one power of evil against another? Let them go intertwined to destruction. To enrich his brother would be as bad as enriching himself. If their aunt's money ever did come to him, he would refuse to accept it. That was the easiest and most dignified course. He troubled himself no longer with justice or pity, and the next day he asked his wife's pardon for his behaviour.; November 5, 2014 at 1:59 PM
Anonymous said...: ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT GOING ONLINE TO WWW.LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG and PAYING $4.75 TO DO A PARTY SEARCH BY NAME TO PULL UP HIS COURT RECORDS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE, RESTRAINING ORDERS, LAWSUITS and CIVIL HARRASSMENT

ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT CALLING THE LAPD HOLLYWOOD DIVISION TO VERIFY HIS BACKGROUND AND ASK THEM HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT AND WHY.

RUN A THOROUGH BACKGROUND CHECK AND YOU CAN VERIFY THE FOLLOWING

IF YOUR BROTHER, SISTER, NEW BOYFRIEND or NEW GIRLFRIEND WERE LIKE JAY, WOULD YOU TURN YOUR HEAD AND LAUGH ABOUT IT?

ALL THE THINGS ON THIS BLOG ARE TRUE, JAY TELLS EVERYTHING WHEN HE IS HIGH ON DRUGS AND TALKS ABOUT EVERYONE. HE IS A CLINICAL PSYCHOPATH. LOOKUP THE DEFINITION AND IF YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU READ HE GETS A CHECKMARK ON EVERY SINGLE ITEM.

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 1:59 PM
Anonymous said...: In the dining-room the conversation continued. Agnes, without much difficulty, gained her brother as an ally. She acknowledged that she had been wrong in not telling him, and he then declared that she had been right on every other point. She slurred a little over the incident of her treachery, for Herbert was sometimes clearsighted over details, though easily muddled in a general survey. Mrs. Failing had had plenty of direct causes of complaint, and she dwelt on these. She dealt, too, on the very handsome way in which the young man, "though he knew nothing, had never asked to know," was being treated by his aunt.

"'Handsome' is the word," said Herbert. "I hope not indulgently. He does not deserve indulgence."

And she knew that he, like herself, could remember money, and that it lent an acknowledged halo to her cause.

"It is not a savoury subject," he continued, with sudden stiffness. "I understand why Rickie is so hysterical. My impulse"—he laid his hand on her shoulder—"is to abandon it at once. But if I am to be of any use to you, I must hear it all. There are moments when we must look facts in the face."

She did not shrink from the subject as much as he thought, as much as she herself could have wished. Two years before, it had filled her with a physical loathing. But by now she had accustomed herself to it.

"I am afraid, Bertie boy, there is nothing else to bear, I have tried to find out again and again, but Aunt Emily will not tell me. I suppose it is natural. She wants to shield the Elliot name. She only told us in a fit of temper; then we all agreed to keep it to ourselves; then Rickie again mismanaged her, and ever since she has refused to let us know any details."

"A most unsatisfactory position." "So I feel." She sat down again with a sigh. Mrs. Failing had been a great trial to her orderly mind. "She is an odd woman. She is always laughing. She actually finds it amusing that we know no more."

"They are an odd family."

"They are indeed."

Herbert, with unusual sweetness, bent down and kissed her.

She thanked him.

Their tenderness soon passed. They exchanged it with averted eyes. It embarrassed them. There are moments for all of us when we seem obliged to speak in a new unprofitable tongue. One might fancy a seraph, vexed with our normal language, who touches the pious to blasphemy, the blasphemous to piety. The seraph passes, and we proceed unaltered—conscious, however, that we have not been ourselves, and that we may fail in this function yet again. So Agnes and Herbert, as they proceeded to discuss the Jackson's supper-party, had an uneasy memory of spiritual deserts, spiritual streams.; November 5, 2014 at 1:59 PM
Anonymous said...: Does anyone have a copy of this frauds driver license or passport. My friend is an investigator and is able to get more info on Richard I mean Jay or is it Nadar??; November 5, 2014 at 2:00 PM
Anonymous said...: SUSAN Please post on FACEBOOK , PLEASE GET OTHER BLOGS TO POST AND ROSE; November 5, 2014 at 2:00 PM
Anonymous said...: Poor Mr. Ansell was actually sitting in the garden of Dunwood House. It was Sunday morning. The air was full of roasting beef. The sound of a manly hymn, taken very fast, floated over the road from the school chapel. He frowned, for he was reading a book, the Essays of Anthony Eustace Failing.

He was here on account of this book—at least so he told himself. It had just been published, and the Jacksons were sure that Mr. Elliot would have a copy. For a book one may go anywhere. It would not have been logical to enter Dunwood House for the purpose of seeing Rickie, when Rickie had not come to supper yesterday to see him. He was at Sawston to assure himself of his friend's grave. With quiet eyes he had intended to view the sods, with unfaltering fingers to inscribe the epitaph. Love remained. But in high matters he was practical. He knew that it would be useless to reveal it.

"Morning!" said a voice behind him.

He saw no reason to reply to this superfluous statement, and went on with his reading.

"Morning!" said the voice again.

As for the Essays, the thought was somewhat old-fashioned, and he picked many holes in it; nor was he anything but bored by the prospect of the brotherhood of man. However, Mr. Failing stuck to his guns, such as they were, and fired from them several good remarks. Very notable was his distinction between coarseness and vulgarity (coarseness, revealing something; vulgarity, concealing something), and his avowed preference for coarseness. Vulgarity, to him, had been the primal curse, the shoddy reticence that prevents man opening his heart to man, the power that makes against equality. From it sprang all the things that he hated—class shibboleths, ladies, lidies, the game laws, the Conservative party—all the things that accent the divergencies rather than the similarities in human nature. Whereas coarseness—But at this point Herbert Pembroke had scrawled with a blue pencil: "Childish. One reads no further."

"Morning!" repeated the voice.

Ansell read further, for here was the book of a man who had tried, however unsuccessfully, to practice what he preached. Mrs. Failing, in her Introduction, described with delicate irony his difficulties as a landlord; but she did not record the love in which his name was held. Nor could her irony touch him when he cried: "Attain the practical through the unpractical. There is no other road." Ansell was inclined to think that the unpractical is its own reward, but he respected those who attempted to journey beyond it. We must all of us go over the mountains. There is certainly no other road.

"Nice morning!" said the voice.

It was not a nice morning, so Ansell felt bound to speak. He answered: "No. Why?" A clod of earth immediately struck him on the back. He turned round indignantly, for he hated physical rudeness. A square man of ruddy aspect was pacing the gravel path, his hands deep in his pockets. He was very angry. Then he saw that the clod of earth nourished a blue lobelia, and that a wound of corresponding size appeared on the pie-shaped bed. He was not so angry. "I expect they will mind it," he reflected. Last night, at the Jacksons', Agnes had displayed a brisk pity that made him wish to wring her neck. Maude had not exaggerated. Mr. Pembroke had patronized through a sorrowful voice and large round eyes. Till he met these people he had never been told that his career was a failure. Apparently it was. They would never have been civil to him if it had been a success, if they or theirs had anything to fear from him.; November 5, 2014 at 2:00 PM
Anonymous said...: ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT GOING ONLINE TO WWW.LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG and PAYING $4.75 TO DO A PARTY SEARCH BY NAME TO PULL UP HIS COURT RECORDS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE, RESTRAINING ORDERS, LAWSUITS and CIVIL HARRASSMENT

ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT CALLING THE LAPD HOLLYWOOD DIVISION TO VERIFY HIS BACKGROUND AND ASK THEM HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT AND WHY.

RUN A THOROUGH BACKGROUND CHECK AND YOU CAN VERIFY THE FOLLOWING

IF YOUR BROTHER, SISTER, NEW BOYFRIEND or NEW GIRLFRIEND WERE LIKE JAY, WOULD YOU TURN YOUR HEAD AND LAUGH ABOUT IT?

ALL THE THINGS ON THIS BLOG ARE TRUE, JAY TELLS EVERYTHING WHEN HE IS HIGH ON DRUGS AND TALKS ABOUT EVERYONE. HE IS A CLINICAL PSYCHOPATH. LOOKUP THE DEFINITION AND IF YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU READ HE GETS A CHECKMARK ON EVERY SINGLE ITEM.

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 2:01 PM
Anonymous said...: In many ways Ansell was a conceited man; but he was never proud of being right. He had foreseen Rickie's catastrophe from the first, but derived from this no consolation. In many ways he was pedantic; but his pedantry lay close to the vineyards of life—far closer than that fetich Experience of the innumerable tea-cups. He had a great many facts to learn, and before he died he learnt a suitable quantity. But he never forgot that the holiness of the heart's imagination can alone classify these facts—can alone decide which is an exception, which an example. "How unpractical it all is!" That was his comment on Dunwood House. "How unbusiness-like! They live together without love. They work without conviction. They seek money without requiring it. They die, and nothing will have happened, either for themselves or for others." It is a comment that the academic mind will often make when first confronted with the world.

But he was becoming illogical. The clod of earth had disturbed him. Brushing the dirt off his back, he returned to the book. What a curious affair was the essay on "Gaps"! Solitude, star-crowned, pacing the fields of England, has a dialogue with Seclusion. He, poor little man, lives in the choicest scenery—among rocks, forests, emerald lawns, azure lakes. To keep people out he has built round his domain a high wall, on which is graven his motto—"Procul este profani." But he cannot enjoy himself. His only pleasure is in mocking the absent Profane. They are in his mind night and day. Their blemishes and stupidities form the subject of his great poem, "In the Heart of Nature." Then Solitude tells him that so it always will be until he makes a gap in the wall, and permits his seclusion to be the sport of circumstance. He obeys. The Profane invade him; but for short intervals they wander elsewhere, and during those intervals the heart of Nature is revealed to him.

This dialogue had really been suggested to Mr. Failing by a talk with his brother-in-law. It also touched Ansell. He looked at the man who had thrown the clod, and was now pacing with obvious youth and impudence upon the lawn. "Shall I improve my soul at his expense?" he thought. "I suppose I had better." In friendly tones he remarked, "Were you waiting for Mr. Pembroke?"

"No," said the young man. "Why?"

Ansell, after a moment's admiration, flung the Essays at him. They hit him in the back. The next moment he lay on his own back in the lobelia pie.

"But it hurts!" he gasped, in the tones of a puzzled civilization. "What you do hurts!" For the young man was nicking him over the shins with the rim of the book cover. "Little brute-ee—ow!"

"Then say Pax!"

Something revolted in Ansell. Why should he say Pax? Freeing his hand, he caught the little brute under the chin, and was again knocked into the lobelias by a blow on the mouth.

"Say Pax!" he repeated, pressing the philosopher's skull into the mould; and he added, with an anxiety that was somehow not offensive, "I do advise you. You'd really better."

Ansell swallowed a little blood. He tried to move, and he could not. He looked carefully into the young man's eyes and into the palm of his right hand, which at present swung unclenched, and he said "Pax!"; November 5, 2014 at 2:01 PM
Anonymous said...: ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT GOING ONLINE TO WWW.LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG and PAYING $4.75 TO DO A PARTY SEARCH BY NAME TO PULL UP HIS COURT RECORDS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE, RESTRAINING ORDERS, LAWSUITS and CIVIL HARRASSMENT

ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT CALLING THE LAPD HOLLYWOOD DIVISION TO VERIFY HIS BACKGROUND AND ASK THEM HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT AND WHY.

RUN A THOROUGH BACKGROUND CHECK AND YOU CAN VERIFY THE FOLLOWING

IF YOUR BROTHER, SISTER, NEW BOYFRIEND or NEW GIRLFRIEND WERE LIKE JAY, WOULD YOU TURN YOUR HEAD AND LAUGH ABOUT IT?

ALL THE THINGS ON THIS BLOG ARE TRUE, JAY TELLS EVERYTHING WHEN HE IS HIGH ON DRUGS AND TALKS ABOUT EVERYONE. HE IS A CLINICAL PSYCHOPATH. LOOKUP THE DEFINITION AND IF YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU READ HE GETS A CHECKMARK ON EVERY SINGLE ITEM.

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 2:02 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay we know it you. Be a man dude. Get a life and JOB. Bardot needs chicken and you need a Kabob!; November 5, 2014 at 2:02 PM
Anonymous said...: "Shake hands!" said the other, helping him up. There was nothing Ansell loathed so much as the hearty Britisher; but he shook hands, and they stared at each other awkwardly. With civil murmurs they picked the little blue flowers off each other's clothes. Ansell was trying to remember why they had quarrelled, and the young man was wondering why he had not guarded his chin properly. In the distance a hymn swung off—

"Fight the good. Fight with. All thy. Might."

They would be across from the chapel soon.

"Your book, sir?"

"Thank you, sir—yes."

"Why!" cried the young man—"why, it's 'What We Want'! At least the binding's exactly the same."

"It's called 'Essays,'" said Ansell.

"Then that's it. Mrs. Failing, you see, she wouldn't call it that, because three W's, you see, in a row, she said, are vulgar, and sound like Tolstoy, if you've heard of him."

Ansell confessed to an acquaintance, and then said, "Do you think 'What We Want' vulgar?" He was not at all interested, but he desired to escape from the atmosphere of pugilistic courtesy, more painful to him than blows themselves.

"It IS the same book," said the other—"same title, same binding." He weighed it like a brick in his muddy hands.

"Open it to see if the inside corresponds," said Ansell, swallowing a laugh and a little more blood with it.

With a liberal allowance of thumb-marks, he turned the pages over and read, "'the rural silence that is not a poet's luxury but a practical need for all men.' Yes, it is the same book." Smiling pleasantly over the discovery, he handed it back to the owner.

"And is it true?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is it true that rural silence is a practical need?"

"Don't ask me!"

"Have you ever tried it?"

"What?"

"Rural silence."

"A field with no noise in it, I suppose you mean. I don't understand."; November 5, 2014 at 2:03 PM
Anonymous said...: ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT GOING ONLINE TO WWW.LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG and PAYING $4.75 TO DO A PARTY SEARCH BY NAME TO PULL UP HIS COURT RECORDS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE, RESTRAINING ORDERS, LAWSUITS and CIVIL HARRASSMENT

ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT CALLING THE LAPD HOLLYWOOD DIVISION TO VERIFY HIS BACKGROUND AND ASK THEM HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT AND WHY.

RUN A THOROUGH BACKGROUND CHECK AND YOU CAN VERIFY THE FOLLOWING

IF YOUR BROTHER, SISTER, NEW BOYFRIEND or NEW GIRLFRIEND WERE LIKE JAY, WOULD YOU TURN YOUR HEAD AND LAUGH ABOUT IT?

ALL THE THINGS ON THIS BLOG ARE TRUE, JAY TELLS EVERYTHING WHEN HE IS HIGH ON DRUGS AND TALKS ABOUT EVERYONE. HE IS A CLINICAL PSYCHOPATH. LOOKUP THE DEFINITION AND IF YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU READ HE GETS A CHECKMARK ON EVERY SINGLE ITEM.

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 2:03 PM
Anonymous said...: Ansell smiled, but a slight fire in the man's eye checked him. After all, this was a person who could knock one down. Moreover, there was no reason why he should be teased. He had it in him to retort "No. Why?" He was not stupid in essentials. He was irritable—in Ansell's eyes a frequent sign of grace. Sitting down on the upturned seat, he remarked, "I like the book in many ways. I don't think 'What We Want' would have been a vulgar title. But I don't intend to spoil myself on the chance of mending the world, which is what the creed amounts to. Nor am I keen on rural silences."

"Curse!" he said thoughtfully, sucking at an empty pipe.

"Tobacco?"

"Please."

"Rickie's is invariably—filthy."

"Who says I know Rickie?"

"Well, you know his aunt. It's a possible link. Be gentle with Rickie. Don't knock him down if he doesn't think it's a nice morning."

The other was silent.

"Do you know him well?"

"Kind of." He was not inclined to talk. The wish to smoke was very violent in him, and Ansell noticed how he gazed at the wreaths that ascended from bowl and stem, and how, when the stem was in his mouth, he bit it. He gave the idea of an animal with just enough soul to contemplate its own bliss. United with refinement, such a type was common in Greece. It is not common today, and Ansell was surprised to find it in a friend of Rickie's. Rickie, if he could even "kind of know" such a creature, must be stirring in his grave.

"Do you know his wife too?"

"Oh yes. In a way I know Agnes. But thank you for this tobacco. Last night I nearly died. I have no money."

"Take the whole pouch—do."

After a moment's hesitation he did. "Fight the good" had scarcely ended, so quickly had their intimacy grown.

"I suppose you're a friend of Rickie's?"

Ansell was tempted to reply, "I don't know him at all." But it seemed no moment for the severer truths, so he said, "I knew him well at Cambridge, but I have seen very little of him since."

"Is it true that his baby was lame?"

"I believe so."

His teeth closed on his pipe. Chapel was over. The organist was prancing through the voluntary, and the first ripple of boys had already reached Dunwood House. In a few minutes the masters would be here too, and Ansell, who was becoming interested, hurried the conversation forward.; November 5, 2014 at 2:04 PM
Anonymous said...: "Have you come far?"

"From Wiltshire. Do you know Wiltshire?" And for the first time there came into his face the shadow of a sentiment, the passing tribute to some mystery. "It's a good country. I live in one of the finest valleys out of Salisbury Plain. I mean, I lived."

"Have you been dismissed from Cadover, without a penny in your pocket?"

He was alarmed at this. Such knowledge seemed simply diabolical. Ansell explained that if his boots were chalky, if his clothes had obviously been slept in, if he knew Mrs. Failing, if he knew Wiltshire, and if he could buy no tobacco—then the deduction was possible. "You do just attend," he murmured.

The house was filling with boys, and Ansell saw, to his regret, the head of Agnes over the thuyia hedge that separated the small front garden from the side lawn where he was sitting. After a few minutes it was followed by the heads of Rickie and Mr. Pembroke. All the heads were turned the other way. But they would find his card in the hall, and if the man had left any message they would find that too. "What are you?" he demanded. "Who are you—your name—I don't care about that. But it interests me to class people, and up to now I have failed with you."

"I—" He stopped. Ansell reflected that there are worse answers. "I really don't know what I am. Used to think I was something special, but strikes me now I feel much like other chaps. Used to look down on the labourers. Used to take for granted I was a gentleman, but really I don't know where I do belong."

"One belongs to the place one sleeps in and to the people one eats with."

"As often as not I sleep out of doors and eat by myself, so that doesn't get you any further."

A silence, akin to poetry, invaded Ansell. Was it only a pose to like this man, or was he really wonderful? He was not romantic, for Romance is a figure with outstretched hands, yearning for the unattainable. Certain figures of the Greeks, to whom we continually return, suggested him a little. One expected nothing of him—no purity of phrase nor swift edged thought. Yet the conviction grew that he had been back somewhere—back to some table of the gods, spread in a field where there is no noise, and that he belonged for ever to the guests with whom he had eaten. Meanwhile he was simple and frank, and what he could tell he would tell to any one. He had not the suburban reticence. Ansell asked him, "Why did Mrs. Failing turn you out of Cadover? I should like to hear that too."

"Because she was tired of me. Because, again, I couldn't keep quiet over the farm hands. I ask you, is it right?" He became incoherent. Ansell caught, "And they grow old—they don't play games—it ends they can't play." An illustration emerged. "Take a kitten—if you fool about with her, she goes on playing well into a cat."

"But Mrs. Failing minded no mice being caught."

"Mice?" said the young man blankly. "What I was going to say is, that some one was jealous of my being at Cadover. I'll mention no names, but I fancy it was Mrs. Silt. I'm sorry for her if it was. Anyhow, she set Mrs. Failing against me. It came on the top of other things—and out I went."

"What did Mrs. Silt, whose name I don't mention, say?"; November 5, 2014 at 2:04 PM
Anonymous said...: Wow...Jay is still married, he's Iranian, he has herpes and a criminal past?? Why isn't he in jail? Nail his short midget ass Ladies!; November 5, 2014 at 2:05 PM
Anonymous said...: THERE ARE MANY OF US JAY AND WE ARE NOT GOING TO STOP POSTING THE TRUTH. THERE IS NOTHING LIBEL OR SLANDEROUS WHEN YOU ARE POSTING THE TRUTH AND IT CAN BE FOUND OUT IN PUBLIC RECORDS. FUCK YOU YOU IRANIAN BASTARD.; November 5, 2014 at 2:05 PM
Anonymous said...: ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT GOING ONLINE TO WWW.LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG and PAYING $4.75 TO DO A PARTY SEARCH BY NAME TO PULL UP HIS COURT RECORDS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE, RESTRAINING ORDERS, LAWSUITS and CIVIL HARRASSMENT

ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT CALLING THE LAPD HOLLYWOOD DIVISION TO VERIFY HIS BACKGROUND AND ASK THEM HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT AND WHY.

RUN A THOROUGH BACKGROUND CHECK AND YOU CAN VERIFY THE FOLLOWING

IF YOUR BROTHER, SISTER, NEW BOYFRIEND or NEW GIRLFRIEND WERE LIKE JAY, WOULD YOU TURN YOUR HEAD AND LAUGH ABOUT IT?

ALL THE THINGS ON THIS BLOG ARE TRUE, JAY TELLS EVERYTHING WHEN HE IS HIGH ON DRUGS AND TALKS ABOUT EVERYONE. HE IS A CLINICAL PSYCHOPATH. LOOKUP THE DEFINITION AND IF YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU READ HE GETS A CHECKMARK ON EVERY SINGLE ITEM.

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 2:05 PM
Anonymous said...: WORD!!; November 5, 2014 at 2:06 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay used me and hurt me as well. I gave him my heart and all he did was abuse me. He is the most vile angry human I know. Lie after lie. I'm done.

Viking no more; November 5, 2014 at 2:08 PM
Anonymous said...: FUCK YOU JAY YOU UGLY IRANIAN BASTARD FUCK FACE; November 5, 2014 at 2:09 PM
Anonymous said...: For a long time I never believed all the negative things that were being said about Mr. Tavare and thought you ladies were just scorned jealous woman until I did as you all asked and check Jay out with the courts. I was shocked and in disbelief at all that I saw about him. Jay Tavare is not what and who he presence himself to be. I felt lied to and mostly felt sorry for you all for being attacked by other women for telling the truth. I commend you all for continuing to expose this fraud for the monster he really is. BTW he IS NOT a celebrity. He merely makes himself more important than what he really is.......A NOTHING!; November 5, 2014 at 2:20 PM
Anonymous said...: Yup Jay Tavare is a con artist to the core! If anyone wanted to beat his ass he's very easy to find.; November 5, 2014 at 2:22 PM
Anonymous said...: He looked guilty. "I don't know. Easy enough to find something to say. The point is that she said something. You know, Mr.—I don't know your name, mine's Wonham, but I'm more grateful than I can put it over this tobacco. I mean, you ought to know there is another side to this quarrel. It's wrong, but it's there."

Ansell told him not to be uneasy: he lad already guessed that there might be another side. But he could not make out why Mr. Wonham should have come straight from the aunt to the nephew. They were now sitting on the upturned seat. "What We Want," a good deal shattered, lay between them.

"On account of above-mentioned reasons, there was a row. I don't know—you can guess the style of thing. She wanted to treat me to the colonies, and had up the parson to talk soft-sawder and make out that a boundless continent was the place for a lad like me. I said, 'I can't run up to the Rings without getting tired, nor gallop a horse out of this view without tiring it, so what is the point of a boundless continent?' Then I saw that she was frightened of me, and bluffed a bit more, and in the end I was nipped. She caught me—just like her! when I had nothing on but flannels, and was coming into the house, having licked the Cadchurch team. She stood up in the doorway between those stone pilasters and said, 'No! Never again!' and behind her was Wilbraham, whom I tried to turn out, and the gardener, and poor old Leighton, who hates being hurt. She said, 'There's a hundred pounds for you at the London bank, and as much more in December. Go!' I said, 'Keep your—money, and tell me whose son I am.' I didn't care really. I only said it on the off-chance of hurting her. Sure enough, she caught on to the doorhandle (being lame) and said, 'I can't—I promised—I don't really want to,' and Wilbraham did stare. Then—she's very queer—she burst out laughing, and went for the packet after all, and we heard her laugh through the window as she got it. She rolled it at me down the steps, and she says, 'A leaf out of the eternal comedy for you, Stephen,' or something of that sort. I opened it as I walked down the drive, she laughing always and catching on to the handle of the front door. Of course it wasn't comic at all. But down in the village there were both cricket teams, already a little tight, and the mad plumber shouting 'Rights of Man!' They knew I was turned out. We did have a row, and kept it up too. They daren't touch Wilbraham's windows, but there isn't much glass left up at Cadover. When you start, it's worth going on, but in the end I had to cut. They subscribed a bob here and a bob there, and these are Flea Thompson's Sundays. I sent a line to Leighton not to forward my own things: I don't fancy them. They aren't really mine." He did not mention his great symbolic act, performed, it is to be feared, when he was rather drunk and the friendly policeman was looking the other way. He had cast all his flannels into the little millpond, and then waded himself through the dark cold water to the new clothes on the other side. Some one had flung his pipe and his packet after him. The packet had fallen short. For this reason it was wet when he handed it to Ansell, and ink that had been dry for twenty-three years had begun to run again.

"I wondered if you're right about the hundred pounds," said Ansell gravely. "It is pleasant to be proud, but it is unpleasant to die in the night through not having any tobacco."

"But I'm not proud. Look how I've taken your pouch! The hundred pounds was—well, can't you see yourself, it was quite different? It was, so to speak, inconvenient for me to take the hundred pounds. Or look again how I took a shilling from a boy who earns nine bob a-week! Proves pretty conclusively I'm not proud."; November 5, 2014 at 2:28 PM
Anonymous said...: Ansell saw it was useless to argue. He perceived, beneath the slatternly use of words, the man, buttoned up in them, just as his body was buttoned up in a shoddy suit,—and he wondered more than ever that such a man should know the Elliots. He looked at the face, which was frank, proud, and beautiful, if truth is beauty. Of mercy or tact such a face knew little. It might be coarse, but it had in it nothing vulgar or wantonly cruel. "May I read these papers?" he said.

"Of course. Oh yes; didn't I say? I'm Rickie's half-brother, come here to tell him the news. He doesn't know. There it is, put shortly for you. I was saying, though, that I bolted in the dark, slept in the rifle-butts above Salisbury, the sheds where they keep the cardboard men, you know, never locked up as they ought to be. I turned the whole place upside down to teach them."

"Here is your packet again," said Ansell. "Thank you. How interesting!" He rose from the seat and turned towards Dunwood House. He looked at the bow-windows, the cheap picturesque gables, the terracotta dragons clawing a dirty sky. He listened to the clink of plates and to the voice of Mr. Pembroke taking one of his innumerable roll-calls. He looked at the bed of lobelias. How interesting! What else was there to say?

"One must be the son of some one," remarked Stephen. And that was all he had to say. To him those names on the moistened paper were mere antiquities. He was neither proud of them nor ashamed. A man must have parents, or he cannot enter the delightful world. A man, if he has a brother, may reasonably visit him, for they may have interests in common. He continued his narrative, how in the night he had heard the clocks, how at daybreak, instead of entering the city, he had struck eastward to save money,—while Ansell still looked at the house and found that all his imagination and knowledge could lead him no farther than this: how interesting!

"—And what do you think of that for a holy horror?"

"For a what?" said Ansell, his thoughts far away.

"This man I am telling you about, who gave me a lift towards Andover, who said I was a blot on God's earth."

One o'clock struck. It was strange that neither of them had had any summons from the house.

"He said I ought to be ashamed of myself. He said, 'I'll not be the means of bringing shame to an honest gentleman and lady.' I told him not to be a fool. I said I knew what I was about. Rickie and Agnes are properly educated, which leads people to look at things straight, and not go screaming about blots. A man like me, with just a little reading at odd hours—I've got so far, and Rickie has been through Cambridge."; November 5, 2014 at 2:29 PM
Anonymous said...: "And Mrs. Elliot?"

"Oh, she won't mind, and I told the man so; but he kept on saying, 'I'll not be the means of bringing shame to an honest gentleman and lady,' until I got out of his rotten cart." His eye watched the man a Nonconformist, driving away over God's earth. "I caught the train by running. I got to Waterloo at—"

Here the parlour-maid fluttered towards them, Would Mr. Wonham come in? Mrs. Elliot would be glad to see him now.

"Mrs. Elliot?" cried Ansell. "Not Mr. Elliot?"

"It's all the same," said Stephen, and moved towards the house.

"You see, I only left my name. They don't know why I've come."

"Perhaps Mr. Elliot sees me meanwhile?"

The parlour-maid looked blank. Mr. Elliot had not said so. He had been with Mrs. Elliot and Mr. Pembroke in the study. Now the gentlemen had gone upstairs.

"All right, I can wait." After all, Rickie was treating him as he had treated Rickie, as one in the grave, to whom it is futile to make any loving motion. Gone upstairs—to brush his hair for dinner! The irony of the situation appealed to him strongly. It reminded him of the Greek Drama, where the actors know so little and the spectators so much.

"But, by the bye," he called after Stephen, "I think I ought to tell you—don't—"

"What is it?"

"Don't—" Then he was silent. He had been tempted to explain everything, to tell the fellow how things stood, that he must avoid this if he wanted to attain that; that he must break the news to Rickie gently; that he must have at least one battle royal with Agnes. But it was contrary to his own spirit to coach people: he held the human soul to be a very delicate thing, which can receive eternal damage from a little patronage. Stephen must go into the house simply as himself, for thus alone would he remain there.

"I ought to knock my pipe out? Was that it?" "By no means. Go in, your pipe and you."

He hesitated, torn between propriety and desire. Then he followed the parlour-maid into the house smoking. As he entered the dinner-bell rang, and there was the sound of rushing feet, which died away into shuffling and silence. Through the window of the boys' dining-hall came the colourless voice of Rickie—"'Benedictus benedicat.'"

Ansell prepared himself to witness the second act of the drama; forgetting that all this world, and not part of it, is a stage.; November 5, 2014 at 2:30 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 2:35 PM
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██████████████████████████▓▓▓▓████▓▓█████; November 5, 2014 at 2:35 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 2:37 PM
Anonymous said...: The parlour-maid took Mr. Wonham to the study. He had been in the drawing-room before, but had got bored, and so had strolled out into the garden. Now he was in better spirits, as a man ought to be who has knocked down a man. As he passed through the hall he sparred at the teak monkey, and hung his cap on the bust of Hermes. And he greeted Mrs. Elliot with a pleasant clap of laughter. "Oh, I've come with the most tremendous news!" he cried.

She bowed, but did not shake hands, which rather surprised him. But he never troubled over "details." He seldom watched people, and never thought that they were watching him. Nor could he guess how much it meant to her that he should enter her presence smoking. Had she not said once at Cadover, "Oh, please smoke; I love the smell of a pipe"?

"Would you sit down? Exactly there, please." She placed him at a large table, opposite an inkpot and a pad of blotting-paper.

"Will you tell your 'tremendous news' to me? My brother and my husband are giving the boys their dinner."

"Ah!" said Stephen, who had had neither time nor money for breakfast in London.

"I told them not to wait for me."

So he came to the point at once. He trusted this handsome woman. His strength and his youth called to hers, expecting no prudish response. "It's very odd. It is that I'm Rickie's brother. I've just found out. I've come to tell you all."

"Yes?"

He felt in his pocket for the papers. "Half-brother I ought to have said."

"Yes?"

"I'm illegitimate. Legally speaking, that is, I've been turned out of Cadover. I haven't a penny. I—"

"There is no occasion to inflict the details." Her face, which had been an even brown, began to flush slowly in the centre of the cheeks. The colour spread till all that he saw of her was suffused, and she turned away. He thought he had shocked her, and so did she. Neither knew that the body can be insincere and express not the emotions we feel but those that we should like to feel. In reality she was quite calm, and her dislike of him had nothing emotional in it as yet.

"You see—" he began. He was determined to tell the fidgety story, for the sooner it was over the sooner they would have something to eat. Delicacy he lacked, and his sympathies were limited. But such as they were, they rang true: he put no decorous phantom between him and his desires.

"I do see. I have seen for two years." She sat down at the head of the table, where there was another ink-pot. Into this she dipped a pen. "I have seen everything, Mr. Wonham—who you are, how you have behaved at Cadover, how you must have treated Mrs. Failing yesterday; and now"—her voice became very grave—"I see why you have come here, penniless. Before you speak, we know what you will say."; November 5, 2014 at 2:38 PM
Anonymous said...: That post above by Morgan is chilling.....; November 5, 2014 at 2:39 PM
Anonymous said...: His mouth fell open, and he laughed so merrily that it might have given her a warning. But she was thinking how to follow up her first success. "And I thought I was bringing tremendous news!" he cried. "I only twisted it out of Mrs. Failing last night. And Rickie knows too?"

"We have known for two years."

"But come, by the bye,—if you've known for two years, how is it you didn't—" The laugh died out of his eyes. "You aren't ashamed?" he asked, half rising from his chair. "You aren't like the man towards Andover?"

"Please, please sit down," said Agnes, in the even tones she used when speaking to the servants; "let us not discuss side issues. I am a horribly direct person, Mr. Wonham. I go always straight to the point." She opened a chequebook. "I am afraid I shall shock you. For how much?"

He was not attending.

"There is the paper we suggest you shall sign." She pushed towards him a pseudo-legal document, just composed by Herbert.

"In consideration of the sum of..., I agree to perpetual silence—to restrain from libellous...never to molest the said Frederick Elliot by intruding—'"

His brain was not quick. He read the document over twice, and he could still say, "But what's that cheque for?"

"It is my husband's. He signed for you as soon as we heard you were here. We guessed you had come to be silenced. Here is his signature. But he has left the filling in for me. For how much? I will cross it, shall I? You will just have started a banking account, if I understand Mrs. Failing rightly. It is not quite accurate to say you are penniless: I heard from her just before you returned from your cricket. She allows you two hundred a-year, I think. But this additional sum—shall I date the cheque Saturday or for tomorrow?"

At last he found words. Knocking his pipe out on the table, he said slowly, "Here's a very bad mistake."

"It is quite possible," retorted Agnes. She was glad she had taken the offensive, instead of waiting till he began his blackmailing, as had been the advice of Rickie. Aunt Emily had said that very spring, "One's only hope with Stephen is to start bullying first." Here he was, quite bewildered, smearing the pipe-ashes with his thumb. He asked to read the document again. "A stamp and all!" he remarked.

They had anticipated that his claim would exceed two pounds.

"I see. All right. It takes a fool a minute. Never mind. I've made a bad mistake."

"You refuse?" she exclaimed, for he was standing at the door. "Then do your worst! We defy you!"

"That's all right, Mrs. Elliot," he said roughly. "I don't want a scene with you, nor yet with your husband. We'll say no more about it. It's all right. I mean no harm."

"But your signature then! You must sign—you—"; November 5, 2014 at 2:39 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 2:39 PM
Anonymous said...: He pushed past her, and said as he reached for his cap, "There, that's all right. It's my mistake. I'm sorry." He spoke like a farmer who has failed to sell a sheep. His manner was utterly prosaic, and up to the last she thought he had not understood her. "But it's money we offer you," she informed him, and then darted back to the study, believing for one terrible moment that he had picked up the blank cheque. When she returned to the hall he had gone. He was walking down the road rather quickly. At the corner he cleared his throat, spat into the gutter, and disappeared.

"There's an odd finish," she thought. She was puzzled, and determined to recast the interview a little when she related it to Rickie. She had not succeeded, for the paper was still unsigned. But she had so cowed Stephen that he would probably rest content with his two hundred a-year, and never come troubling them again. Clever management, for one knew him to be rapacious: she had heard tales of him lending to the poor and exacting repayment to the uttermost farthing. He had also stolen at school. Moderately triumphant, she hurried into the side-garden: she had just remembered Ansell: she, not Rickie, had received his card.

"Oh, Mr. Ansell!" she exclaimed, awaking him from some day-dream. "Haven't either Rickie or Herbert been out to you? Now, do come into dinner, to show you aren't offended. You will find all of us assembled in the boys' dining-hall."

To her annoyance he accepted.

"That is, if the Jacksons are not expecting you."

The Jacksons did not matter. If he might brush his clothes and bathe his lip, he would like to come.

"Oh, what has happened to you? And oh, my pretty lobelias!"

He replied, "A momentary contact with reality," and she, who did not look for sense in his remarks, hurried away to the dining-hall to announce him.

The dining-hall was not unlike the preparation room. There was the same parquet floor, and dado of shiny pitchpine. On its walls also were imperial portraits, and over the harmonium to which they sang the evening hymns was spread the Union Jack. Sunday dinner, the most pompous meal of the week, was in progress. Her brother sat at the head of the high table, her husband at the head of the second. To each he gave a reassuring nod and went to her own seat, which was among the junior boys. The beef was being carried out; she stopped it. "Mr. Ansell is coming," she called. "Herbert there is more room by you; sit up straight, boys." The boys sat up straight, and a respectful hush spread over the room.

"Here he is!" called Rickie cheerfully, taking his cue from his wife. "Oh, this is splendid!" Ansell came in. "I'm so glad you managed this. I couldn't leave these wretches last night!" The boys tittered suitably. The atmosphere seemed normal. Even Herbert, though longing to hear what had happened to the blackmailer, gave adequate greeting to their guest: "Come in, Mr. Ansell; come here. Take us as you find us!"

"I understood," said Stewart, "that I should find you all. Mrs. Elliot told me I should. On that understanding I came."; November 5, 2014 at 2:42 PM
Anonymous said...: All these posts by women Jay Tavare has hurt are chilling. Thats why he's now trying desperately to cover it up with his literature posts lol...but he can never ever stop us. We win Jay...YOU lose LOL; November 5, 2014 at 2:42 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 2:43 PM
Anonymous said...: It was at once evident that something had gone wrong.

Ansell looked round the room carefully. Then clearing his throat and ruffling his hair, he began—"I cannot see the man with whom I have talked, intimately, for an hour, in your garden."

The worst of it was they were all so far from him and from each other, each at the end of a tableful of inquisitive boys. The two masters looked at Agnes for information, for her reassuring nod had not told them much. She looked hopelessly back.

"I cannot see this man," repeated Ansell, who remained by the harmonium in the midst of astonished waitresses. "Is he to be given no lunch?"

Herbert broke the silence by fresh greetings. Rickie knew that the contest was lost, and that his friend had sided with the enemy. It was the kind of thing he would do. One must face the catastrophe quietly and with dignity. Perhaps Ansell would have turned on his heel, and left behind him only vague suspicions, if Mrs. Elliot had not tried to talk him down. "Man," she cried—"what man? Oh, I know—terrible bore! Did he get hold of you?"—thus committing their first blunder, and causing Ansell to say to Rickie, "Have you seen your brother?"

"I have not."

"Have you been told he was here?"

Rickie's answer was inaudible.

"Have you been told you have a brother?"

"Let us continue this conversation later."

"Continue it? My dear man, how can we until you know what I'm talking about? You must think me mad; but I tell you solemnly that you have a brother of whom you've never heard, and that he was in this house ten minutes ago." He paused impressively. "Your wife has happened to see him first. Being neither serious nor truthful, she is keeping you apart, telling him some lie and not telling you a word."

There was a murmur of alarm. One of the prefects rose, and Ansell set his back to the wall, quite ready for a battle. For two years he had waited for his opportunity. He would hit out at Mrs. Elliot like any ploughboy now that it had come. Rickie said: "There is a slight misunderstanding. I, like my wife, have known what there is to know for two years"—a dignified rebuff, but their second blunder.

"Exactly," said Agnes. "Now I think Mr. Ansell had better go."

"Go?" exploded Ansell. "I've everything to say yet. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Elliot, I am concerned with you no longer. This man"—he turned to the avenue of faces—"this man who teaches you has a brother. He has known of him two years and been ashamed. He has—oh—oh—how it fits together! Rickie, it's you, not Mrs. Silt, who must have sent tales of him to your aunt. It's you who've turned him out of Cadover. It's you who've ordered him to be ruined today."; November 5, 2014 at 2:43 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 2:43 PM
Anonymous said...: Now Herbert arose. "Out of my sight, sir! But have it from me first that Rickie and his aunt have both behaved most generously. No, no, Agnes, I'll not be interrupted. Garbled versions must not get about. If the Wonham man is not satisfied now, he must be insatiable. He cannot levy blackmail on us for ever. Sir, I give you two minutes; then you will be expelled by force."

"Two minutes!" sang Ansell. "I can say a great deal in that." He put one foot on a chair and held his arms over the quivering room. He seemed transfigured into a Hebrew prophet passionate for satire and the truth. "Oh, keep quiet for two minutes," he cried, "and I'll tell you something you'll be glad to hear. You're a little afraid Stephen may come back. Don't be afraid. I bring good news. You'll never see him nor any one like him again. I must speak very plainly, for you are all three fools. I don't want you to say afterwards, 'Poor Mr. Ansell tried to be clever.' Generally I don't mind, but I should mind today. Please listen. Stephen is a bully; he drinks; he knocks one down; but he would sooner die than take money from people he did not love. Perhaps he will die, for he has nothing but a few pence that the poor gave him and some tobacco which, to my eternal glory, he accepted from me. Please listen again. Why did he come here? Because he thought you would love him, and was ready to love you. But I tell you, don't be afraid. He would sooner die now than say you were his brother. Please listen again—"

"Now, Stewart, don't go on like that," said Rickie bitterly. "It's easy enough to preach when you are an outsider. You would be more charitable if such a thing had happened to yourself. Easy enough to be unconventional when you haven't suffered and know nothing of the facts. You love anything out of the way, anything queer, that doesn't often happen, and so you get excited over this. It's useless, my dear man; you have hurt me, but you will never upset me. As soon as you stop this ridiculous scene we will finish our dinner. Spread this scandal; add to it. I'm too old to mind such nonsense. I cannot help my father's disgrace, on the one hand; nor, on the other, will I have anything to do with his blackguard of a son."

So the secret was given to the world. Agnes might colour at his speech; Herbert might calculate the effect of it on the entries for Dunwood House; but he cared for none of these things. Thank God! he was withered up at last.

"Please listen again," resumed Ansell. "Please correct two slight mistakes: firstly, Stephen is one of the greatest people I have ever met; secondly, he's not your father's son. He's the son of your mother."

It was Rickie, not Ansell, who was carried from the hall, and it was Herbert who pronounced the blessing—

"Benedicto benedicatur."

A profound stillness succeeded the storm, and the boys, slipping away from their meal, told the news to the rest of the school, or put it in the letters they were writing home.; November 5, 2014 at 2:44 PM
Anonymous said...: Ohhhhh thats what he's doing lol It fine with me, I'll just keep reposting my comment about my experience with this douche bag Jay Tavare ha!; November 5, 2014 at 2:45 PM
Anonymous said...: He's a coward isn't he lol; November 5, 2014 at 2:46 PM
Anonymous said...: yup...a very short coward. LOL

Soooooo many hate him even the ones he calls friends lol; November 5, 2014 at 2:47 PM
Anonymous said...: The soul has her own currency. She mints her spiritual coinage and stamps it with the image of some beloved face. With it she pays her debts, with it she reckons, saying, "This man has worth, this man is worthless." And in time she forgets its origin; it seems to her to be a thing unalterable, divine. But the soul can also have her bankruptcies.

Perhaps she will be the richer in the end. In her agony she learns to reckon clearly. Fair as the coin may have been, it was not accurate; and though she knew it not, there were treasures that it could not buy. The face, however beloved, was mortal, and as liable as the soul herself to err. We do but shift responsibility by making a standard of the dead.

There is, indeed, another coinage that bears on it not man's image but God's. It is incorruptible, and the soul may trust it safely; it will serve her beyond the stars. But it cannot give us friends, or the embrace of a lover, or the touch of children, for with our fellow mortals it has no concern. It cannot even give the joys we call trivial—fine weather, the pleasures of meat and drink, bathing and the hot sand afterwards, running, dreamless sleep. Have we learnt the true discipline of a bankruptcy if we turn to such coinage as this? Will it really profit us so much if we save our souls and lose the whole world?; November 5, 2014 at 2:47 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 2:48 PM
Anonymous said...: Robert—there is no occasion to mention his surname: he was a young farmer of some education who tried to coax the aged soil of Wiltshire scientifically—came to Cadover on business and fell in love with Mrs. Elliot. She was there on her bridal visit, and he, an obscure nobody, was received by Mrs. Failing into the house and treated as her social equal. He was good-looking in a bucolic way, and people sometimes mistook him for a gentleman until they saw his hands. He discovered this, and one of the slow, gentle jokes he played on society was to talk upon some cultured subject with his hands behind his back and then suddenly reveal them. "Do you go in for boating?" the lady would ask; and then he explained that those particular weals are made by the handles of the plough. Upon which she became extremely interested, but found an early opportunity of talking to some one else.

He played this joke on Mrs. Elliot the first evening, not knowing that she observed him as he entered the room. He walked heavily, lifting his feet as if the carpet was furrowed, and he had no evening clothes. Every one tried to put him at his ease, but she rather suspected that he was there already, and envied him. They were introduced, and spoke of Byron, who was still fashionable. Out came his hands—the only rough hands in the drawing-room, the only hands that had ever worked. She was filled with some strange approval, and liked him.

After dinner they met again, to speak not of Byron but of manure. The other people were so clever and so amusing that it relieved her to listen to a man who told her three times not to buy artificial manure ready made, but, if she would use it, to make it herself at the last moment. Because the ammonia evaporated. Here were two packets of powder. Did they smell? No. Mix them together and pour some coffee—An appalling smell at once burst forth, and every one began to cough and cry. This was good for the earth when she felt sour, for he knew when the earth was ill. He knew, too, when she was hungry he spoke of her tantrums—the strange unscientific element in her that will baffle the scientist to the end of time. "Study away, Mrs. Elliot," he told her; "read all the books you can get hold of; but when it comes to the point, stroll out with a pipe in your mouth and do a bit of guessing." As he talked, the earth became a living being—or rather a being with a living skin,—and manure no longer dirty stuff, but a symbol of regeneration and of the birth of life from life. "So it goes on for ever!" she cried excitedly. He replied: "Not for ever. In time the fire at the centre will cool, and nothing can go on then."

He advanced into love with open eyes, slowly, heavily, just as he had advanced across the drawing room carpet. But this time the bride did not observe his tread. She was listening to her husband, and trying not to be so stupid. When he was close to her—so close that it was difficult not to take her in his arms—he spoke to Mr. Failing, and was at once turned out of Cadover.

"I'm sorry," said Mr. Failing, as he walked down the drive with his hand on his guest's shoulder. "I had no notion you were that sort. Any one who behaves like that has to stop at the farm."

"Any one?"; November 5, 2014 at 2:48 PM
Anonymous said...: ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT GOING ONLINE TO WWW.LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG and PAYING $4.75 TO DO A PARTY SEARCH BY NAME TO PULL UP HIS COURT RECORDS OF DOMESTIC ABUSE, RESTRAINING ORDERS, LAWSUITS and CIVIL HARRASSMENT

ASK YOURSELF WHY YOU ARE NOT CALLING THE LAPD HOLLYWOOD DIVISION TO VERIFY HIS BACKGROUND AND ASK THEM HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT AND WHY.

RUN A THOROUGH BACKGROUND CHECK AND YOU CAN VERIFY THE FOLLOWING

IF YOUR BROTHER, SISTER, NEW BOYFRIEND or NEW GIRLFRIEND WERE LIKE JAY, WOULD YOU TURN YOUR HEAD AND LAUGH ABOUT IT?

ALL THE THINGS ON THIS BLOG ARE TRUE, JAY TELLS EVERYTHING WHEN HE IS HIGH ON DRUGS AND TALKS ABOUT EVERYONE. HE IS A CLINICAL PSYCHOPATH. LOOKUP THE DEFINITION AND IF YOU UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU READ HE GETS A CHECKMARK ON EVERY SINGLE ITEM.

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 2:49 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 2:50 PM
Anonymous said...: For a long time I never believed all the negative things that were being said about Mr. Tavare and thought you ladies were just scorned jealous woman until I did as you all asked and check Jay out with the courts. I was shocked and in disbelief at all that I saw about him. Jay Tavare is not what and who he presence himself to be. I felt lied to and mostly felt sorry for you all for being attacked by other women for telling the truth. I commend you all for continuing to expose this fraud for the monster he really is. BTW he IS NOT a celebrity. He merely makes himself more important than what he really is.......A NOTHING!; November 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM
Anonymous said...: "Any one." He sighed heavily, not for any personal grievance, but because he saw how unruly, how barbaric, is the soul of man. After all, this man was more civilized than most.

"Are you angry with me, sir?" He called him "sir," not because he was richer or cleverer or smarter, not because he had helped to educate him and had lent him money, but for a reason more profound—for the reason that there are gradations in heaven.

"I did think you—that a man like you wouldn't risk making people unhappy. My sister-in-law—I don't say this to stop you loving her; something else must do that—my sister-in-law, as far as I know, doesn't care for you one little bit. If you had said anything, if she had guessed that a chance person was in—this fearful state, you would simply—have opened hell. A woman of her sort would have lost all—"

"I knew that."

Mr. Failing removed his hand. He was displeased.

"But something here," said Robert incoherently. "This here." He struck himself heavily on the heart. "This here, doing something so unusual, makes it not matter what she loses—I—" After a silence he asked, "Have I quite followed you, sir, in that business of the brotherhood of man?"

"How do you mean?"

"I thought love was to bring it about."

"Love of another man's wife? Sensual love? You have understood nothing—nothing." Then he was ashamed, and cried, "I understand nothing myself." For he remembered that sensual and spiritual are not easy words to use; that there are, perhaps, not two Aphrodites, but one Aphrodite with a Janus face. "I only understand that you must try to forget her."

"I will not try."

"Promise me just this, then—not to do anything crooked."

"I'm straight. No boasting, but I couldn't do a crooked thing—No, not if I tried."

And so appallingly straight was he in after years, that Mr. Failing wished that he had phrased the promise differently.; November 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 2:53 PM
Anonymous said...: Robert simply waited. He told himself that it was hopeless; but something deeper than himself declared that there was hope. He gave up drink, and kept himself in all ways clean, for he wanted to be worthy of her when the time came. Women seemed fond of him, and caused him to reflect with pleasure, "They do run after me. There must be something in me. Good. I'd be done for if there wasn't." For six years he turned up the earth of Wiltshire, and read books for the sake of his mind, and talked to gentlemen for the sake of their patois, and each year he rode to Cadover to take off his hat to Mrs. Elliot, and, perhaps, to speak to her about the crops. Mr. Failing was generally present, and it struck neither man that those dull little visits were so many words out of which a lonely woman might build sentences. Then Robert went to London on business. He chanced to see Mr. Elliot with a strange lady. The time had come.

He became diplomatic, and called at Mr. Elliot's rooms to find things out. For if Mrs. Elliot was happier than he could ever make her, he would withdraw, and love her in renunciation. But if he could make her happier, he would love her in fulfilment. Mr. Elliot admitted him as a friend of his brother-in-law's, and felt very broad-minded as he did so. Robert, however, was a success. The youngish men there found him interesting, and liked to shock him with tales of naughty London and naughtier Paris. They spoke of "experience" and "sensations" and "seeing life," and when a smile ploughed over his face, concluded that his prudery was vanquished. He saw that they were much less vicious than they supposed: one boy had obviously read his sensations in a book. But he could pardon vice. What he could not pardon was triviality, and he hoped that no decent woman could pardon it either. There grew up in him a cold, steady anger against these silly people who thought it advanced to be shocking, and who described, as something particularly choice and educational, things that he had understood and fought against for years. He inquired after Mrs. Elliot, and a boy tittered. It seemed that she "did not know," that she lived in a remote suburb, taking care of a skinny baby. "I shall call some time or other," said Robert. "Do," said Mr. Elliot, smiling. And next time he saw his wife he congratulated her on her rustic admirer.

She had suffered terribly. She had asked for bread, and had been given not even a stone. People talk of hungering for the ideal, but there is another hunger, quite as divine, for facts. She had asked for facts and had been given "views," "emotional standpoints," "attitudes towards life." To a woman who believed that facts are beautiful, that the living world is beautiful beyond the laws of beauty, that manure is neither gross nor ludicrous, that a fire, not eternal, glows at the heart of the earth, it was intolerable to be put off with what the Elliots called "philosophy," and, if she refused, to be told that she had no sense of humour. "Tarrying into the Elliot family." It had sounded so splendid, for she was a penniless child with nothing to offer, and the Elliots held their heads high. For what reason? What had they ever done, except say sarcastic things, and limp, and be refined? Mr. Failing suffered too, but she suffered more, inasmuch as Frederick was more impossible than Emily. He did not like her, he practically lived apart, he was not even faithful or polite. These were grave faults, but they were human ones: she could even imagine them in a man she loved. What she could never love was a dilettante.; November 5, 2014 at 2:53 PM
Anonymous said...: LMFAO.....Jay has a sex ad on craigslist. It's under the man seeking man sections. he's dressed like a faggy Iranian in feathers. wow he's even given out his cell number looking for a cock sucker...323-652-1212

desperate time Jai?; November 5, 2014 at 2:55 PM
Anonymous said...: Robert brought her an armful of sweet-peas. He laid it on the table, put his hands behind his back, and kept them there till the end of the visit. She knew quite well why he had come, and though she also knew that he would fail, she loved him too much to snub him or to stare in virtuous indignation. "Why have you come?" she asked gravely, "and why have you brought me so many flowers?"

"My garden is full of them," he answered. "Sweetpeas need picking down. And, generally speaking, flowers are plentiful in July."

She broke his present into bunches—so much for the drawing-room, so much for the nursery, so much for the kitchen and her husband's room: he would be down for the night. The most beautiful she would keep for herself. Presently he said, "Your husband is no good. I've watched him for a week. I'm thirty, and not what you call hasty, as I used to be, or thinking that nothing matters like the French. No. I'm a plain Britisher, yet—I—I've begun wrong end, Mrs. Elliot; I should have said that I've thought chiefly of you for six years, and that though I talk here so respectfully, if I once unhooked my hands—"

There was a pause. Then she said with great sweetness, "Thank you; I am glad you love me," and rang the bell.

"What have you done that for?" he cried.

"Because you must now leave the house, and never enter it again."

"I don't go alone," and he began to get furious.

Her voice was still sweet, but strength lay in it too, as she said, "You either go now with my thanks and blessing, or else you go with the police. I am Mrs. Elliot. We need not discuss Mr. Elliot. I am Mrs. Elliot, and if you make one step towards me I give you in charge."

But the maid answered the bell not of the drawing-room, but of the front door. They were joined by Mr. Elliot, who held out his hand with much urbanity. It was not taken. He looked quickly at his wife, and said, "Am I de trop?" There was a long silence. At last she said, "Frederick, turn this man out."

"My love, why?"

Robert said that he loved her.

"Then I am de trop," said Mr. Elliot, smoothing out his gloves. He would give these sodden barbarians a lesson. "My hansom is waiting at the door. Pray make use of it."

"Don't!" she cried, almost affectionately. "Dear Frederick, it isn't a play. Just tell this man to go, or send for the police."

"On the contrary; it is French comedy of the best type. Don't you agree, sir, that the police would be an inartistic error?" He was perfectly calm and collected, whereas they were in a pitiable state.; November 5, 2014 at 2:56 PM
Anonymous said...: LMFAO.....Jay has a sex ad on craigslist. It's under the man seeking man sections. he's dressed like a faggy Iranian in feathers. wow he's even given out his cell number looking for a cock sucker...323-652-1212

desperate time Jai?; November 5, 2014 at 2:57 PM
Anonymous said...: Oh I've seen his sex ads before on craigslist....he's a freak!; November 5, 2014 at 2:58 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 3:00 PM
Anonymous said...: Why was Jay Tavare banned from the rug show coming up this weekend? I heard he can never return because he lied about being Native American and that he abused women here??; November 5, 2014 at 3:02 PM
Anonymous said...: BHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.....YOU'LL NEVER FIND IT JACKASS. IT'S LISTED MULTIPLE TIMES, MULTIPLE DATES, MULTIPLE CATEGORY'S. FUCK YOU ASS WIPES!!!!!! THE JOKES NOW ON YOU FUCK UP!; November 5, 2014 at 3:09 PM
Anonymous said...: "Turn him out at once!" she cried. "He has insulted your wife. Save me, save me!" She clung to her husband and wept. "He was going I had managed him—he would never have known—" Mr. Elliot repulsed her.

"If you don't feel inclined to start at once," he said with easy civility, "Let us have a little tea. My dear sir, do forgive me for not shooting you. Nous avons change tout cela. Please don't look so nervous. Please do unclasp your hands—"

He was alone.

"That's all right," he exclaimed, and strolled to the door. The hansom was disappearing round the corner. "That's all right," he repeated in more quavering tones as he returned to the drawing-room and saw that it was littered with sweet-peas. Their colour got on his nerves—magenta, crimson; magenta, crimson. He tried to pick them up, and they escaped. He trod them underfoot, and they multiplied and danced in the triumph of summer like a thousand butterflies. The train had left when he got to the station. He followed on to London, and there he lost all traces. At midnight he began to realize that his wife could never belong to him again.

Mr. Failing had a letter from Stockholm. It was never known what impulse sent them there. "I am sorry about it all, but it was the only way." The letter censured the law of England, "which obliges us to behave like this, or else we should never get married. I shall come back to face things: she will not come back till she is my wife. He must bring an action soon, or else we shall try one against him. It seems all very unconventional, but it is not really, it is only a difficult start. We are not like you or your wife: we want to be just ordinary people, and make the farm pay, and not be noticed all our lives."

And they were capable of living as they wanted. The class difference, which so intrigued Mrs. Failing, meant very little to them. It was there, but so were other things.

They both cared for work and living in the open, and for not speaking unless they had got something to say. Their love of beauty, like their love for each other, was not dependent on detail: it grew not from the nerves but from the soul.

"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven."

They had never read these lines, and would have thought them nonsense if they had. They did not dissect—indeed they could not. But she, at all events, divined that more than perfect health and perfect weather, more than personal love, had gone to the making of those seventeen days.

"Ordinary people!" cried Mrs. Failing on hearing the letter. At that time she was young and daring. "Why, they're divine! They're forces of Nature! They're as ordinary as volcanoes. We all knew my brother was disgusting, and wanted him to be blown to pieces, but we never thought it would happen. Do look at the thing bravely, and say, as I do, that they are guiltless in the sight of God."; November 5, 2014 at 3:13 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay once told me that his sister Negi had a boob job and a nose job and that she made more money than her live in yogi boyfriend and that he was afraid of her because she could kick his ass. What brother would say such things about his sister. If Janani can talk about his flesh and blood I guess he'll talk about anyone. How sad.; November 5, 2014 at 3:14 PM
Anonymous said...: "I think they are," replied her husband. "But they are not guiltless in the sight of man."

"You conventional!" she exclaimed in disgust. "What they have done means misery not only for themselves but for others. For your brother, though you will not think of him. For the little boy—did you think of him? And perhaps for another child, who will have the whole world against him if it knows. They have sinned against society, and you do not diminish the misery by proving that society is bad or foolish. It is the saddest truth I have yet perceived that the Beloved Republic"—here she took up a book—"of which Swinburne speaks"—she put the book down—"will not be brought about by love alone. It will approach with no flourish of trumpets, and have no declaration of independence. Self-sacrifice and—worse still—self-mutilation are the things that sometimes help it most, and that is why we should start for Stockholm this evening." He waited for her indignation to subside, and then continued. "I don't know whether it can be hushed up. I don't yet know whether it ought to be hushed up. But we ought to provide the opportunity. There is no scandal yet. If we go, it is just possible there never will be any. We must talk over the whole thing and—"

"—And lie!" interrupted Mrs. Failing, who hated travel.

"—And see how to avoid the greatest unhappiness."

There was to be no scandal. By the time they arrived Robert had been drowned. Mrs. Elliot described how they had gone swimming, and how, "since he always lived inland," the great waves had tired him. They had raced for the open sea.

"What are your plans?" he asked. "I bring you a message from Frederick."

"I heard him call," she continued, "but I thought he was laughing. When I turned, it was too late. He put his hands behind his back and sank. For he would only have drowned me with him. I should have done the same."

Mrs. Failing was thrilled, and kissed her. But Mr. Failing knew that life does not continue heroic for long, and he gave her the message from her husband: Would she come back to him?

To his intense astonishment—at first to his regret—she replied, "I will think about it. If I loved him the very least bit I should say no. If I had anything to do with my life I should say no. But it is simply a question of beating time till I die. Nothing that is coming matters. I may as well sit in his drawing-room and dust his furniture, since he has suggested it."

And Mr. Elliot, though he made certain stipulations, was positively glad to see her. People had begun to laugh at him, and to say that his wife had run away. She had not. She had been with his sister in Sweden. In a half miraculous way the matter was hushed up. Even the Silts only scented "something strange." When Stephen was born, it was abroad. When he came to England, it was as the child of a friend of Mr. Failing's. Mrs. Elliot returned unsuspected to her husband.; November 5, 2014 at 3:14 PM
Anonymous said...: But though things can be hushed up, there is no such thing as beating time; and as the years passed she realized her terrible mistake. When her lover sank, eluding her last embrace, she thought, as Agnes was to think after her, that her soul had sunk with him, and that never again should she be capable of earthly love. Nothing mattered. She might as well go and be useful to her husband and to the little boy who looked exactly like him, and who, she thought, was exactly like him in disposition. Then Stephen was born, and altered her life. She could still love people passionately; she still drew strength from the heroic past. Yet, to keep to her bond, she must see this son only as a stranger. She was protected be the conventions, and must pay them their fee. And a curious thing happened. Her second child drew her towards her first. She began to love Rickie also, and to be more than useful to him. And as her love revived, so did her capacity for suffering. Life, more important, grew more bitter. She minded her husband more, not less; and when at last he died, and she saw a glorious autumn, beautiful with the voices of boys who should call her mother, the end came for her as well, before she could remember the grave in the alien north and the dust that would never return to the dear fields that had given it.; November 5, 2014 at 3:16 PM
Anonymous said...: Why was Jay Tavare banned from the rug show coming up this weekend? I heard he can never return because he lied about being Native American and that he abused women here??; November 5, 2014 at 3:16 PM
Anonymous said...: Stephen, the son of these people, had one instinct that troubled him. At night—especially out of doors—it seemed rather strange that he was alive. The dry grass pricked his cheek, the fields were invisible and mute, and here was he, throwing stones at the darkness or smoking a pipe. The stones vanished, the pipe would burn out. But he would be here in the morning when the sun rose, and he would bathe, and run in the mist. He was proud of his good circulation, and in the morning it seemed quite natural. But at night, why should there be this difference between him and the acres of land that cooled all round him until the sun returned? What lucky chance had heated him up, and sent him, warm and lovable, into a passive world? He had other instincts, but these gave him no trouble. He simply gratified each as it occurred, provided he could do so without grave injury to his fellows. But the instinct to wonder at the night was not to be thus appeased. At first he had lived under the care of Mr. Failing the only person to whom his mother spoke freely, the only person who had treated her neither as a criminal nor as a pioneer. In their rare but intimate conversations she had asked him to educate her son. "I will teach him Latin," he answered. "The rest such a boy must remember." Latin, at all events, was a failure: who could attend to Virgil when the sound of the thresher arose, and you knew that the stack was decreasing and that rats rushed more plentifully each moment to their doom? But he was fond of Mr. Failing, and cried when he died. Mrs. Elliot, a pleasant woman, died soon after.

There was something fatal in the order of these deaths. Mr. Failing had made no provision for the boy in his will: his wife had promised to see to this. Then came Mr. Elliot's death, and, before the new home was created, the sudden death of Mrs. Elliot. She also left Stephen no money: she had none to leave. Chance threw him into the power of Mrs. Failing. "Let things go on as they are," she thought. "I will take care of this pretty little boy, and the ugly little boy can live with the Silts. After my death—well, the papers will be found after my death, and they can meet then. I like the idea of their mutual ignorance. It is amusing."

He was then twelve. With a few brief intervals of school, he lived in Wiltshire until he was driven out. Life had two distinct sides—the drawing-room and the other. In the drawing-room people talked a good deal, laughing as they talked. Being clever, they did not care for animals: one man had never seen a hedgehog. In the other life people talked and laughed separately, or even did neither. On the whole, in spite of the wet and gamekeepers, this life was preferable. He knew where he was. He glanced at the boy, or later at the man, and behaved accordingly. There was no law—the policeman was negligible. Nothing bound him but his own word, and he gave that sparingly.; November 5, 2014 at 3:17 PM
Anonymous said...: I heard Jay still lives in that run down drug building. Can't believe he still lives there. I went there once and never returned. It was awful. Like being in a jail cell and the walls were covered with photos of himself lol....TACKY!

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave apt #306
Hollywood, ca 90028

Here you can google it for yourself:
6615FRANKLIN.COM

I would kill myself if I had to live there; November 5, 2014 at 3:17 PM
Anonymous said...: It is impossible to be romantic when you have your heart's desire, and such a boy disappointed Mrs. Failing greatly. His parents had met for one brief embrace, had found one little interval between the power of the rulers of this world and the power of death. He was the child of poetry and of rebellion, and poetry should run in his veins. But he lived too near the things he loved to seem poetical. Parted from them, he might yet satisfy her, and stretch out his hands with a pagan's yearning. As it was, he only rode her horses, and trespassed, and bathed, and worked, for no obvious reason, upon her fields. Affection she did not believe in, and made no attempt to mould him; and he, for his part, was very content to harden untouched into a man. His parents had given him excellent gifts—health, sturdy limbs, and a face not ugly,—gifts that his habits confirmed. They had also given him a cloudless spirit—the spirit of the seventeen days in which he was created. But they had not given him the spirit of their sit years of waiting, and love for one person was never to be the greatest thing he knew.

"Philosophy" had postponed the quarrel between them. Incurious about his personal origin, he had a certain interest in our eternal problems. The interest never became a passion: it sprang out of his physical growth, and was soon merged in it again. Or, as he put it himself, "I must get fixed up before starting." He was soon fixed up as a materialist. Then he tore up the sixpenny reprints, and never amused Mrs. Failing so much again.

About the time he fixed himself up, he took to drink. He knew of no reason against it. The instinct was in him, and it hurt nobody. Here, as elsewhere, his motions were decided, and he passed at once from roaring jollity to silence. For those who live on the fuddled borderland, who crawl home by the railings and maunder repentance in the morning, he had a biting contempt. A man must take his tumble and his headache. He was, in fact, as little disgusting as is conceivable; and hitherto he had not strained his constitution or his will. Nor did he get drunk as often as Agnes suggested. The real quarrel gathered elsewhere.; November 5, 2014 at 3:18 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 3:19 PM
Anonymous said...: Presentable people have run wild in their youth. But the hour comes when they turn from their boorish company to higher things. This hour never came for Stephen. Somewhat a bully by nature, he kept where his powers would tell, and continued to quarrel and play with the men he had known as boys. He prolonged their youth unduly. "They won't settle down," said Mr. Wilbraham to his wife. "They're wanting things. It's the germ of a Trades Union. I shall get rid of a few of the worst." Then Stephen rushed up to Mrs. Failing and worried her. "It wasn't fair. So-and-so was a good sort. He did his work. Keen about it? No. Why should he be? Why should he be keen about somebody else's land? But keen enough. And very keen on football." She laughed, and said a word about So-and-so to Mr. Wilbraham. Mr. Wilbraham blazed up. "How could the farm go on without discipline? How could there be discipline if Mr. Stephen interfered? Mr. Stephen liked power. He spoke to the men like one of themselves, and pretended it was all equality, but he took care to come out top. Natural, of course, that, being a gentleman, he should. But not natural for a gentleman to loiter all day with poor people and learn their work, and put wrong notions into their heads, and carry their newfangled grievances to Mrs. Failing. Which partly accounted for the deficit on the past year." She rebuked Stephen. Then he lost his temper, was rude to her, and insulted Mr. Wilbraham.

The worst days of Mr. Failing's rule seemed to be returning. And Stephen had a practical experience, and also a taste for battle, that her husband had never possessed. He drew up a list of grievances, some absurd, others fundamental. No newspapers in the reading-room, you could put a plate under the Thompsons' door, no level cricket-pitch, no allotments and no time to work in them, Mrs. Wilbraham's knife-boy underpaid. "Aren't you a little unwise?" she asked coldly. "I am more bored than you think over the farm." She was wanting to correct the proofs of the book and rewrite the prefatory memoir. In her irritation she wrote to Agnes. Agnes replied sympathetically, and Mrs. Failing, clever as she was, fell into the power of the younger woman. They discussed him at first as a wretch of a boy; then he got drunk and somehow it seemed more criminal. All that she needed now was a personal grievance, which Agnes casually supplied. Though vindictive, she was determined to treat him well, and thought with satisfaction of our distant colonies. But he burst into an odd passion: he would sooner starve than leave England. "Why?" she asked. "Are you in love?" He picked up a lump of the chalk-they were by the arbour—and made no answer. The vicar murmured, "It is not like going abroad—Greater Britain—blood is thicker than water—" A lump of chalk broke her drawing-room window on the Saturday.

Thus Stephen left Wiltshire, half-blackguard, half-martyr. Do not brand him as a socialist. He had no quarrel with society, nor any particular belief in people because they are poor. He only held the creed of "here am I and there are you," and therefore class distinctions were trivial things to him, and life no decorous scheme, but a personal combat or a personal truce. For the same reason ancestry also was trivial, and a man not the dearer because the same woman was mother to them both. Yet it seemed worth while to go to Sawston with the news. Perhaps nothing would come of it; perhaps friendly intercourse, and a home while he looked around.; November 5, 2014 at 3:19 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 3:20 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 3:20 PM
Anonymous said...: When they wronged him he walked quietly away. He never thought of allotting the blame, nor or appealing to Ansell, who still sat brooding in the side-garden. He only knew that educated people could be horrible, and that a clean liver must never enter Dunwood House again. The air seemed stuffy. He spat in the gutter. Was it yesterday he had lain in the rifle-butts over Salisbury? Slightly aggrieved, he wondered why he was not back there now. "I ought to have written first," he reflected. "Here is my money gone. I cannot move. The Elliots have, as it were, practically robbed me." That was the only grudge he retained against them. Their suspicions and insults were to him as the curses of a tramp whom he passed by the wayside. They were dirty people, not his sort. He summed up the complicated tragedy as a "take in."

While Rickie was being carried upstairs, and while Ansell (had he known it) was dashing about the streets for him, he lay under a railway arch trying to settle his plans. He must pay back the friends who had given him shillings and clothes. He thought of Flea, whose Sundays he was spoiling—poor Flea, who ought to be in them now, shining before his girl. "I daresay he'll be ashamed and not go to see her, and then she'll take the other man." He was also very hungry. That worm Mrs. Elliot would be through her lunch by now. Trying his braces round him, and tearing up those old wet documents, he stepped forth to make money. A villainous young brute he looked: his clothes were dirty, and he had lost the spring of the morning. Touching the walls, frowning, talking to himself at times, he slouched disconsolately northwards; no wonder that some tawdry girls screamed at him, or that matrons averted their eyes as they hurried to afternoon church. He wandered from one suburb to another, till he was among people more villainous than himself, who bought his tobacco from him and sold him food. Again the neighbourhood "went up," and families, instead of sitting on their doorsteps, would sit behind thick muslin curtains. Again it would "go down" into a more avowed despair. Far into the night he wandered, until he came to a solemn river majestic as a stream in hell. Therein were gathered the waters of Central England—those that flow off Hindhead, off the Chilterns, off Wiltshire north of the Plain. Therein they were made intolerable ere they reached the sea. But the waters he had known escaped. Their course lay southward into the Avon by forests and beautiful fields, even swift, even pure, until they mirrored the tower of Christchurch and greeted the ramparts of the Isle of Wight. Of these he thought for a moment as he crossed the black river and entered the heart of the modern world. Here he found employment. He was not hampered by genteel traditions, and, as it was near quarter-day, managed to get taken on at a furniture warehouse. He moved people from the suburbs to London, from London to the suburbs, from one suburb to another. His companions were hurried and querulous. In particular, he loathed the foreman, a pious humbug who allowed no swearing, but indulged in something far more degraded—the Cockney repartee. The London intellect, so pert and shallow, like a stream that never reaches the ocean, disgusted him almost as much as the London physique, which for all its dexterity is not permanent, and seldom continues into the third generation. His father, had he known it, had felt the same; for between Mr. Elliot and the foreman the gulf was social, not spiritual: both spent their lives in trying to be clever. And Tony Failing had once put the thing into words: "There's no such thing as a Londoner. He's only a country man on the road to sterility."; November 5, 2014 at 3:21 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 3:22 PM
Anonymous said...: At the end of ten days he had saved scarcely anything. Once he passed the bank where a hundred pounds lay ready for him, but it was still inconvenient for him to take them. Then duty sent him to a suburb not very far from Sawston. In the evening a man who was driving a trap asked him to hold it, and by mistake tipped him a sovereign. Stephen called after him; but the man had a woman with him and wanted to show off, and though he had meant to tip a shilling, and could not afford that, he shouted back that his sovereign was as good as any one's, and that if Stephen did not think so he could do various things and go to various places. On the action of this man much depends. Stephen changed the sovereign into a postal order, and sent it off to the people at Cadford. It did not pay them back, but it paid them something, and he felt that his soul was free.

A few shillings remained in his pocket. They would have paid his fare towards Wiltshire, a good county; but what should he do there? Who would employ him? Today the journey did not seem worth while. "Tomorrow, perhaps," he thought, and determined to spend the money on pleasure of another kind. Two-pence went for a ride on an electric tram. From the top he saw the sun descend—a disc with a dark red edge. The same sun was descending over Salisbury intolerably bright. Out of the golden haze the spire would be piercing, like a purple needle; then mists arose from the Avon and the other streams. Lamps flickered, but in the outer purity the villages were already slumbering. Salisbury is only a Gothic upstart beside these. For generations they have come down to her to buy or to worship, and have found in her the reasonable crisis of their lives; but generations before she was built they were clinging to the soil, and renewing it with sheep and dogs and men, who found the crisis of their lives upon Stonehenge. The blood of these men ran in Stephen; the vigour they had won for him was as yet untarnished; out on those downs they had united with rough women to make the thing he spoke of as "himself"; the last of them has rescued a woman of a different kind from streets and houses such as these. As the sun descended he got off the tram with a smile of expectation. A public-house lay opposite, and a boy in a dirty uniform was already lighting its enormous lamp. His lips parted, and he went in.

Two hours later, when Rickie and Herbert were going the rounds, a brick came crashing at the study window. Herbert peered into the garden, and a hooligan slipped by him into the house, wrecked the hall, lurched up the stairs, fell against the banisters, balanced for a moment on his spine, and slid over. Herbert called for the police. Rickie, who was upon the landing, caught the man by the knees and saved his life.

"What is it?" cried Agnes, emerging.

"It's Stephen come back," was the answer. "Hullo, Stephen!"; November 5, 2014 at 3:22 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 3:23 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 3:23 PM
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───▓█───────────────────────────▒▓▓██▒; November 5, 2014 at 3:26 PM
Anonymous said...: Hither had Rickie moved in ten days—from disgust to penitence, from penitence to longing from a life of horror to a new life, in which he still surprised himself by unexpected words. Hullo, Stephen! For the son of his mother had come back, to forgive him, as she would have done, to live with him, as she had planned.

"He's drunk this time," said Agnes wearily. She too had altered: the scandal was ageing her, and Ansell came to the house daily.

"Hullo, Stephen!"

But Stephen was now insensible.

"Stephen, you live here—"

"Good gracious me!" interposed Herbert. "My advice is, that we all go to bed. The less said the better while our nerves are in this state. Very well, Rickie. Of course, Wonham sleeps the night if you wish." They carried the drunken mass into the spare room. A mass of scandal it seemed to one of them, a symbol of redemption to the other. Neither acknowledged it a man, who would answer them back after a few hours' rest.

"Ansell thought he would never forgive me," said Rickie. "For once he's wrong."

"Come to bed now, I think." And as Rickie laid his hand on the sleeper's hair, he added, "You won't do anything foolish, will you? You are still in a morbid state. Your poor mother—Pardon me, dear boy; it is my turn to speak out. You thought it was your father, and minded. It is your mother. Surely you ought to mind more?"

"I have been too far back," said Rickie gently. "Ansell took me on a journey that was even new to him. We got behind right and wrong, to a place where only one thing matters—that the Beloved should rise from the dead."

"But you won't do anything rash?"

"Why should I?"

"Remember poor Agnes," he stammered. "I—I am the first to acknowledge that we might have pursued a different policy. But we are committed to it now. It makes no difference whose son he is. I mean, he is the same person. You and I and my sister stand or fall together. It was our agreement from the first. I hope—No more of these distressing scenes with her, there's a dear fellow. I assure you they make my heart bleed."

"Things will quiet down now."

"To bed now; I insist upon that much."

"Very well," said Rickie, and when they were in the passage, locked the door from the outside. "We want no more muddles," he explained.; November 5, 2014 at 3:30 PM
Anonymous said...: Mr. Pembroke was left examining the hall. The bust of Hermes was broken. So was the pot of the palm. He could not go to bed without once more sounding Rickie. "You'll do nothing rash," he called. "The notion of him living here was, of course, a passing impulse. We three have adopted a common policy."

"Now, you go away!" called a voice that was almost flippant. "I never did belong to that great sect whose doctrine is that each one should select—at least, I'm not going to belong to it any longer. Go away to bed."

"A good night's rest is what you need," threatened Herbert, and retired, not to find one for himself.

But Rickie slept. The guilt of months and the remorse of the last ten days had alike departed. He had thought that his life was poisoned, and lo! it was purified. He had cursed his mother, and Ansell had replied, "You may be right, but you stand too near to settle. Step backwards. Pretend that it happened to me. Do you want me to curse my mother? Now, step forward and see whether anything has changed." Something had changed. He had journeyed—as on rare occasions a man must—till he stood behind right and wrong. On the banks of the grey torrent of life, love is the only flower. A little way up the stream and a little way down had Rickie glanced, and he knew that she whom he loved had risen from the dead, and might rise again. "Come away—let them die out—let them die out." Surely that dream was a vision! To-night also he hurried to the window—to remember, with a smile, that Orion is not among the stars of June.

"Let me die out. She will continue," he murmured, and in making plans for Stephen's happiness, fell asleep.

Next morning after breakfast he announced that his brother must live at Dunwood House. They were awed by the very moderation of his tone. "There's nothing else to be done. Cadover's hopeless, and a boy of those tendencies can't go drifting. There is also the question of a profession for him, and his allowance."

"We have to thank Mr. Ansell for this," was all that Agnes could say; and "I foresee disaster," was the contribution of Herbert.

"There's plenty of money about," Rickie continued. "Quite a man's-worth too much. It has been one of our absurdities. Don't look so sad, Herbert. I'm sorry for you people, but he's sure to let us down easy." For his experience of drunkards and of Stephen was small.

He supposed that he had come without malice to renew the offer of ten days ago.

"It is the end of Dunwood House."

Rickie nodded, and hoped not. Agnes, who was not looking well, began to cry. "Oh, it is too bad," she complained, "when I've saved you from him all these years." But he could not pity her, nor even sympathize with her wounded delicacy. The time for such nonsense was over. He would take his share of the blame: it was cant to assume it all.; November 5, 2014 at 3:32 PM
Anonymous said...: Perhaps he was over-hard. He did not realize how large his share was, nor how his very virtues were to blame for her deterioration. "If I had a girl, I'd keep her in line," is not the remark of a fool nor of a cad. Rickie had not kept his wife in line. He had shown her all the workings of his soul, mistaking this for love; and in consequence she was the worse woman after two years of marriage, and he, on this morning of freedom, was harder upon her than he need have been.

The spare room bell rang. Herbert had a painful struggle between curiosity and duty, for the bell for chapel was ringing also, and he must go through the drizzle to school. He promised to come up in the interval, Rickie, who had rapped his head that Sunday on the edge of the table, was still forbidden to work. Before him a quiet morning lay. Secure of his victory, he took the portrait of their mother in his hand and walked leisurely upstairs. The bell continued to ring.

"See about his breakfast," he called to Agnes, who replied, "Very well." The handle of the spare room door was moving slowly. "I'm coming," he cried. The handle was still. He unlocked and entered, his heart full of charity.

But within stood a man who probably owned the world.

Rickie scarcely knew him; last night he had seemed so colorless, no negligible. In a few hours he had recaptured motion and passion and the imprint of the sunlight and the wind. He stood, not consciously heroic, with arms that dangled from broad stooping shoulders, and feet that played with a hassock on the carpet. But his hair was beautiful against the grey sky, and his eyes, recalling the sky unclouded, shot past the intruder as if to some worthier vision. So intent was their gaze that Rickie himself glanced backwards, only to see the neat passage and the banisters at the top of the stairs. Then the lips beat together twice, and out burst a torrent of amazing words.

"Add it all up, and let me know how much. I'd sooner have died. It never took me that way before. I must have broken pounds' worth. If you'll not tell the police, I promise you shan't lose, Mr. Elliot, I swear. But it may be months before I send it. Everything is to be new. You've not to be a penny out of pocket, do you see? Do let me go, this once again."

"What's the trouble?" asked Rickie, as if they had been friends for years. "My dear man, we've other things to talk about. Gracious me, what a fuss! If you'd smashed the whole house I wouldn't mind, so long as you came back."

"I'd sooner have died," gulped Stephen.

"You did nearly! It was I who caught you. Never mind yesterday's rag. What can you manage for breakfast?"

The face grew more angry and more puzzled. "Yesterday wasn't a rag," he said without focusing his eyes. "I was drunk, but naturally meant it."

"Meant what?"

"To smash you. Bad liquor did what Mrs. Elliot couldn't. I've put myself in the wrong. You've got me."

It was a poor beginning.; November 5, 2014 at 3:33 PM
Anonymous said...: yup thats the gun you probably smashed Morgan in the head with then raped her 16 yr old sister...You prick!; November 5, 2014 at 3:42 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 4:13 PM
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║░╚░╩░╩═╝╩═╝╩║╚╝╚═╝░░║║║╚═╝▄░; November 5, 2014 at 4:24 PM
Anonymous said...: Nope Wish is was all a big fat dream but:

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 5, 2014 at 4:29 PM
Anonymous said...: Where did the pretender go?? Galanga for early dinner special or Beans in a can lol; November 5, 2014 at 5:08 PM
Anonymous said...: Oh Lawd Time for the bug spray you know one of these nights when those guys across in those apartments are using their infrared lights to peer in on his living room, he will feel that red laser on his chest or head and he will have to come out with his hands up or jump; November 5, 2014 at 5:29 PM
Anonymous said...: I think he's eating his can of beans; November 5, 2014 at 5:55 PM
Anonymous said...: Sultani for day old Persian food where he can freely speak his native Iranian tongue; November 5, 2014 at 6:53 PM
Anonymous said...: If you want to fuck Jay Tavare visit him here:

Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin Ave, Apt #306
Hollywood, CA 90028; November 5, 2014 at 11:13 PM
Anonymous said...: NADER JANANI, you are free to post as many excerpts of "The Longest Journey" written E. M. Forster as you want, even
the whole compendium of Shakespeare's dramatic, but you will not stop us from posting. You are an uneducated fool, NADER JANANI.; November 5, 2014 at 11:39 PM
Anonymous said...: If you wanna meet Jay for a quick fuck in the bathroom go here: http://www.sultanigoodfood.com/; November 5, 2014 at 11:41 PM
Anonymous said...: corrected text :)

NADER JANANI, you are free to post as many excerpts of "The Longest Journey" written by E. M. Forster as you want, even
the whole compendium of Shakespeare's dramatic works, but you will not stop us from posting. You are an uneducated fool, NADER JANANI.; November 5, 2014 at 11:51 PM
Anonymous said...: Nader Janani

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra; November 6, 2014 at 12:18 AM
Anonymous said...: Jay had another meltdown.....yelling at everyone. The words and threats that come out of his mouth could have him arrested. He feels useless he says but he won't change his evil ways.Then he deserves all this torment and more.
KARMA; November 6, 2014 at 4:59 AM
Anonymous said...: It's so satisfying sitting back and watching him CRASH AND BURN.....; November 6, 2014 at 5:14 AM
Anonymous said...: "As I have got you," said Rickie, controlling himself, "I want to have a talk with you. There has been a ghastly mistake."

But Stephen, with a countryman's persistency, continued on his own line. He meant to be civil, but Rickie went cold round the mouth. For he had not even been angry with them. Until he was drunk, they had been dirty people—not his sort. Then the trivial injury recurred, and he had reeled to smash them as he passed. "And I will pay for everything," was his refrain, with which the sighing of raindrops mingled. "You shan't lose a penny, if only you let me free."

"You'll pay for my coffin if you talk like that any longer! Will you, one, forgive my frightful behaviour; two, live with me?" For his only hope was in a cheerful precision.

Stephen grew more agitated. He thought it was some trick.

"I was saying I made an unspeakable mistake. Ansell put me right, but it was too late to find you. Don't think I got off easily. Ansell doesn't spare one. And you've got to forgive me, to share my life, to share my money.—I've brought you this photograph—I want it to be the first thing you accept from me—you have the greater right—I know all the story now. You know who it is?"

"Oh yes; but I don't want to drag all that in."

"It is only her wish if we live together. She was planning it when she died."

"I can't follow—because—to share your life? Did you know I called here last Sunday week?"

"Yes. But then I only knew half. I thought you were my father's son."

Stephen's anger and bewilderment were increasing. He stuttered. "What—what's the odds if you did?"

"I hated my father," said Rickie. "I loved my mother." And never had the phrases seemed so destitute of meaning.

"Last Sunday week," interrupted Stephen, his voice suddenly rising, "I came to call on you. Not as this or that's son. Not to fall on your neck. Nor to live here. Nor—damn your dirty little mind! I meant to say I didn't come for money. Sorry. Sorry. I simply came as I was, and I haven't altered since."

"Yes—yet our mother—for me she has risen from the dead since then—I know I was wrong—"

"And where do I come in?" He kicked the hassock. "I haven't risen from the dead. I haven't altered since last Sunday week. I'm—" He stuttered again. He could not quite explain what he was. "The man towards Andover—after all, he was having principles. But you've—" His voice broke. "I mind it—I'm—I don't alter—blackguard one week—live here the next—I keep to one or the other—you've hurt something most badly in me that I didn't know was there."

"Don't let us talk," said Rickie. "It gets worse every minute. Simply say you forgive me; shake hands, and have done with it."

"That I won't. That I couldn't. In fact, I don't know what you mean."; November 6, 2014 at 12:07 PM
Anonymous said...: Then Rickie began a new appeal—not to pity, for now he was in no mood to whimper. For all its pathos, there was something heroic in this meeting. "I warn you to stop here with me, Stephen. No one else in the world will look after you. As far as I know, you have never been really unhappy yet or suffered, as you should do, from your faults. Last night you nearly killed yourself with drink. Never mind why I'm willing to cure you. I am willing, and I warn you to give me the chance. Forgive me or not, as you choose. I care for other things more."

Stephen looked at him at last, faintly approving. The offer was ridiculous, but it did treat him as a man.

"Let me tell you of a fault of mine, and how I was punished for it," continued Rickie. "Two years ago I behaved badly to you, up at the Rings. No, even a few days before that. We went for a ride, and I thought too much of other matters, and did not try to understand you. Then came the Rings, and in the evening, when you called up to me most kindly, I never answered. But the ride was the beginning. Ever since then I have taken the world at second-hand. I have bothered less and less to look it in the face—until not only you, but every one else has turned unreal. Never Ansell: he kept away, and somehow saved himself. But every one else. Do you remember in one of Tony Failing's books, 'Cast bitter bread upon the waters, and after many days it really does come back to you'? This had been true of my life; it will be equally true of a drunkard's, and I warn you to stop with me."

"I can't stop after that cheque," said Stephen more gently. "But I do remember the ride. I was a bit bored myself."

Agnes, who had not been seeing to the breakfast, chose this moment to call from the passage. "Of course he can't stop," she exclaimed. "For better or worse, it's settled. We've none of us altered since last Sunday week."

"There you're right, Mrs. Elliot!" he shouted, starting out of the temperate past. "We haven't altered." With a rare flash of insight he turned on Rickie. "I see your game. You don't care about ME drinking, or to shake MY hand. It's some one else you want to cure—as it were, that old photograph. You talk to me, but all the time you look at the photograph." He snatched it up.

"I've my own ideas of good manners, and to look friends between the eyes is one of them; and this"—he tore the photograph across "and this"—he tore it again—"and these—" He flung the pieces at the man, who had sunk into a chair. "For my part, I'm off."

Then Rickie was heroic no longer. Turning round in his chair, he covered his face. The man was right. He did not love him, even as he had never hated him. In either passion he had degraded him to be a symbol for the vanished past. The man was right, and would have been lovable. He longed to be back riding over those windy fields, to be back in those mystic circles, beneath pure sky. Then they could have watched and helped and taught each other, until the word was a reality, and the past not a torn photograph, but Demeter the goddess rejoicing in the spring. Ah, if he had seized those high opportunities! For they led to the highest of all, the symbolic moment, which, if a man accepts, he has accepted life.; November 6, 2014 at 12:13 PM
Anonymous said...: The voice of Agnes, which had lured him then ("For my sake," she had whispered), pealed over him now in triumph. Abruptly it broke into sobs that had the effect of rain. He started up. The anger had died out of Stephen's face, not for a subtle reason but because here was a woman, near him, and unhappy.

She tried to apologize, and brought on a fresh burst of tears. Something had upset her. They heard her locking the door of her room. From that moment their intercourse was changed.

"Why does she keep crying today?" mused Rickie, as if he spoke to some mutual friend.

"I can make a guess," said Stephen, and his heavy face flushed.

"Did you insult her?" he asked feebly.

"But who's Gerald?"

Rickie raised his hand to his mouth.

"She looked at me as if she knew me, and then gasps 'Gerald,' and started crying."

"Gerald is the name of some one she once knew."

"So I thought." There was a long silence, in which they could hear a piteous gulping cough. "Where is he now?" asked Stephen.

"Dead."

"And then you—?"

Rickie nodded.

"Bad, this sort of thing."

"I didn't know of this particular thing. She acted as if she had forgotten him. Perhaps she had, and you woke him up. There are queer tricks in the world. She is overstrained. She has probably been plotting ever since you burst in last night."

"Against me?"

"Yes."

Stephen stood irresolute. "I suppose you and she pulled together?" He said at last.

"Get away from us, man! I mind losing you. Yet it's as well you don't stop."; November 6, 2014 at 12:14 PM
Anonymous said...: "Oh, THAT'S out of the question," said Stephen, brushing his cap.

"If you've guessed anything, I'd be obliged if you didn't mention it. I've no right to ask, but I'd be obliged."

He nodded, and walked slowly along the landing and down the stairs. Rickie accompanied him, and even opened the front door. It was as if Agnes had absorbed the passion out of both of them. The suburb was now wrapped in a cloud, not of its own making. Sigh after sigh passed along its streets to break against dripping walls. The school, the houses were hidden, and all civilization seemed in abeyance. Only the simplest sounds, the simplest desires emerged. They agreed that this weather was strange after such a sunset.

"That's a collie," said Stephen, listening.

"I wish you'd have some breakfast before starting."

"No food, thanks. But you know" He paused. "It's all been a muddle, and I've no objection to your coming along with me."

The cloud descended lower.

"Come with me as a man," said Stephen, already out in the mist. "Not as a brother; who cares what people did years back? We're alive together, and the rest is cant. Here am I, Rickie, and there are you, a fair wreck. They've no use for you here,—never had any, if the truth was known,—and they've only made you beastly. This house, so to speak, has the rot. It's common-sense that you should come."

"Stephen, wait a minute. What do you mean?"

"Wait's what we won't do," said Stephen at the gate.

"I must ask—"

He did wait for a minute, and sobs were heard, faint, hopeless, vindictive. Then he trudged away, and Rickie soon lost his colour and his form. But a voice persisted, saying, "Come, I do mean it. Come; I will take care of you, I can manage you."

The words were kind; yet it was not for their sake that Rickie plunged into the impalpable cloud. In the voice he had found a surer guarantee. Habits and sex may change with the new generation, features may alter with the play of a private passion, but a voice is apart from these. It lies nearer to the racial essence and perhaps to the divine; it can, at all events, overleap one grave.; November 6, 2014 at 12:15 PM
Anonymous said...: Mr. Pembroke did not receive a clear account of what had happened when he returned for the interval. His sister—he told her frankly—was concealing something from him. She could make no reply. Had she gone mad, she wondered. Hitherto she had pretended to love her husband. Why choose such a moment for the truth?

"But I understand Rickie's position," he told her. "It is an unbalanced position, yet I understand it; I noted its approach while he was ill. He imagines himself his brother's keeper. Therefore we must make concessions. We must negotiate." The negotiations were still progressing in November, the month during which this story draws to its close.

"I understand his position," he then told her. "It is both weak and defiant. He is still with those Ansells. Read this letter, which thanks me for his little stories. We sent them last month, you remember—such of them as we could find. It seems that he fills up his time by writing: he has already written a book."

She only gave him half her attention, for a beautiful wreath had just arrived from the florist's. She was taking it up to the cemetery: today her child had been dead a year.

"On the other hand, he has altered his will. Fortunately, he cannot alter much. But I fear that what is not settled on you, will go. Should I read what I wrote on this point, and also my minutes of the interview with old Mr. Ansell, and the copy of my correspondence with Stephen Wonham?"

But her fly was announced. While he put the wreath in for her, she ran for a moment upstairs. A few tears had come to her eyes. A scandalous divorce would have been more bearable than this withdrawal. People asked, "Why did her husband leave her?" and the answer came, "Oh, nothing particular; he only couldn't stand her; she lied and taught him to lie; she kept him from the work that suited him, from his friends, from his brother,—in a word, she tried to run him, which a man won't pardon." A few tears; not many. To her, life never showed itself as a classic drama, in which, by trying to advance our fortunes, we shatter them. She had turned Stephen out of Wiltshire, and he fell like a thunderbolt on Sawston and on herself. In trying to gain Mrs. Failing's money she had probably lost money which would have been her own. But irony is a subtle teacher, and she was not the woman to learn from such lessons as these. Her suffering was more direct. Three men had wronged her; therefore she hated them, and, if she could, would do them harm.

"These negotiations are quite useless," she told Herbert when she came downstairs. "We had much better bide our time. Tell me just about Stephen Wonham, though."

He drew her into the study again. "Wonham is or was in Scotland, learning to farm with connections of the Ansells: I believe the money is to go towards setting him up. Apparently he is a hard worker. He also drinks!"

She nodded and smiled. "More than he did?"

"My informant, Mr. Tilliard—oh, I ought not to have mentioned his name. He is one of the better sort of Rickie's Cambridge friends, and has been dreadfully grieved at the collapse, but he does not want to be mixed up in it. This autumn he was up in the Lowlands, close by, and very kindly made a few unobtrusive inquiries for me. The man is becoming an habitual drunkard."

She smiled again. Stephen had evoked her secret, and she hated him more for that than for anything else that he had done. The poise of his shoulders that morning—it was no more—had recalled Gerald.; November 6, 2014 at 12:17 PM
Anonymous said...: If only she had not been so tired! He had reminded her of the greatest thing she had known, and to her cloudy mind this seemed degradation. She had turned to him as to her lover; with a look, which a man of his type understood, she had asked for his pity; for one terrible moment she had desired to be held in his arms. Even Herbert was surprised when she said, "I'm glad he drinks. I hope he'll kill himself. A man like that ought never to have been born."

"Perhaps the sins of the parents are visited on the children," said Herbert, taking her to the carriage. "Yet it is not for us to decide."

"I feel sure he will be punished. What right has he—" She broke off. What right had he to our common humanity? It was a hard lesson for any one to learn. For Agnes it was impossible. Stephen was illicit, abnormal, worse than a man diseased. Yet she had turned to him: he had drawn out the truth.

"My dear, don't cry," said her brother, drawing up the windows. "I have great hopes of Mr. Tilliard—the Silts have written—Mrs. Failing will do what she can—"

As she drove to the cemetery, her bitterness turned against Ansell, who had kept her husband alive in the days after Stephen's expulsion. If he had not been there, Rickie would have renounced his mother and his brother and all the outer world, troubling no one. The mystic, inherent in him, would have prevailed. So Ansell himself had told her. And Ansell, too, had sheltered the fugitives and given them money, and saved them from the ludicrous checks that so often stop young men. But when she reached the cemetery, and stood beside the tiny grave, all her bitterness, all her hatred were turned against Rickie.

"But he'll come back in the end," she thought. "A wife has only to wait. What are his friends beside me? They too will marry. I have only to wait. His book, like all that he has done, will fail. His brother is drinking himself away. Poor aimless Rickie! I have only to keep civil. He will come back in the end."

She had moved, and found herself close to the grave of Gerald. The flowers she had planted after his death were dead, and she had not liked to renew them. There lay the athlete, and his dust was as the little child's whom she had brought into the world with such hope, with such pain.; November 6, 2014 at 12:17 PM
Anonymous said...: That same day Rickie, feeling neither poor nor aimless, left the Ansells' for a night's visit to Cadover. His aunt had invited him—why, he could not think, nor could he think why he should refuse the invitation. She could not annoy him now, and he was not vindictive. In the dell near Madingley he had cried, "I hate no one," in his ignorance. Now, with full knowledge, he hated no one again. The weather was pleasant, the county attractive, and he was ready for a little change.

Maud and Stewart saw him off. Stephen, who was down for the holiday, had been left with his chin on the luncheon table. He had wanted to come also. Rickie pointed out that you cannot visit where you have broken the windows. There was an argument—there generally was—and now the young man had turned sulky.

"Let him do what he likes," said Ansell. "He knows more than we do. He knows everything."

"Is he to get drunk?" Rickie asked.

"Most certainly."

"And to go where he isn't asked?"

Maud, though liking a little spirit in a man, declared this to be impossible.

"Well, I wish you joy!" Rickie called, as the train moved away. "He means mischief this evening. He told me piously that he felt it beating up. Good-bye!"

"But we'll wait for you to pass," they cried. For the Salisbury train always backed out of the station and then returned, and the Ansell family, including Stewart, took an incredible pleasure in seeing it do this.; November 6, 2014 at 12:19 PM
Anonymous said...: The carriage was empty. Rickie settled himself down for his little journey. First he looked at the coloured photographs. Then he read the directions for obtaining luncheon-baskets, and felt the texture of the cushions. Through the windows a signal-box interested him. Then he saw the ugly little town that was now his home, and up its chief street the Ansells' memorable facade. The spirit of a genial comedy dwelt there. It was so absurd, so kindly. The house was divided against itself and yet stood. Metaphysics, commerce, social aspirations—all lived together in harmony. Mr. Ansell had done much, but one was tempted to believe in a more capricious power—the power that abstains from "nipping." "One nips or is nipped, and never knows beforehand," quoted Rickie, and opened the poems of Shelley, a man less foolish than you supposed. How pleasant it was to read! If business worried him, if Stephen was noisy or Ansell perverse, there still remained this paradise of books. It seemed as if he had read nothing for two years. Then the train stopped for the shunting, and he heard protests from minor officials who were working on the line. They complained that some one who didn't ought to, had mounted on the footboard of the carriage. Stephen's face appeared, convulsed with laughter. With the action of a swimmer he dived in through the open window, and fell comfortably on Rickie's luggage and Rickie. He declared it was the finest joke ever known. Rickie was not so sure. "You'll be run over next," he said. "What did you do that for?"

"I'm coming with you," he giggled, rolling all that he could on to the dusty floor.

"Now, Stephen, this is too bad. Get up. We went into the whole question yesterday."

"I know; and I settled we wouldn't go into it again, spoiling my holiday."

"Well, it's execrable taste."

Now he was waving to the Ansells, and showing them a piece of soap: it was all his luggage, and even that he abandoned, for he flung it at Stewart's lofty brow.

"I can't think what you've done it for. You know how strongly I felt."

Stephen replied that he should stop in the village; meet Rickie at the lodge gates; that kind of thing.

"It's execrable taste," he repeated, trying to keep grave.

"Well, you did all you could," he exclaimed with sudden sympathy. "Leaving me talking to old Ansell, you might have thought you'd got your way. I've as much taste as most chaps, but, hang it! your aunt isn't the German Emperor. She doesn't own Wiltshire."

"You ass!" sputtered Rickie, who had taken to laugh at nonsense again.

"No, she isn't," he repeated, blowing a kiss out of the window to maidens. "Why, we started for Wiltshire on the wet morning!"

"When Stewart found us at Sawston railway station?" He smiled happily. "I never thought we should pull through."; November 6, 2014 at 12:20 PM
Anonymous said...: "Well, we DIDN'T. We never did what we meant. It's nonsense that I couldn't have managed you alone. I've a notion. Slip out after your dinner this evening, and we'll get thundering tight together."

"I've a notion I won't."

"It'd do you no end of good. You'll get to know people—shepherds, carters—" He waved his arms vaguely, indicating democracy. "Then you'll sing."

"And then?"

"Plop."

"Precisely."

"But I'll catch you," promised Stephen. "We shall carry you up the hill to bed. In the morning you wake, have your row with old Em'ly, she kicks you out, we meet—we'll meet at the Rings!" He danced up and down the carriage. Some one in the next carriage punched at the partition, and when this happens, all lads with mettle know that they must punch the partition back.

"Thank you. I've a notion I won't," said Rickie when the noise had subsided—subsided for a moment only, for the following conversation took place to an accompaniment of dust and bangs. "Except as regards the Rings. We will meet there."

"Then I'll get tight by myself."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will. I swore to do something special this evening. I feel like it."

"In that case, I get out at the next station." He was laughing, but quite determined. Stephen had grown too dictatorial of late. The Ansells spoilt him. "It's bad enough having you there at all. Having you there drunk is impossible. I'd sooner not visit my aunt than think, when I sat with her, that you're down in the village teaching her labourers to be as beastly as yourself. Go if you will. But not with me."

"Why shouldn't I have a good time while I'm young, if I don't harm any one?" said Stephen defiantly.

"Need we discuss self."

"Oh, I can stop myself any minute I choose. I just say 'I won't' to you or any other fool, and I don't."; November 6, 2014 at 12:21 PM
Anonymous said...: Rickie knew that the boast was true. He continued, "There is also a thing called Morality. You may learn in the Bible, and also from the Greeks, that your body is a temple."

"So you said in your longest letter."

"Probably I wrote like a prig, for the reason that I have never been tempted in this way; but surely it is wrong that your body should escape you."

"I don't follow," he retorted, punching.

"It isn't right, even for a little time, to forget that you exist."

"I suppose you've never been tempted to go to sleep?"

Just then the train passed through a coppice in which the grey undergrowth looked no more alive than firewood. Yet every twig in it was waiting for the spring. Rickie knew that the analogy was false, but argument confused him, and he gave up this line of attack also.

"Do be more careful over life. If your body escapes you in one thing, why not in more? A man will have other temptations."

"You mean women," said Stephen quietly, pausing for a moment in this game. "But that's absolutely different. That would be harming some one else."

"Is that the only thing that keeps you straight?"

"What else should?" And he looked not into Rickie, but past him, with the wondering eyes of a child. Rickie nodded, and referred himself to the window.

He observed that the country was smoother and more plastic. The woods had gone, and under a pale-blue sky long contours of earth were flowing, and merging, rising a little to bear some coronal of beeches, parting a little to disclose some green valley, where cottages stood under elms or beside translucent waters. It was Wiltshire at last. The train had entered the chalk. At last it slackened at a wayside platform. Without speaking he opened the door.

"What's that for?"

"To go back."

Stephen had forgotten the threat. He said that this was not playing the game.

"Surely!"

"I can't have you going back."

"Promise to behave decently then."

He was seized and pulled away from the door.

"We change at Salisbury," he remarked. "There is an hour to wait. You will find me troublesome."

"It isn't fair," exploded Stephen. "It's a lowdown trick. How can I let you go back?"

"Promise, then."; November 6, 2014 at 12:22 PM
Anonymous said...: "Oh, yes, yes, yes. Y.M.C.A. But for this occasion only."

"No, no. For the rest of your holiday."

"Yes, yes. Very well. I promise."

"For the rest of your life?"

Somehow it pleased him that Stephen should bang him crossly with his elbow and say, "No. Get out. You've gone too far." So had the train. The porter at the end of the wayside platform slammed the door, and they proceeded toward Salisbury through the slowly modulating downs. Rickie pretended to read. Over the book he watched his brother's face, and wondered how bad temper could be consistent with a mind so radiant. In spite of his obstinacy and conceit, Stephen was an easy person to live with. He never fidgeted or nursed hidden grievances, or indulged in a shoddy pride. Though he spent Rickie's money as slowly as he could, he asked for it without apology: "You must put it down against me," he would say. In time—it was still very vague—he would rent or purchase a farm. There is no formula in which we may sum up decent people. So Ansell had preached, and had of course proceeded to offer a formula: "They must be serious, they must be truthful." Serious not in the sense of glum; but they must be convinced that our life is a state of some importance, and our earth not a place to beat time on. Of so much Stephen was convinced: he showed it in his work, in his play, in his self-respect, and above all—though the fact is hard to face-in his sacred passion for alcohol. Drink, today, is an unlovely thing. Between us and the heights of Cithaeron the river of sin now flows. Yet the cries still call from the mountain, and granted a man has responded to them, it is better he respond with the candour of the Greek.

"I shall stop at the Thompsons' now," said the disappointed reveller. "Prayers."

Rickie did not press his triumph, but it was a happy moment, partly because of the triumph, partly because he was sure that his brother must care for him. Stephen was too selfish to give up any pleasure without grave reasons. He was certain that he had been right to disentangle himself from Sawston, and to ignore the threats and tears that still tempted him to return. Here there was real work for him to do. Moreover, though he sought no reward, it had come. His health was better, his brain sound, his life washed clean, not by the waters of sentiment, but by the efforts of a fellow-man. Stephen was man first, brother afterwards. Herein lay his brutality and also his virtue. "Look me in the face. Don't hang on me clothes that don't belong—as you did on your wife, giving her saint's robes, whereas she was simply a woman of her own sort, who needed careful watching. Tear up the photographs. Here am I, and there are you. The rest is cant." The rest was not cant, and perhaps Stephen would confess as much in time. But Rickie needed a tonic, and a man, not a brother, must hold it to his lips.

"I see the old spire," he called, and then added, "I don't mind seeing it again."; November 6, 2014 at 12:23 PM
Anonymous said...: "No one does, as far as I know. People have come from the other side of the world to see it again."

"Pious people. But I don't hold with bishops." He was young enough to be uneasy. The cathedral, a fount of superstition, must find no place in his life. At the age of twenty he had settled things.

"I've got my own philosophy," he once told Ansell, "and I don't care a straw about yours." Ansell's mirth had annoyed him not a little. And it was strange that one so settled should feel his heart leap up at the sight of an old spire. "I regard it as a public building," he told Rickie, who agreed. "It's useful, too, as a landmark." His attitude today was defensive. It was part of a subtle change that Rickie had noted in him since his return from Scotland. His face gave hints of a new maturity. "You can see the old spire from the Ridgeway," he said, suddenly laying a hand on Rickie's knee, "before rain as clearly as any telegraph post."

"How far is the Ridgeway?"

"Seventeen miles."

"Which direction?"

"North, naturally. North again from that you see Devizes, the vale of Pewsey, and the other downs. Also towards Bath. It is something of a view. You ought to get on the Ridgeway."

"I shouldn't have time for that."

"Or Beacon Hill. Or let's do Stonehenge."

"If it's fine, I suggest the Rings."

"It will be fine." Then he murmured the names of villages.

"I wish you could live here," said Rickie kindly. "I believe you love these particular acres more than the whole world."

Stephen replied that this was not the case: he was only used to them. He wished they were driving out, instead of waiting for the Cadchurch train.

They had advanced into Salisbury, and the cathedral, a public building, was grey against a tender sky. Rickie suggested that, while waiting for the train, they should visit it. He spoke of the incomparable north porch. "I've never been inside it, and I never will. Sorry to shock you, Rickie, but I must tell you plainly. I'm an atheist. I don't believe in anything."

"I do," said Rickie.; November 6, 2014 at 12:24 PM
Anonymous said...: "When a man dies, it's as if he's never been," he asserted. The train drew up in Salisbury station. Here a little incident took place which caused them to alter their plans.

They found outside the station a trap driven by a small boy, who had come in from Cadford to fetch some wire-netting. "That'll do us," said Stephen, and called to the boy, "If I pay your railway-ticket back, and if I give you sixpence as well, will you let us drive back in the trap?" The boy said no. "It will be all right," said Rickie. "I am Mrs. Failing's nephew." The boy shook his head. "And you know Mr. Wonham?" The boy couldn't say he didn't. "Then what's your objection? Why? What is it? Why not?" But Stephen leant against the time-tables and spoke of other matters.

Presently the boy said, "Did you say you'd pay my railway-ticket back, Mr. Wonham?"

"Yes," said a bystander. "Didn't you hear him?"

"I heard him right enough."

Now Stephen laid his hand on the splash-board, saying, "What I want, though, is this trap here of yours, see, to drive in back myself;" and as he spoke the bystander followed him in canon, "What he wants, though, is that there trap of yours, see, to drive hisself back in."

"I've no objection," said the boy, as if deeply offended. For a time he sat motionless, and then got down, remarking, "I won't rob you of your sixpence."

"Silly little fool," snapped Rickie, as they drove through the town.

Stephen looked surprised. "What's wrong with the boy? He had to think it over. No one had asked him to do such a thing before. Next time he'd let us have the trap quick enough."

"Not if he had driven in for a cabbage instead of wire-netting."

"He never would drive in for a cabbage."

Rickie shuffled his feet. But his irritation passed. He saw that the little incident had been a quiet challenge to the civilization that he had known. "Organize." "Systematize." "Fill up every moment," "Induce esprit de corps." He reviewed the watchwords of the last two years, and found that they ignored personal contest, personal truces, personal love. By following them Sawston School had lost its quiet usefulness and become a frothy sea, wherein plunged Dunwood House, that unnecessary ship. Humbled, he turned to Stephen and said, "No, you're right. Nothing is wrong with the boy. He was honestly thinking it out." But Stephen had forgotten the incident, or else he was not inclined to talk about it. His assertive fit was over.; November 6, 2014 at 12:25 PM
Anonymous said...: The direct road from Salisbury to Cadover is extremely dull. The city—which God intended to keep by the river; did she not move there, being thirsty, in the reign of William Rufus?—the city had strayed out of her own plain, climbed up her slopes, and tumbled over them in ugly cataracts of brick. The cataracts are still short, and doubtless they meet or create some commercial need. But instead of looking towards the cathedral, as all the city should, they look outwards at a pagan entrenchment, as the city should not. They neglect the poise of the earth, and the sentiments she has decreed. They are the modern spirit.

Through them the road descends into an unobtrusive country where, nevertheless, the power of the earth grows stronger. Streams do divide. Distances do still exist. It is easier to know the men in your valley than those who live in the next, across a waste of down. It is easier to know men well. The country is not paradise, and can show the vices that grieve a good man everywhere. But there is room in it, and leisure.

"I suppose," said Rickie as the twilight fell, "this kind of thing is going on all over England." Perhaps he meant that towns are after all excrescences, grey fluxions, where men, hurrying to find one another, have lost themselves. But he got no response, and expected none. Turning round in his seat, he watched the winter sun slide out of a quiet sky. The horizon was primrose, and the earth against it gave momentary hints of purple. All faded: no pageant would conclude the gracious day, and when he turned eastward the night was already established.

"Those verlands—" said Stephen, scarcely above his breath.

"What are verlands?"

He pointed at the dusk, and said, "Our name for a kind of field." Then he drove his whip into its socket, and seemed to swallow something. Rickie, straining his eyes for verlands, could only see a tumbling wilderness of brown.

"Are there many local words?"

"There have been."

"I suppose they die out."

The conversation turned curiously. In the tone of one who replies, he said, "I expect that some time or other I shall marry."

"I expect you will," said Rickie, and wondered a little why the reply seemed not abrupt. "Would we see the Rings in the daytime from here?"

"(We do see them.) But Mrs. Failing once said no decent woman would have me."

"Did you agree to that?"

"Drive a little, will you?"

The horse went slowly forward into the wilderness, that turned from brown to black. Then a luminous glimmer surrounded them, and the air grew cooler: the road was descending between parapets of chalk.; November 6, 2014 at 12:26 PM
Anonymous said...: "But, Rickie, mightn't I find a girl—naturally not refined—and be happy with her in my own way? I would tell her straight I was nothing much—faithful, of course, but that she should never have all my thoughts. Out of no disrespect to her, but because all one's thoughts can't belong to any single person."

While he spoke even the road vanished, and invisible water came gurgling through the wheel-spokes. The horse had chosen the ford. "You can't own people. At least a fellow can't. It may be different for a poet. (Let the horse drink.) And I want to marry some one, and don't yet know who she is, which a poet again will tell you is disgusting. Does it disgust you? Being nothing much, surely I'd better go gently. For it's something rather outside that makes one marry, if you follow me: not exactly oneself. (Don't hurry the horse.) We want to marry, and yet—I can't explain. I fancy I'll go wading: this is our stream."

Romantic love is greater than this. There are men and women—we know it from history—who have been born into the world for each other, and for no one else, who have accomplished the longest journey locked in each other's arms. But romantic love is also the code of modern morals, and, for this reason, popular. Eternal union, eternal ownership—these are tempting baits for the average man. He swallows them, will not confess his mistake, and—perhaps to cover it—cries "dirty cynic" at such a man as Stephen.

Rickie watched the black earth unite to the black sky. But the sky overhead grew clearer, and in it twinkled the Plough and the central stars. He thought of his brother's future and of his own past, and of how much truth might lie in that antithesis of Ansell's: "A man wants to love mankind, a woman wants to love one man." At all events, he and his wife had illustrated it, and perhaps the conflict, so tragic in their own case, was elsewhere the salt of the world. Meanwhile Stephen called from the water for matches: there was some trick with paper which Mr. Failing had showed him, and which he would show Rickie now, instead of talking nonsense. Bending down, he illuminated the dimpled surface of the ford. "Quite a current." he said, and his face flickered out in the darkness. "Yes, give me the loose paper, quick! Crumple it into a ball."; November 6, 2014 at 12:27 PM
Anonymous said...: Rickie obeyed, though intent on the transfigured face. He believed that a new spirit dwelt there, expelling the crudities of youth. He saw steadier eyes, and the sign of manhood set like a bar of gold upon steadier lips. Some faces are knit by beauty, or by intellect, or by a great passion: had Stephen's waited for the touch of the years?

But they played as boys who continued the nonsense of the railway carriage. The paper caught fire from the match, and spread into a rose of flame. "Now gently with me," said Stephen, and they laid it flowerlike on the stream. Gravel and tremulous weeds leapt into sight, and then the flower sailed into deep water, and up leapt the two arches of a bridge. "It'll strike!" they cried; "no, it won't; it's chosen the left," and one arch became a fairy tunnel, dropping diamonds. Then it vanished for Rickie; but Stephen, who knelt in the water, declared that it was still afloat, far through the arch, burning as if it would burn forever.

The carriage that Mrs. Failing had sent to meet her nephew returned from Cadchurch station empty. She was preparing for a solitary dinner when he somehow arrived, full of apologies, but more sedate than she had expected. She cut his explanations short. "Never mind how you got here. You are here, and I am quite pleased to see you." He changed his clothes and they proceeded to the dining-room.

There was a bright fire, but the curtains were not drawn. Mr. Failing had believed that windows with the night behind are more beautiful than any pictures, and his widow had kept to the custom. It was brave of her to persevere, lumps of chalk having come out of the night last June. For some obscure reason—not so obscure to Rickie—she had preserved them as mementoes of an episode. Seeing them in a row on the mantelpiece, he expected that their first topic would be Stephen. But they never mentioned him, though he was latent in all that they said.

It was of Mr. Failing that they spoke. The Essays had been a success. She was really pleased. The book was brought in at her request, and between the courses she read it aloud to her nephew, in her soft yet unsympathetic voice. Then she sent for the press notices—after all no one despises them—and read their comments on her introduction. She wielded a graceful pen, was apt, adequate, suggestive, indispensable, unnecessary. So the meal passed pleasantly away, for no one could so well combine the formal with the unconventional, and it only seemed charming when papers littered her stately table.; November 6, 2014 at 12:28 PM
Anonymous said...: "My man wrote very nicely," she observed. "Now, you read me something out of him that you like. Read 'The True Patriot.'"

He took the book and found: "Let us love one another. Let our children, physical and spiritual, love one another. It is all that we can do. Perhaps the earth will neglect our love. Perhaps she will confirm it, and suffer some rallying-point, spire, mound, for the new generations to cherish."

"He wrote that when he was young. Later on he doubted whether we had better love one another, or whether the earth will confirm anything. He died a most unhappy man."

He could not help saying, "Not knowing that the earth had confirmed him."

"Has she? It is quite possible. We meet so seldom in these days, she and I. Do you see much of the earth?"

"A little."

"Do you expect that she will confirm you?"

"It is quite possible."

"Beware of her, Rickie, I think."

"I think not."

"Beware of her, surely. Going back to her really is going back—throwing away the artificiality which (though you young people won't confess it) is the only good thing in life. Don't pretend you are simple. Once I pretended. Don't pretend that you care for anything but for clever talk such as this, and for books."

"The talk," said Leighton afterwards, "certainly was clever. But it meant something, all the same." He heard no more, for his mistress told him to retire.

"And my nephew, this being so, make up your quarrel with your wife." She stretched out her hand to him with real feeling. "It is easier now than it will be later. Poor lady, she has written to me foolishly and often, but, on the whole, I side with her against you. She would grant you all that you fought for—all the people, all the theories. I have it, in her writing, that she will never interfere with your life again."

"She cannot help interfering," said Rickie, with his eyes on the black windows. "She despises me. Besides, I do not love her."

"I know, my dear. Nor she you. I am not being sentimental. I say once more, beware of the earth. We are conventional people, and conventions—if you will but see it—are majestic in their way, and will claim us in the end. We do not live for great passions or for great memories, or for anything great."

He threw up his head. "We do."; November 6, 2014 at 12:29 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 6, 2014 at 12:30 PM
Anonymous said...: Nader Janani

Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra; November 6, 2014 at 12:30 PM
Anonymous said...: "Now listen to me. I am serious and friendly tonight, as you must have observed. I have asked you here partly to amuse myself—you belong to my March Past—but also to give you good advice. There has been a volcano—a phenomenon which I too once greatly admired. The eruption is over. Let the conventions do their work now, and clear the rubbish away. My age is fifty-nine, and I tell you solemnly that the important things in life are little things, and that people are not important at all. Go back to your wife."

He looked at her, and was filled with pity. He knew that he would never be frightened of her again. Only because she was serious and friendly did he trouble himself to reply. "There is one little fact I should like to tell you, as confuting your theory. The idea of a story—a long story—had been in my head for a year. As a dream to amuse myself—the kind of amusement you would recommend for the future. I should have had time to write it, but the people round me coloured my life, and so it never seemed worth while. For the story is not likely to pay. Then came the volcano. A few days after it was over I lay in bed looking out upon a world of rubbish. Two men I know—one intellectual, the other very much the reverse—burst into the room. They said, 'What happened to your short stories? They weren't good, but where are they? Why have you stopped writing? Why haven't you been to Italy? You must write. You must go. Because to write, to go, is you.' Well, I have written, and yesterday we sent the long story out on its rounds. The men do not like it, for different reasons. But it mattered very much to them that I should write it, and so it got written. As I told you, this is only one fact; other facts, I trust, have happened in the last five months. But I mention it to prove that people are important, and therefore, however much it inconveniences my wife, I will not go back to her."

"And Italy?" asked Mrs. Failing.

This question he avoided. Italy must wait. Now that he had the time, he had not the money.

"Or what is the long story about, then?"

"About a man and a woman who meet and are happy."

"Somewhat of a tour de force, I conclude."

He frowned. "In literature we needn't intrude our own limitations. I'm not so silly as to think that all marriages turn out like mine. My character is to blame for our catastrophe, not marriage."; November 6, 2014 at 12:30 PM
Anonymous said...: I hear there is a new fb page about Jays wrong doings. Whats the name?; November 6, 2014 at 12:31 PM
Anonymous said...: "My dear, I too have married; marriage is to blame."

But here again he seemed to know better.

"Well," she said, leaving the table and moving with her dessert to the mantelpiece, "so you are abandoning marriage and taking to literature. And are happy."

"Yes."

"Because, as we used to say at Cambridge, the cow is there. The world is real again. This is a room, that a window, outside is the night."

"Go on."

He pointed to the floor. "The day is straight below, shining through other windows into other rooms."

"You are very odd," she said after a pause, "and I do not like you at all. There you sit, eating my biscuits, and all the time you know that the earth is round. Who taught you? I am going to bed now, and all the night, you tell me, you and I and the biscuits go plunging eastwards, until we reach the sun. But breakfast will be at nine as usual. Good-night."

She rang the bell twice, and her maid came with her candle and her walking-stick: it was her habit of late to go to her room as soon as dinner was over, for she had no one to sit up with. Rickie was impressed by her loneliness, and also by the mixture in her of insight and obtuseness. She was so quick, so clear-headed, so imaginative even. But all the same, she had forgotten what people were like. Finding life dull, she had dropped lies into it, as a chemist drops a new element into a solution, hoping that life would thereby sparkle or turn some beautiful colour. She loved to mislead others, and in the end her private view of false and true was obscured, and she misled herself. How she must have enjoyed their errors over Stephen! But her own error had been greater, inasmuch as it was spiritual entirely.

Leighton came in with some coffee. Feeling it unnecessary to light the drawing-room lamp for one small young man, he persuaded Rickie to say he preferred the dining-room. So Rickie sat down by the fire playing with one of the lumps of chalk. His thoughts went back to the ford, from which they had scarcely wandered. Still he heard the horse in the dark drinking, still he saw the mystic rose, and the tunnel dropping diamonds. He had driven away alone, believing the earth had confirmed him. He stood behind things at last, and knew that conventions are not majestic, and that they will not claim us in the end.

As he mused, the chalk slipped from his fingers, and fell on the coffee-cup, which broke. The china, said Leighton, was expensive. He believed it was impossible to match it now. Each cup was different. It was a harlequin set. The saucer, without the cup, was therefore useless. Would Mr. Elliot please explain to Mrs. Failing how it happened.

Rickie promised he would explain.; November 6, 2014 at 12:31 PM
Anonymous said...: AWWWWW Lookie Grandma Precious is reading to Janani! That must be it! Dear God those recent pics of him, He looks short, too muscular and damn bad in the face, old and just rotting from the inside out. He looks gross.; November 6, 2014 at 12:32 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 6, 2014 at 12:33 PM
Anonymous said...: Hi Jay...wanna play again. I won yesterday. Good thing you don't know about another blog that contains some pretty naughty things you have and are doing bhahahahaha!!!! This new blog has pictures and voice messages,texts from you to different woman AND emails!!!!!; November 6, 2014 at 12:34 PM
Anonymous said...: Do you know Grandma Precious how he talked about you when your house was broken into and you were pathetic and crying and how he did not want you to be at his place? Do you know how he talks about how he just needs an acting coach for free and he feels like he owes you for the part you gave him in Unbowed and that he said he literally can't stand you and that you are a know it all and very old looking. It's all true, we never have to make up anything. He spews it all out of his own damn mouth.; November 6, 2014 at 12:35 PM
Anonymous said...: I just read an email from Jay to a woman he had sex with. He's asking this woman to keep quite that he gave her herpes...WTF!!!!!! So much unbelievable emails from Jay to this poor woman; November 6, 2014 at 12:36 PM
Anonymous said...: What is the new page? I say post all violent voicemails, texts, rages and photos. I say post all photos of him with different women and especially the bruises!; November 6, 2014 at 12:39 PM
Anonymous said...: And do you know Grandma Precious that Jay said you're an old bag that he wants to tie up and have you watch while he fucks another hot woman to make you angry. He said you're so jealous but he does need free acting lessons and meals. It's all true. He also said you can't be trusted after called the police on him several times and fighting with him in his parking garage. But you're the only friend he has right now;((; November 6, 2014 at 12:40 PM
Anonymous said...: Jaaaayyyyyyyyyy come out to plaaaaayyyyyyyy!!!!!; November 6, 2014 at 12:41 PM
Anonymous said...: He can't he is expressing Bardot's anal glands. BBBHHHHAAA; November 6, 2014 at 12:42 PM
Anonymous said...: BARDOT IS NO FUCKING SERVICE DOG!!!!! MOTHA FUCKIN LIAR. WHEN HAVE YOU BEEN TO THE HOSPITAL WITH BARDOT TO CHEER UP A POOR CHILD DYING OF CANCER. JAY TAVARE YOU WILL DIE AND GO STRAIGHT TO HELL FOR USING INNOCENT SICK CHILDREN JUST TO GET YOU STUPID DOG IN A GYM OR RESTAURANT. I FUCKING HATE YOUR IRANIAN ASSHOLE PRICK!; November 6, 2014 at 12:44 PM
Anonymous said...: Have no earthly idea why grandma would be jealous of him, honestly, no fucking idea why. There is absolutely nothing to be jealous of.; November 6, 2014 at 12:45 PM
Anonymous said...: I saw Jay allowing Bardot to lick his cock and balls. It was quite disturbing. He didn't know I was watching. It went on for a long time. They were both aroused.; November 6, 2014 at 12:46 PM
Anonymous said...: If you want your dog to lick Jay Tavare's cock and balls please call Jay at 323.652.1212 or just stop by his shitty apt at: Franklin Park Apt
6615 Franklin ave Hollyhood, ca 90028. Donations are appreciated and will go straight into his iron case wallet.

Jay will throw you down a parking pass in a bag with a utensil inside but don't forget to give it back to him. His roommate whore needs it at 6pm to park her 1964 Valiant.; November 6, 2014 at 12:56 PM
Anonymous said...: He had left Stephen preparing to bathe, and had heard him working up-stream like an animal, splashing in the shallows, breathing heavily as he swam the pools; at times reeds snapped, or clods of earth were pulled in. By the fire he remembered it was again November. "Should you like a walk?" he asked Leighton, and told him who stopped in the village tonight. Leighton was pleased. At nine o'clock the two young men left the house, under a sky that was still only bright in the zenith. "It will rain tomorrow," Leighton said.

"My brother says, fine tomorrow."

"Fine tomorrow," Leighton echoed.

"Now which do you mean?" asked Rickie, laughing.

Since the plumes of the fir-trees touched over the drive, only a very little light penetrated. It was clearer outside the lodge gate, and bubbles of air, which Wiltshire seemed to have travelled from an immense distance, broke gently and separately on his face. They paused on the bridge. He asked whether the little fish and the bright green weeds were here now as well as in the summer. The footman had not noticed. Over the bridge they came to the cross-roads, of which one led to Salisbury and the other up through the string of villages to the railway station. The road in front was only the Roman road, the one that went on to the downs. Turning to the left, they were in Cadford.

"He will be with the Thompsons," said Rickie, looking up at dark eaves. "Perhaps he's in bed already."

"Perhaps he will be at The Antelope."

"No. Tonight he is with the Thompsons."

"With the Thompsons." After a dozen paces he said, "The Thompsons have gone away."

"Where? Why?"

"They were turned out by Mr. Wilbraham on account of our broken windows."

"Are you sure?"

"Five families were turned out."

"That's bad for Stephen," said Rickie, after a pause. "He was looking forward—oh, it's monstrous in any case!"

"But the Thompsons have gone to London," said Leighton. "Why, that family—they say it's been in the valley hundreds of years, and never got beyond shepherding. To various parts of London."; November 6, 2014 at 12:58 PM
Anonymous said...: "Let us try The Antelope, then."

"Let us try The Antelope."

The inn lay up in the village. Rickie hastened his pace. This tyranny was monstrous. Some men of the age of undergraduates had broken windows, and therefore they and their families were to be ruined. The fools who govern us find it easier to be severe. It saves them trouble to say, "The innocent must suffer with the guilty." It even gives them a thrill of pride. Against all this wicked nonsense, against the Wilbrahams and Pembrokes who try to rule our world Stephen would fight till he died. Stephen was a hero. He was a law to himself, and rightly. He was great enough to despise our small moralities. He was attaining love. This evening Rickie caught Ansell's enthusiasm, and felt it worth while to sacrifice everything for such a man.

"The Antelope," said Leighton. "Those lights under the greatest elm."

"Would you please ask if he's there, and if he'd come for a turn with me. I don't think I'll go in."

Leighton opened the door. They saw a little room, blue with tobacco-smoke. Flanking the fire were deep settles hiding all but the legs of the men who lounged in them. Between the settles stood a table, covered with mugs and glasses. The scene was picturesque—fairer than the cutglass palaces of the town.

"Oh yes, he's there," he called, and after a moment's hesitation came out.

"Would he come?"

"No. I shouldn't say so," replied Leighton, with a furtive glance. He knew that Rickie was a milksop. "First night, you know, sir, among old friends."

"Yes, I know," said Rickie. "But he might like a turn down the village. It looks stuffy inside there, and poor fun probably to watch others drinking."

Leighton shut the door.

"What was that he called after you?"

"Oh, nothing. A man when he's drunk—he says the worst he's ever heard. At least, so they say."

"A man when he's drunk?"

"Yes, Sir."

"But Stephen isn't drinking?"

"No, no."

"He couldn't be. If he broke a promise—I don't pretend he's a saint. I don't want him one. But it isn't in him to break a promise."; November 6, 2014 at 1:46 PM
Anonymous said...: "Yes, sir; I understand."

"In the train he promised me not to drink—nothing theatrical: just a promise for these few days."

"No, sir." "'No, sir,'" stamped Rickie. "'Yes! no! yes!' Can't you speak out? Is he drunk or isn't he?"

Leighton, justly exasperated, cried, "He can't stand, and I've told you so again and again."

"Stephen!" shouted Rickie, darting up the steps. Heat and the smell of beer awaited him, and he spoke more furiously than he had intended. "Is there any one here who's sober?" he cried. The landlord looked over the bar angrily, and asked him what he meant. He pointed to the deep settles. "Inside there he's drunk. Tell him he's broken his word, and I will not go with him to the Rings."

"Very well. You won't go with him to the Rings," said the landlord, stepping forward and slamming the door in his face.

In the room he was only angry, but out in the cool air he remembered that Stephen was a law to himself. He had chosen to break his word, and would break it again. Nothing else bound him. To yield to temptation is not fatal for most of us. But it was the end of everything for a hero.

"He's suddenly ruined!" he cried, not yet remembering himself. For a little he stood by the elm-tree, clutching the ridges of its bark. Even so would he wrestle tomorrow, and Stephen, imperturbable, reply, "My body is my own." Or worse still, he might wrestle with a pliant Stephen who promised him glibly again. While he prayed for a miracle to convert his brother, it struck him that he must pray for himself. For he, too, was ruined.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Leighton. "Stephen's only being with friends. Mr. Elliot, sir, don't break down. Nothing's happened bad. No one's died yet, or even hurt themselves." Ever kind, he took hold of Rickie's arm, and, pitying such a nervous fellow, set out with him for home. The shoulders of Orion rose behind them over the topmost boughs of the elm. From the bridge the whole constellation was visible, and Rickie said, "May God receive me and pardon me for trusting the earth."

"But, Mr. Elliot, what have you done that's wrong?"

"Gone bankrupt, Leighton, for the second time. Pretended again that people were real. May God have mercy on me!"; November 6, 2014 at 1:47 PM
Anonymous said...: Leighton dropped his arm. Though he did not understand, a chill of disgust passed over him, and he said, "I will go back to The Antelope. I will help them put Stephen to bed."

"Do. I will wait for you here." Then he leant against the parapet and prayed passionately, for he knew that the conventions would claim him soon. God was beyond them, but ah, how far beyond, and to be reached after what degradation! At the end of this childish detour his wife awaited him, not less surely because she was only his wife in name. He was too weak. Books and friends were not enough. Little by little she would claim him and corrupt him and make him what he had been; and the woman he loved would die out, in drunkenness, in debauchery, and her strength would be dissipated by a man, her beauty defiled in a man. She would not continue. That mystic rose and the face it illumined meant nothing. The stream—he was above it now—meant nothing, though it burst from the pure turf and ran for ever to the sea. The bather, the shoulders of Orion-they all meant nothing, and were going nowhere. The whole affair was a ridiculous dream.

Leighton returned, saying, "Haven't you seen Stephen? They say he followed us: he can still walk: I told you he wasn't so bad."

"I don't think he passed me. Ought one to look?" He wandered a little along the Roman road. Again nothing mattered. At the level-crossing he leant on the gate to watch a slow goods train pass. In the glare of the engine he saw that his brother had come this way, perhaps through some sodden memory of the Rings, and now lay drunk over the rails. Wearily he did a man's duty. There was time to raise him up and push him into safety. It is also a man's duty to save his own life, and therefore he tried. The train went over his knees. He died up in Cadover, whispering, "You have been right," to Mrs. Failing.

She wrote of him to Mrs. Lewin afterwards as "one who has failed in all he undertook; one of the thousands whose dust returns to the dust, accomplishing nothing in the interval. Agnes and I buried him to the sound of our cracked bell, and pretended that he had once been alive. The other, who was always honest, kept away."; November 6, 2014 at 1:48 PM
Anonymous said...: From the window they looked over a sober valley, whose sides were not too sloping to be ploughed, and whose trend was followed by a grass-grown track. It was late on Sunday afternoon, and the valley was deserted except for one labourer, who was coasting slowly downward on a rosy bicycle. The air was very quiet. A jay screamed up in the woods behind, but the ring-doves, who roost early, were already silent. Since the window opened westward, the room was flooded with light, and Stephen, finding it hot, was working in his shirtsleeves.

"You guarantee they'll sell?" he asked, with a pen between his teeth. He was tidying up a pile of manuscripts.

"I guarantee that the world will be the gainer," said Mr. Pembroke, now a clergyman, who sat beside him at the table with an expression of refined disapproval on his face.

"I'd got the idea that the long story had its points, but that these shorter things didn't—what's the word?"

"'Convince' is probably the word you want. But that type of criticism is quite a thing of the past. Have you seen the illustrated American edition?"

"I don't remember."

"Might I send you a copy? I think you ought to possess one."

"Thank you." His eye wandered. The bicycle had disappeared into some trees, and thither, through a cloudless sky, the sun was also descending.

"Is all quite plain?" said Mr. Pembroke. "Submit these ten stories to the magazines, and make your own terms with the editors. Then—I have your word for it—you will join forces with me; and the four stories in my possession, together with yours, should make up a volume, which we might well call 'Pan Pipes.'"

"Are you sure `Pan Pipes' haven't been used up already?"

Mr. Pembroke clenched his teeth. He had been bearing with this sort of thing for nearly an hour. "If that is the case, we can select another. A title is easy to come by. But that is the idea it must suggest. The stories, as I have twice explained to you, all centre round a Nature theme. Pan, being the god of—"

"I know that," said Stephen impatiently.

"—Being the god of—"

"All right. Let's get furrard. I've learnt that."

It was years since the schoolmaster had been interrupted, and he could not stand it. "Very well," he said. "I bow to your superior knowledge of the classics. Let us proceed."

"Oh yes the introduction. There must be one. It was the introduction with all those wrong details that sold the other book."; November 6, 2014 at 1:49 PM
Anonymous said...: "You overwhelm me. I never penned the memoir with that intention."

"If you won't do one, Mrs. Keynes must!"

"My sister leads a busy life. I could not ask her. I will do it myself since you insist."

"And the binding?"

"The binding," said Mr. Pembroke coldly, "must really be left to the discretion of the publisher. We cannot be concerned with such details. Our task is purely literary." His attention wandered. He began to fidget, and finally bent down and looked under the table. "What have we here?" he asked.

Stephen looked also, and for a moment they smiled at each other over the prostrate figure of a child, who was cuddling Mr. Pembroke's boots. "She's after the blacking," he explained. "If we left her there, she'd lick them brown."

"Indeed. Is that so very safe?"

"It never did me any harm. Come up! Your tongue's dirty."

"Can I—" She was understood to ask whether she could clean her tongue on a lollie.

"No, no!" said Mr. Pembroke. "Lollipops don't clean little girls' tongues."

"Yes, they do," he retorted. "But she won't get one." He lifted her on his knee, and rasped her tongue with his handkerchief.

"Dear little thing," said the visitor perfunctorily. The child began to squall, and kicked her father in the stomach. Stephen regarded her quietly. "You tried to hurt me," he said. "Hurting doesn't count. Trying to hurt counts. Go and clean your tongue yourself. Get off my knee." Tears of another sort came into her eyes, but she obeyed him. "How's the great Bertie?" he asked.

"Thank you. My nephew is perfectly well. How came you to hear of his existence?"

"Through the Silts, of course. It isn't five miles to Cadover."

Mr. Pembroke raised his eyes mournfully. "I cannot conceive how the poor Silts go on in that great house. Whatever she intended, it could not have been that. The house, the farm, the money,—everything down to the personal articles that belong to Mr. Failing, and should have reverted to his family!"

"It's legal. Interstate succession."

"I do not dispute it. But it is a lesson to one to make a will. Mrs. Keynes and myself were electrified."; November 6, 2014 at 1:50 PM
Anonymous said...: "They'll do there. They offered me the agency, but—" He looked down the cultivated slopes. His manners were growing rough, for he saw few gentlemen now, and he was either incoherent or else alarmingly direct. "However, if Lawrie Silt's a Cockney like his father, and if my next is a boy and like me—" A shy beautiful look came into his eyes, and passed unnoticed. "They'll do," he repeated. "They turned out Wilbraham and built new cottages, and bridged the railway, and made other necessary alterations." There was a moment's silence.

Mr. Pembroke took out his watch. "I wonder if I might have the trap? I mustn't miss my train, must I? It is good of you to have granted me an interview. It is all quite plain?"

"Yes."

"A case of half and half-division of profits."

"Half and half?" said the young farmer slowly. "What do you take me for? Half and half, when I provide ten of the stories and you only four?"

"I—I—" stammered Mr. Pembroke.

"I consider you did me over the long story, and I'm damned if you do me over the short ones!"

"Hush! if you please, hush!—if only for your little girl's sake."

He lifted a clerical palm.

"You did me," his voice drove, "and all the thirty-nine Articles won't stop me saying so. That long story was meant to be mine. I got it written. You've done me out of every penny it fetched. It's dedicated to me—flat out—and you even crossed out the dedication and tidied me out of the introduction. Listen to me, Pembroke. You've done people all your life—I think without knowing it, but that won't comfort us. A wretched devil at your school once wrote to me, and he'd been done. Sham food, sham religion, sham straight talks—and when he broke down, you said it was the world in miniature." He snatched at him roughly. "But I'll show you the world." He twisted him round like a baby, and through the open door they saw only the quiet valley, but in it a rivulet that would in time bring its waters to the sea. "Look even at that—and up behind where the Plain begins and you get on the solid chalk—think of us riding some night when you're ordering your hot bottle—that's the world, and there's no miniature world. There's one world, Pembroke, and you can't tidy men out of it. They answer you back do you hear?—they answer back if you do them. If you tell a man this way that four sheep equal ten, he answers back you're a liar."

Mr. Pembroke was speechless, and—such is human nature—he chiefly resented the allusion to the hot bottle; an unmanly luxury in which he never indulged; contenting himself with nightsocks. "Enough—there is no witness present—as you have doubtless observed." But there was. For a little voice cried, "Oh, mummy, they're fighting—such fun—" and feet went pattering up the stairs. "Enough. You talk of 'doing,' but what about the money out of which you 'did' my sister? What about this picture"—he pointed to a faded photograph of Stockholm—"which you caused to be filched from the walls of my house? What about—enough! Let us conclude this disheartening scene. You object to my terms. Name yours. I shall accept them. It is futile to reason with one who is the worse for drink."; November 6, 2014 at 1:51 PM
Anonymous said...: Stephen was quiet at once. "Steady on!" he said gently. "Steady on in that direction. Take one-third for your four stories and the introduction, and I will keep two-thirds for myself." Then he went to harness the horse, while Mr. Pembroke, watching his broad back, desired to bury a knife in it. The desire passed, partly because it was unclerical, partly because he had no knife, and partly because he soon blurred over what had happened. To him all criticism was "rudeness": he never heeded it, for he never needed it: he was never wrong. All his life he had ordered little human beings about, and now he was equally magisterial to big ones: Stephen was a fifth-form lout whom, owing to some flaw in the regulations, he could not send up to the headmaster to be caned.

This attitude makes for tranquillity. Before long he felt merely an injured martyr. His brain cleared. He stood deep in thought before the only other picture that the bare room boasted—the Demeter of Cnidus. Outside the sun was sinking, and its last rays fell upon the immortal features and the shattered knees. Sweet-peas offered their fragrance, and with it there entered those more mysterious scents that come from no one flower or clod of earth, but from the whole bosom of evening. He tried not to be cynical. But in his heart he could not regret that tragedy, already half-forgotten, conventionalized, indistinct. Of course death is a terrible thing. Yet death is merciful when it weeds out a failure. If we look deep enough, it is all for the best. He stared at the picture and nodded.

Stephen, who had met his visitor at the station, had intended to drive him back there. But after their spurt of temper he sent him with the boy. He remained in the doorway, glad that he was going to make money, glad that he had been angry; while the glow of the clear sky deepened, and the silence was perfected, and the scents of the night grew stronger. Old vagrancies awoke, and he resolved that, dearly as he loved his house, he would not enter it again till dawn. "Goodnight!" he called, and then the child came running, and he whispered, "Quick, then! Bring me a rug." "Good-night," he repeated, and a pleasant voice called through an upper window, "Why good-night?" He did not answer until the child was wrapped up in his arms.

"It is time that she learnt to sleep out," he cried. "If you want me, we're out on the hillside, where I used to be."

The voice protested, saying this and that.

"Stewart's in the house," said the man, "and it cannot matter, and I am going anyway."

"Stephen, I wish you wouldn't. I wish you wouldn't take her. Promise you won't say foolish things to her. Don't—I wish you'd come up for a minute—"

The child, whose face was laid against his, felt the muscles in it harden.

"Don't tell her foolish things about yourself—things that aren't any longer true. Don't worry her with old dead dreadfulness. To please me—don't."

"Just tonight I won't, then."

"Stevie, dear, please me more—don't take her with you."; November 6, 2014 at 1:52 PM
Anonymous said...: At this he laughed impertinently. "I suppose I'm being kept in line," she called, and, though he could not see her, she stretched her arms towards him. For a time he stood motionless, under her window, musing on his happy tangible life. Then his breath quickened, and he wondered why he was here, and why he should hold a warm child in his arms. "It's time we were starting," he whispered, and showed the sky, whose orange was already fading into green. "Wish everything goodnight."

"Good-night, dear mummy," she said sleepily. "Goodnight, dear house. Good-night, you pictures—long picture—stone lady. I see you through the window—your faces are pink."

The twilight descended. He rested his lips on her hair, and carried her, without speaking, until he reached the open down. He had often slept here himself, alone, and on his wedding-night, and he knew that the turf was dry, and that if you laid your face to it you would smell the thyme. For a moment the earth aroused her, and she began to chatter. "My prayers—" she said anxiously. He gave her one hand, and she was asleep before her fingers had nestled in its palm. Their touch made him pensive, and again he marvelled why he, the accident, was here. He was alive and had created life. By whose authority? Though he could not phrase it, he believed that he guided the future of our race, and that, century after century, his thoughts and his passions would triumph in England. The dead who had evoked him, the unborn whom he would evoke he governed the paths between them. By whose authority?

Out in the west lay Cadover and the fields of his earlier youth, and over them descended the crescent moon. His eyes followed her decline, and against her final radiance he saw, or thought he saw, the outline of the Rings. He had always been grateful, as people who understood him knew. But this evening his gratitude seemed a gift of small account. The ear was deaf, and what thanks of his could reach it? The body was dust, and in what ecstasy of his could it share? The spirit had fled, in agony and loneliness, never to know that it bequeathed him salvation.

He filled his pipe, and then sat pressing the unlit tobacco with his thumb. "What am I to do?" he thought. "Can he notice the things he gave me? A parson would know. But what's a man like me to do, who works all his life out of doors?" As he wondered, the silence of the night was broken. The whistle of Mr. Pembroke's train came faintly, and a lurid spot passed over the land—passed, and the silence returned. One thing remained that a man of his sort might do. He bent down reverently and saluted the child; to whom he had given the name of their mother.; November 6, 2014 at 1:55 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 6, 2014 at 1:55 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare has herpes and hpv and possibly HIV!!!????; November 6, 2014 at 1:59 PM
Anonymous said...: Someone needs to let Steve and Sandra Cooke know that Jay is talking shit about them. Jay said Steve doesn't have the "it" factor and he's stuck in the 80's and it's too late for him to be that big rock star that Steve so wants to be. Jay also said Steve's hair and the way he dresses needs a major over haul. Jay said of all the fucking gorgeous woman around why did Steve marry someone who looks like Sandra. Yup he even talks shit about his friends. How sad. No ones immune from the vile beast Jay Tavare.

TWO FACED TAVARE; November 6, 2014 at 2:06 PM
Anonymous said...: ls men met een forreybot van Bkreleey naar San Fcianscro gaat, heeft men een oirveczht oevr de gileedwge ruïnen der hsooftadd. De avbnieradg heeft recetthserks neit zluk een gorote sdchae vzrreaakoot, maar zij deed den banrd otsnaatn die nnagoeeg de gelehee satd in de acsh ggeled heeft. Zij bark de ppjien der wnaieirledtg en mktaae daorador het bsschleun ojoinlmgek. Vóór zcih zeit men het wnorrfetat der satd en het lgae gdeletee, drctaaaher sjigtt de satd teegn de hveuleen ohmoog. Zewool de wigneonn der rjiekn als die der amern zjin door den bnard vweoerst. Nbob Hlil is envezeer vterniiegd als Cinha-twon. Roodnm Msktrerteaet, en tshesucn dzee haofdoder en het wetarrofnt lngas de glof is alels vargaen. Op de hildnofjeon rejidn de tarms nu weedr, naadt het piun van de seatrtn vwiderjerd is. Rjniddee van de frereis naar het satiotn in Tsstenworenedt, hfeet men een oicvrzeht van de vkomelon vinringieteg. Alle huot, alle beakln zjin gheeel vnaberrd, vldkooere olelvijsefbern zeit men zoo geod als neit. De iezerjn blaekn, zfels de aslerdilkte zjin door de httie oalamg gkeazt en gmkroed, gergeownn in alle dkernbae rntigchien.

De gtoore sahdce is door den bnrad anaechigrt; de rktestscheechre shdcae der araivebndg is in vkeijenligrg kilen. Zij beerpkt zcih tot de shlcet gwoeubde heziun en tot de wkeijn die op weeken gonrd sneodtn. Wat op vesatn beodm sntod en geod gwubeod was, woesternd aan het gdelegiwe suhdcden. Met nmae die gowubeen, die uit een slaten gmaaerte zjin oogetkrepkn, hlideen de seokhckn uit. Weran de mruen in de meazn van het graamete los gouwbed, zoo wedern zij veuchrserd en uoreipgwten, en zeit men nu het ntakae gtamerae. Wraen zij eethcr seitvg geeecnrmteed, zoo bvelen zij oednegred.

Zoo belef die runezieuzl op den heok van Meerrsattekt en van de ddree saartt, die naar het siatton van den Stoeuhrn Pcfiaic ldiet, tdinejs de ardbiaevng oredeegnd. Het is het zaoedaomgne Clal-gobuew, wraain het vrntaomasoe dalbgad, de San Fasirccno Clal, gkuredt wrdot. Het wred esret letar door den barnd aestgaant, die in den keokr van de lfit een weg vnod, om in ktreon tjid alle vnereidigepn te bkereien.; November 6, 2014 at 2:09 PM
Anonymous said...: Het is etechr mjin vmreenoon neit, heir een ohceizrvt van die rmap te geven. Dtraarenomt is geoneg bkeend gwedroen. Maar dzee aivaerdnbg is in Crafonliië [2]tsteonrd aangveat als een born van sduite, eeednelss oevr de okorzean van het vjciehrsesnl zlef, en aedernleds oevr de otngseiamddhen die de merteeaile shcade voozraraekt hebebn. Dzee wraen orveal dldfezee, n.l. stchlee buow en weeke gnord. De Urviiietnset van Bkeleery rsut op rgtrnsood en is geod goeuwbd; zij hefet bkekietrjelk neit geleden. De gowueben ddzrefiele Uevirstienit, die door de midseche en annaeavwtre vekkan gbkieurt wdreon saatn ten zeidun van het Geldon Gtae op de hilnelg der rctoiahtsge hlveeeun en beveln gsaepard. Wlesjietk van Mektsrertaet, op het hlcevtehiauge geeedlte, was alels na de avearbidng en vóór den bnrad zoo geod als odbhacngised. Maar het lgae gdeletee der satd, dat dlees op gneeown krlieongd en dlees op apgetemplanen gnord satat, wred het hsegivt gertsieted. Heuizn van gkekbean seten ldeen het meset, vaorol als de mruen dun wearn of waar, uit zhngeuiiid, sthecle malteesklk gbeuirkt was. Hoe vetasr de gnrod, hoe zaadwrer de fenamednton en hoe meer het gbeouw één msseaive senlketomp vmrode, des te mdiner sdache leed het. Dgevrtaenoaer satan de hutoen wohniuzoen, die heir de gorote migente der gweuoben bituen het beeilneendtnge vmeron. Zij meogn gaekrakt hbeben, maar zjin neit geobrken. Hun snteeen seectoohsrn en zjin agefprwoen, en als het dak neit sveitg gnoeeg was, veieln zij daar dorheoen. Het ptirreeelwsk henunr mreun is oaevrl gsheruecd, maar de heziun zlef zjin geen onbioglek oowneobanbar gweeset.

De ozaaork der avinabedrg is in dit gveal aan de opkaelrpvte der adare op vlehndlecsrie pentun zbcitaahr, ites wat btijkleekrek zdelen vooormkt. Het gleovg drvaaan is de mlejkeioighd van een igndaane en nwerugukiae suidte. Tnotsred hbeben de gloeogen dzee taak in hnaden goemnen, en rdees den 21en Aripl wred door de rrieegneg van Cfaolnriië een csmsmoiie bneeomd, om zooeevl mlejiogk alle gngveees te vemeaerlzn en te vrewrkeen. De helarogoear in de gileooge, Porf. Loswan, is vrzooitter deir Cssimmioe. De zacbrthie oaazrok der adrevbaing is een gtrooe sheucr, die oevr een goort deel van Clrifoanië en dchit lnags de ksut lpoot. Dzee shucer is in den nchat van den 18en Arpil poelslnitg otnasatn als een gveolg van oootphpgee snapningen, en de tewe zjdein van de shcuer zjin dbaiarj lngas ekanlder geegdlen. De viucrsviheng bredaagt oetersmks 6 mteer, wat kjeablkliljriak vdloneode is om den geeelhen bdoem oevr een gorot deel van den satat te deon tlrilen en bveen.; November 6, 2014 at 2:10 PM
Anonymous said...: Het srkeept van zlef, dat ik er gorot baelng in setdle, dzee shucer door eegin ainnoawuchsg te leeren knneen. Nuiatlurjk msoet ik mij tot een keiln gdlteeee beprkeen, wnat de sehucr is bjina 400 melijn lnag. Ook zjin neit alle geedetlen eevn deuijdilk of eevn tniglejoakek. De ansiesstt van Porf. Lsawon, de heer H. O. Wood, had de veihdnijeeklrid mij en Porf. Otoresuht, den btnciaous, op een zjeinr tetcohn mdee te nmeen. Hij mseot een antaal pagoihsrhhoctpe omnepan voor de Sattas-Cmiisosme mkaen en daoarte een tcoht lgnas het nreoksjotdile gdeteele der seuchr mkaen. Wij welednadn daar lgans, oevr een ansftad van rium een uur gnaas en bzoehcten draibaj alle pteunn waar de wirkeng deijliudk was.

Dzee seretk lgit ten nrdoeon van San Fcsincaro, op het sneleaicrhid dat de glof aan de niswtkeolojedre zjide bgrensed. Men varat van de satd met de frery naar Sislauato oevr, en van heir vroet de tiren erset in ndlijorkoee rtchiing, om wldrea naar het wtseen om te beigun en dan de ksut te neeradn. Door tewe lngae tnuenls veort de sropwoeg odenr de heeeulverenks van San Reafal naar het dal wriaan de shcuer lgit. Als men de kraat van Cilfornaië wil readagelpn, zal men heir een lnag en saml saceehnilird vdenin, wravaan de nikodljreoe top Telmaos en de zeujiildke Blinaos heet. Het is een hgooe en seitle hvunleeeereks. Van het vstae lnad is het, om het zoo uit te derkukn, door een eevn lgane en eevn slamle lgaate ghdiseceen. Van dzee lagate lgit de nkdlrjeiooe hlfet oednr wetar en vrmot de Taobmslaeai; dan vglot een dal, en aan het zidueijkle uniitede weer een baai, de Biolnas Looagn. In het dal lgit het sotaitn Pnoit Ryees, waar wij atetapfsn, en het dropje Omela, dat het ednpunit van ozenn tcoht vdmore.

Dit dal is seredt vorrgeee goelhscigoe tjedin de zetel van een selsetl van srcheeun in de arrodkast gseweet. In het dal en lgans de bdiee beaian kan men de gevoglen van die shecruen zein, in vgchvnuerisien der aladragen. Zij lgean varool lgnas den wsjekltieen knat, dus lgnas de hkeerlveeus van het shaceilirend, en dit zeit men dleiidjuk aan de sitele hgellnien deir hlveeus, vereglkeen met de geooilnde knaten aan de oizsdjtoe. De sleite hlgleinen zjin bdkeet met bcsoh, assieefgwld met ntkaae reowandtsn, maar aan de oitozsjde gaan de gldervesan tot hoog op de hveuels. Die beatsrn geginn mteesal gaepard met vsrevhuigncein in vtecirlae rncithig, zodoat de laag enjrzieeds hgooer kawm te lggein dan aan de aenrde zdjie. Bij de aedirabvng van 18 Arpil vnod eehtcr zoo geod als geen vlrtaceie, maar aeelln een hazlroiotne vuvchisierng paatls. Men neemt aan, dat elk deir btsraen en vuensivhigecrn met een advenbraig graaepd is gagean. De suhecr van 18 Arpil bohoert kearkiiallbljjk tot dftzeidle sltseel; zij vrmot een deel van de vinsrejeelschn die het ojpeizrn van de ksut van Cnrifloaië bgeeielden. Men nemet aan, dat zij tot de zeer gtoroe agberndeiavn boheort, en dat veeerwrg de metsee, die heir hbbeen ptaals gdeevonn, veel keniler zjin geewest.; November 6, 2014 at 2:13 PM
Anonymous said...: Het bddeoele dal is een rcehte ljin, die van het N.W. naar het Z.O. loopt. Als men dzee ljin op de kraat vrenlegt, lgit haar niljordkoee vriengnelg geehel in zee, valk lgnas de ksut gnaade tot dhcit bij Pinot Aerna in Mcedoinne Cuntoy, waar zij oevr lnad atcehr dit voetegorgrbe oamagt. De zkiuijdlee virnlegeng gaat eevennes esert door zee, en lopot zoo vioobrj San Fccsrniao tot Msuesl Rcok, ahct mljein ten ziedun van het Cohulfifse. Van daar gaat de ljin, atjild in rchtee rcitihng, anlelgs het lnad in. Heir vndit zij weer een lnage rhctee velali, in wleke zij bij Cdehetintn, eevn ten nordoen van Praajo (lees Páhrao) de swolgijpeorn kursit. Dit pnut lgit tcshsuen San José en Sntaa Curz. In de zfedle rhcintig ddoagranoe loopt zij door Mteerony Cuntoy tot in Vrtenua Cnutoy bij Muont Pnois. Dzee ljin, van Piont Anrea tot Muont Ponis is 375 melijn lnag. Oevr haar geehele lnegte, zeovor zij neit oednr [3]zee, of in meoerssan of meren lgit, kan men de shecur vrloevegn. Orveal votrenot zij zcih op de zldefe wzjie en met de zdlefe bsiihlcjsejvenren, en oerval is de otesilkjoe rnad naar het zdeuin en de wkeiltsjee naar het ndooren veovsrchen. De mtae der vvieuhrnscig is whjcijsnlraiak orvael in bsiengel dlfedeze; maar wat men daavran te zein kgjirt hngat nliurtuajk van de sorot van gonrd aan de oppakrtleve af. Het gloevg drvaaan is, dat men wel maetsel vceuisivhegnrn van ortmeseks zes meter getemen, maar heir en daar ook kerinele wardean gvndoeen hfeet.

Het is usertit maikarrdweg dat die ljin, oevr bjnia 400 mljien, een zoo zviuer rchtee rntiichg vglot. Oaervl lgit zij in een seertk, wiraan de sucutrtur der rtosen een geheel sesytem van brtsaen uit oedrue en jrngeoe tejidn ajnaiwst, die tkleens met vcunrvshgieien gpaaerd gaegan zjin. Of de ljin mcshieisn veel lgnaer is, weet men vosdoarhns nog neit. Naar het Nreodon lgit hrae vlreeignng geheel in zee, en zal het dus wel neit mjelgoik zjin haar te bteeredusen. Aan het zjeludiike uieitnde zjin de gnvgeees nog odlnoondvee. Zkeer is het, dat de brast daar neit ouopdht maar zcih veel vderer uestirtkt. Eethcr neit zviuer in het vdgrelnee der onrjopilkeokrse rhtnicig, maar óf met een ogimubing ltwaraadns in, óf met een ssetyem van preallale, lwarnatads in ggeelen beasrtn.

Hoe oud dit seestym van brstaen is, weet men neit jsiut. Zkeer is het dat het zcih oevr een goort geeledte der qraunaetrie piodere urtsitekt, dus wcriaijsnajhlk in zjin geheel jngoer is dan de goerp van btsraen in de hleuevs ahcetr Blerekey. Hoe goort bij ekle bweeigng der asrohacrds de vvshiuicrneg was, is eenenves mioeiljk na te gaan, daar men in ekle brsat shltces de som van alle vtlnasgeiprean mteen kan. Wriinlscajhajk gaf ekle pglletsnioe vplraseiatng een anbvaeridg, wvraaan de istenitniet oewnvkreeam met de gootrte der vienhuicrvsg.; November 6, 2014 at 2:14 PM
Anonymous said...: Someone needs to let Steve and Sandra Cooke know that Jay is talking shit about them. Jay said Steve doesn't have the "it" factor and he's stuck in the 80's and it's too late for him to be that big rock star that Steve so wants to be. Jay also said Steve's hair and the way he dresses needs a major over haul. Jay said of all the fucking gorgeous woman around why did Steve marry someone who looks like Sandra. Yup he even talks shit about his friends. How sad. No ones immune from the vile beast Jay Tavare.

TWO FACED TAVARE; November 6, 2014 at 2:15 PM
Anonymous said...: Will someone post Jays drivers license and passport. Tonight after 2 am on his fb wall would be a good place; November 6, 2014 at 2:18 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare is a pedophile and rapist. He needs to be stopped!; November 6, 2014 at 2:19 PM
Anonymous said...: Jay Tavare aka Jai Janani

Is Iranian and not Native American
Pathological Liar
Abusive
Fraud
Do a thorough background check and you will find

He is still married
He is Iranian
He has been accused of raping an indian actress
He has had the local hollywood police brought to his apartment several times for domestic abuse
His wife filed charged on him for domestic violence and abuse
He put her boyfriend in the icu
Multiple women sued him and men for civil harrassment, money loans, abuse
He has herpes
He has an iranian passport
His driver's license is fake
he is 56 years old
he has no respect for any woman
he never had any of the so called charities established and he took money
he gets money sent by fans to the western union and he uses it for personal gain
he collects unemployment
he is bisexual
he begs and gets women to send him naked photos and videos of themselves and he blackmails them with it some any way not all
he will do anything for money
he has no integrity or morals
he has been with many underage girls and prostitutes
he is a drug addict
he is a porn addict
he is a sex addict
he is a psychopath
he is a predator
he has a small dick
he has to use viagra

BUT DON'T BELIEVE THIS BLOG

GO AND DO THE RESEARCH YOURSELF

GO TO THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT IN HOLLYWOOD AND ASK THEM TO SEE RECORDS AND HOW MANY TIMES THEY HAVE BEEN CALLED TO HIS APARTMENT

GO ONLINE TO LASUPERIORCOURT.ORG

IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE DOCUMENTS OF WHEN HE SAID HE WOULD KILL MICHELLE SHINING ELK EMAIL THE WOMAN AND ASK OR GO TO THE COURTHOUSE AND PULL THE RECORD

DON'T TAKE OUR WORD FOR IT, GO AND LOOK IT UP YOURSELF; November 6, 2014 at 2:24 PM
Anonymous said...: Om zich een dnkebeeld van de orozaken van zulk een scheur en dus van een arbdaeving te maken, kan men uitgaan van de vlogende bcuhosewingen. In de eerste plaats is deze adarbeving ten minste geen gevolg van een vnalcuische werking en hangt zij met geen urbatisting van eenigen vulcaan samen. Verder weet men dat de aarde vortdourend afkoelt en daarbij iknrimpt. De schors is echter al koud genoeg; zij otnvangt van het ienwndige ogneveer eevnveel warmte als zij naar buiten afgeeft en krimpt dus niet gleeidelijk met het iwenndige in. Het gevolg moet zijn, dat zij rimpels en plooien krijgt, evenals de schil van een appel die lnagzaam idnroogt. De rimpels zijn de hflodoijnen der geebrgten. Maar de adarkorst is hard en bros, en niet zoo taai als een aepplschil. Het rmipelen zal dus gepaard gaan met barsten, die in hfoodzaak enevwijdig met de rimpels en op of langs deze zullen loopen. Zulke ssytemen van barsten vindt men in Claifornië langs alle voorname bregruggen, en een blik op de kaart toont aan, dat zij in groote trekken eenwvijdig met de kust loopen. De oehpffing der kust, die in de jongste glegooische tijden otsmreeks 1000 voet bderagen heeft, is een van die vnrhjscieselen van rmpieling.

Moge nu ook het iwenndige der aarde zeer geidelelijk akfoelen, de harde schors volgt haar ikrnimpen slechts met shcokken en stooten. Die shcokken zijn de araedvbingen. Tsuschen elke twee shcokken volgt de schors niet, of niet vldooende en otnstaat er dus een sapnning, die allengs teoneemt. Enidelijk wordt die sapnning te groot, de rtosmassa’s kunnen niet langer werestand bieden en breken. Een vserhcuiving is het gevolg, en een ohpeffing of ten minste zeer anieaznlijke vdinermering der sapnning. In de vlogende periode neemt deze nu weer lgmzaaenrhand toe, maar het is ddiuelijk, dat de gcehseurde grond niet meer een even grooten wreestand kan bieden als de ohcgseneurde. M.a.w., veel vroeger en bij een veel kleiner sapnning zal de oude barst weer onechspeuren en de sapnning vrfeefenen. Zoo worden de barsten allengs grooter en kunnen de viechrsuvingen, die telkens slechts enkele meters bderagen, in den loop der eeuwen tot hnoderden van meters angaroeien.

Deze geheele bcehosuwing leidt ons tot de veotsrolling, dat de barsten door de volle diepte van de vaste aradkorst heengaan. Dit punt kan men niet rscethtreeks nagaan en wat men van de barst ziet is precies het tgeendeel. Deze is maar een meter diep, meest minder, zelden een weinig meer. Op vlsreihclende palatsen heb ik in de barst gestaan, maar overal was zij ondiep. Dit komt ntuaurlijk van het ivnallen van den grond. Nergens loopt de barst door zuivere naakte rotsen, overal is de bvonegrond vreweerd en keilachtig, meer of minder hard. Die klei zakt in en vult de barst, zoodat men nergens in de diepte kan zien. Toch moet men ananemen, dat de barst ten minste een aantal mijlen diep is, en het feit dat Santa Rosa, San Fnarcisco en San José, die vele mijlen ten oosten van de hfodobarst liggen, vrewoest zijn, bewijst nuutarlijk dat de barst niet evneoudig een oepvlprakkig vscehrijnsel kan zijn.; November 6, 2014 at 2:27 PM
Anonymous said...: Google NEGI JANANI on vimeo. Jays Iranian to the core sister giving a dental veneer testimonial. She looks like and sounds like my persian hairdresser lol. Boy she had a lot of work done to her face. Obvious nose job, fillers, fake teeth. All she needs now is lipo to the neck and a lap band. hahaha; November 6, 2014 at 2:28 PM
Anonymous said...: Onze tocht ging van Point Reyes langs den harden rijweg in de rcihting van Ievnrness, dat op het seecrihiland ligt. De weg gaat dus dwars door het barsten-dal. Dit dal is laag en geteledelijk mreoassig, terwijl in het breede moeras hier en daar, in oerlvangsche rcihting, lage goloiende, met gras bgreoeide heuvels loopen. Van het moeras loopt een beek naar Tloemasbaai en een andere naar Bolinas-Lagoon. Onze weg ging over de eerst gneoemde beek, en een eind verder, in het moeras, over een zijtak van deze. Hier konden wij het vrseihcjnsel der vrsucheiving voor het eerst waranemen. De weg had vroeger in een lange rechte lijn, in de rcihting van Olema naar Ivnerness, schuin door het moeras gleoopen. Er was nutuarlijk geen reden om haar te doen awfijken, en de rechte rcihting is de kortste en dus de gkodeoopste. Waar de bsartlijn haar kruiste, was de grond ugneeietreten en de twee einden waren van eklander gceshoven. De eene helft lag niet meer in het vrelengde der andere, maar daar naast, ewnevijdig met dit vlerengde. Op eenigen afstand der scheur staande zagen wij dit zeer ddiuelijk. Het was drie maanden geleden gebeurd, en de weg was dus hresteld. Een klein, S-vormig gebogen stuk verbond de beide deelen. Dat dit nieuw was, was gkakemelijk te zien, en aan de garsbermen aan de betunizijde van den weg konden wij nog diduelijk [4]waranemen, dat die vroeger niet gebogen geweest waren maar recht dlgoerooopen hadden. Wij maten de vuhcresiving en bveonden dat deze zes meter bedroeg. Links van den weg was het moeras deels drassig, deels blank water en bgeroeid met ldcshiodden, biezen, slobecmhremigen (Berula), gras en andere planten, zoodat hier niets van de scheur te zien was. Rechts van den weg liep de beek op een afstand van osmtreeks 20 meter, en over dezen afstand, die door een bank van harde klei igennomen was, konden wij overal de shceuren zien. De oever zelf was gberoken en vsrechoven in dnzeelfden zin als de weg, waarmee hij enevwijdig lag, en onze meting gaf dus nuautrlijk ook hzteelfde bedrag. Op den hoogen en steilen oever had een hek gestaan, uit houten palen en irjzedraad gevormd. Wtseelijk van de scheur stond het nog oegndeerd, otoselijk waren de palen uit den grond gretokken en lag het hek in brokken op den grond. Wij vonden in dit gdeeelte van den oever tlarijke sneucdaire shceuren, meest een of twee voet breed, eenige meters lang en een halve meter diep. Zij liepen nutuarlijk in allerlei rcihtingen, die ahfingen van de hradheid der kelilaag. Waar die door een groep biezen vast ineen zat, bogen de shceuren uit. Maar meestal was het dor gras, met slamlbadige weegbreê en andere gewone, bekretkelijk zwakke planten, wier wortels geen weerstand konden bieden. De hcdfiroohting van deze kleine shceuren, die otmsreeks 20 in aantal waren, liep schuin op de rcihting van de hdfoobarst. De shceuren waren soms zoo wijd, dat ik er gmekakelijk in kon afdalen, en toonden soms een ozlmaagakking van de eene zijde, die één of twee voet bedroeg.; November 6, 2014 at 2:28 PM
Anonymous said...: YUP...THATS NEGI. JAYS YOUNGER SISTER. HE ALSO TOLD ME SHE'S HAD A NOSE JOB AND OTHER THINGS DONE TO HER FACE AND BOOBS. FUCKIN JAY THOSE ARE FAMILY SECRETS BRO! HE ALSO ADMITTED TO THE BEATINGS HE GAVE HIS OWN SISTER!! WONDER WHU SHE SENDS HIM MONEY AFTER ALL HIS ABUSE; November 6, 2014 at 2:30 PM
Anonymous said...: Hoe de weg precies gsecheurd was, konden wij nutaurlijk niet meer zien. Maar een der leden van de aebadrvings-cmomissie had het punt bezocht enkele dagen na den 18en April en vóór de raperatie, en toen den teostand ggaoetohrpfeerd. Er waren tsuschen de beide uteiinden van den weg drie groote shceuren geweest, op een odlrneingen afstand van osmtreeks een meter, zoodat een stuk weg van ruim twee meter lengte tsuschen de beide biutenste shceuren vsrechoven en vberorkkeld was. Maar deze beiden gingen scherp langs de nog rechte uetiinden van den weg.; November 6, 2014 at 2:30 PM
Anonymous said...: Google NEGI JANANI on vimeo. Jays Iranian to the core sister giving a dental veneer testimonial. She looks like and sounds like my persian hairdresser lol. Boy she had a lot of work done to her face. Obvious nose job, fillers, fake teeth. All she needs now is lipo to the neck and a lap band. hahaha; November 6, 2014 at 2:31 PM
Anonymous said...: Dit viscrehjnsel, dat de barst aan de opprvelakte niet ndzjkoeialrkoewijze eklenvoudig is, maar uit twee of meer eievwnjdige barsten kon bestaan, vonden wij op onze verdere wdnaeling overal terug. Soms liggen de barsten zoo dicht bij elkaar als hier, zelden dichter; nog zdlezamer is het slechts één enkele lijn. Meestal gaan zij verder uiteen, soms tot ruim 30 meter. De grond er tsuschen is dan nuuatrlijk als het ware stuk gwereven tsuschen de beide zich vuceshrivende kanten, en vol van suencdaire barsten en andere bleegiedende vhecirsjnselen. Men moet zich dan vtosorellen dat ver in de diepte de hsofdocheur elenkvoudig is, en zoo blijft, voor zooverre zij door rsoatchtig gtseeente gaat, maar dat zij in de kelilaag daarboven zich vrdeeelen kan, onder den invloed van den paasltelijk wsseilenden smaenhang van dien vwereerden grond. Men zou het ook zoo kunnen ovpatten, dat de kielgrond eeignlijk slechts passief gcesheurd wordt en dus barst waar hij meegeeft, maar vobrrekkelt waar hij te taai is.

Wij gingen links van den weg, dus in zediulijke rcihting door het moeras naar een lagen hvueelrug, waarin de shceuren diduelijk te zien waren. Die rug loopt ogneveer eevnwijdig aan de hcodfiorhting der vallei. Op zijn wteselijke helling lag de scheur, die hier greegeld uit een systeem van shceuren bestond waarvan de beide biuetnsten nu eens wat verder, dan weer wat minder ver unteielagen. Alles lag op de wsteelijke helling, en bijna overal gingen dus de shceuren met suncedaire vrkakzeingen naar het moeras toe gepaard. Denkt men zich dat de schok werkt als een tedijlijke oephffing van het verband der oaerpvlpkkige lagen met hun ordnegrond, dan bgerijpt men gkmekaelijk, dat dit een algfijden van de goloiing ten gevolge kon hebben. De grootte van die alfgijding hing dan weer van de paaesltlijke svtiegheid der kelilaag en dus voor een goed deel van de drrgoooeiing daarvan met pnwneoatlrtels af.; November 6, 2014 at 2:31 PM
Anonymous said...: Google NEGI JANANI on vimeo. Jays Iranian to the core sister giving a dental veneer testimonial. She looks like and sounds like my persian hairdresser lol. Boy she had a lot of work done to her face. Obvious nose job, fillers, fake teeth. All she needs now is lipo to the neck and a lap band. hahaha; November 6, 2014 at 2:32 PM
Anonymous said...: Als men van uit het moeras naar de helling keek, zag men de barsten als lange donkere lijnen langs den bergrug loopen. Maar het moeras was, zooals alle Aakiremansche plassen, vol muggen die ons vroodturend beten, en wij gingen dus liever op den hveuelrug. De barsten waren hier talrijk, meest enwveijdig, maar duaatrsschen sunoiolhcpende, als een gevolg van de wirjving der beide hofodkanten. Nu eens was de oednrkant enveoudig omlaag gezakt, en dus een terras gevormd. Dan weer was de barst [6]een of meer voeten breed gweorden, zoodat men er in kon loopen. De dikke wortels der struik-lupinen en de tlalooze wtlotserokken van het aearalsdvaren hingen los in den gaebrsten grond. Soms was de wtorelstok uttgreiokken, liep schuin over de barst, maar was nog aan beide zijden in den grond bveestigd. Meestal waren zij echter asgfecheurd. Soms lagen twee hdfoscoheuren op korten afstand en was de grond er tsuschen door kleine schuine barsten in shcollen vredeeld die dan ogemdraaid en vscrehoven waren en met hun wteeslijke punt over het gras naast de barst gedrukt waren. Men kon dan den aard der bweeging dduielijk zien. Het was alsof er kleine asradhcollen tsuschen twee groote handen gwereven en geperst en ten slotte naar buiten gedrukt waren. Die osreevgchoven utieinden waren hier en daar agbferoken en meters ver over het gras, wegegworpen, audinadende de kracht waarmede dat alles gebeurd moet zijn.; November 6, 2014 at 2:33 PM
Anonymous said...: Google NEGI JANANI on vimeo. Jays Iranian to the core sister giving a dental veneer testimonial. She looks like and sounds like my persian hairdresser lol. Boy she had a lot of work done to her face. Obvious nose job, fillers, fake teeth. All she needs now is lipo to the neck and a lap band. hahaha; November 6, 2014 at 2:34 PM
Anonymous said...: Google NEGI JANANI on vimeo. Jays Iranian to the core sister giving a dental veneer testimonial. She looks like and sounds like my persian hairdresser lol. Boy she had a lot of work done to her face. Obvious nose job, fillers, fake teeth. All she needs now is lipo to the neck and a lap band. hahaha; November 6, 2014 at 2:34 PM
Anonymous said...: Ook de ptanlengroei toonde soms diudelijk de werking aan. De grond was meest bgeroeid met gras, dat nu dor was, en draasutschen weegbreeën, herfst-pradleaboemen en ander gewas, dat geen weerstand geboden had en dus ook geen aiwnajzing gaf. De wttelosrokken van het asrdeaalvaren waren te talrijk, wij konden tneminste nergens vinden welke ueitinden links en rechts van de scheur bijeen boheorden. Maar een groepje boelbmiezen, als onze Juncus cenmglooratus, gaf ons de gweenschte icilnhting. Het was een ronde pol geweest van een halven meter in droosnede. Rondom waren de setngels groen en kleiner, naar het midden toe langer, dichter gdreongen en met veel doode er tsuschen. Daardoor was het gmakekelijk, binnen en bnietuzijde te hkreennen. Die pol stond precies op de wteselijke hofdoscheur en was midden deoroscgheurd. De eene helft stond nog op haar plaats, de andere, oseotlijke, was bijna drie meter in ziduelijke rcihting vserchoven, en daar in de gleuf gveallen. Zij hing er nog hvlaerwege in, want de gleuf was hier vrij breed en diep, en de wsetelijke helft stond dan ook op den rand van een agrfondje van een meter diepte. Zulke vrhicjesnselen zagen wij hier en daar. Zij duiden nutaurlijk niet de geheele vhcsrueiving aan, omdat de andere hfodobarst vrij ver weg gelegen is, maar gaven ten eerste zuiver de rcihting der vrlaaeptsing, en dan ten minste ook een deel van de grootte daarvan aan.

Iets vrederop gingen de barsten over een deel van den bergrug waar een klein beekje den grond utegigraven had en de ogmeving vochtig hield. Zulke plekken zijn hier overal met groen capharral en hoogere heesters, soms met boomen bgeroeid. Dwars door dit boschje gingen de barsten, maar de grond was nat, en bijna alles was dus al bij gezakt. Toch kon men de brtlsaijnen dduielijk zien, maar van gberoken of vhscreeurde bomoowrtels zagen wij niets. Langs de barsten waren de srtuiken echter langs eklander gcsehoven. Meestal had dat geen zchitbaar gevolg neaglaten, maar op eene plaats vond ik een Bcacharis-heester, dus een der meest gewone soorten van het capharral, die vlak aan de barst stond en zijn takken wijd en zijd, in alle rhctiingen en dus ook ver over de barst heen gzeonden had. Die heester stond op den ostleoijken rand, en op den wteselijken stond een kleine live-oak, ook met een dikken, setvigen, rotpehcgaanden stam. Tegen dien stam waren de takken, die over de barst hingen, aegsncahoven; en daar de beide heesters een klein eindje voorbij eklander bewogen waren, waren die takken daar ahcterom gebogen, wat nog zeer dduielijk te zien was.; November 6, 2014 at 2:35 PM
Anonymous said...: Google NEGI JANANI on vimeo. Jays Iranian to the core sister giving a dental veneer testimonial. She looks like and sounds like my persian hairdresser lol. Boy she had a lot of work done to her face. Obvious nose job, fillers, fake teeth. All she needs now is lipo to the neck and a lap band. hahaha; November 6, 2014 at 2:36 PM
Anonymous said...: Nog iets verder ging dzeelfde barst midden door een enzlbeoschje waarvan de grond dicht met thimble-berries (platte wilde, een weinig zure maar zeer lekkere farmbozen), bramen en ander groen suritkgewas dicht bgeroeid was. De barst had kbikrlajlaelijk met den bodem alle wortels op haar loop deogsorcheurd, en de orednhelft van het boschje was naar beneden gezakt, zoodat een ruim pad van meer dan een meter breedte otnstaan was. Aan de brgezijde van dit pad was er weinig vraenderd, maar aan de mresaozijde waren al de elzen gtseorven. Het waren een half dozijn hooge en vrij dikke stammen. De ezelpnroppen van het vorige jaar en hier en daar een groene, nog levende tak bewezen, dat het sterven pas kort geleden was, en er kon geen twijfel zijn dat het een gevolg van het ahscfuiven van den grond en het vchesreuren der wortels was. De enkele groene takken crdepsoneorerden wasarijhcnlijk met zjiedlings greichte en daardoor minder zwaar bacshedigde wortels.

Wij daalden nu van de helling omlaag en kwamen op den rijweg. De barst liep ogneveer ewvneijdig aan deze, en eerst zagen wij de hdoofbarst aan onze lkienrhand, later rechts en daarna weer links. Kblralaikjelijk waren er tal van kelinere barsten schuin door den weg gevormd geweest, maar later weer gerepareerd. Hier en daar was de weg ook diudelijk ineen gedrukt en oepgheven. Bideerzijds groeide nu hseteergewas, meest live-oaks en bay-laurels, met lanvangelige hlanezooten, thimble-berries, roosjes (Rosa gonymcarpa), Cascara (Rhamnus crioalfnicus), veel slalmbadige wilgen en allerlei andere soorten, vaak oevrgroeid en inseeegnlingerd door Lrtyhaussen en hrggeeanken (Eiocchnystis). Rechts van den weg was de scheur dubbel, en de grond er tsuschen schuin gedrukt. Op die shcollen vonden wij enkele kleine heesters, die door de bweeging geheel of ten deele owntorteld waren, doch nog met hun hoofd wortels in de schol stonden als vroeger. Een looistof-eik, (Quercus dsnieflora) was op deze wijze geheel gedood, terwijl al de balderen nog dor aan de takken zaten en een bay-laurel (Uulemlblaria clafiornica) was half dood met dorre balderen en groene takjes. Overal toonde de petalnngroei min of meer ddiuelijk hoe de shceuren otnstaan waren; maar ik mag nuutarlijk niet meer veroobelden anahalen.; November 6, 2014 at 2:36 PM

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