Although Grantaire typically holds action to be useless, this direct course appears the most desirable, perhaps even as close to necessary as any action may come. He is uneasy and concerned (not to mention moderately sloshed, though the two bottles of wine aren't enough to shake his comprehension), uncertain of what to do in this strange world other than finding Enjolras. Who, by the by, should be no more alive than should Grantaire himself. Nothing about this makes sense, and it would be easy enough to set the whole of it adrift, just track down some heavier-hitting alcohol and lose himself entirely.
But he can find Enjolras. He can do that much.
Shouldering through the situation's impossibilities, Grantaire falls into a well-developed habit: he talks. Talks with vague recollection that the person with him is an individual, and that the individual is named Eponine. Talks without attachment and without particularly pruning his thoughts. Talks around the matters most tugging for concern.
"It is contrary to my norm to take action or move forward in any way save speech. In the Parisian cafes, I am known for two talents: my propensity for producing words and for dissipation. Such has been the worth of my education. One might think that my propensity for irreverence, combined with an obdurate refusal to decrease the volume of my speech, would have backed me into trouble. But I have not the genius nor the magnetism to be worthy of arrest.
"Nor do I desire such notice. I ask only that I may speak and enjoy the company of others, that I may drink freely, that I may pursue the company of the fairer sex, and that I not be left behind when the world around should crash into black; which is an event unlikely to occur, but can you show me proof that it will not? Something waits or nothing waits or we may find some concept for which we hold not the words or comprehension. Such as this, one might aptly note, this inexplicable jumping of world and displacement of time, of self...
"Am I myself now that I am here? Have I changed in my being? Am I Grantaire, and are you Eponine, called 'Ponine? I cannot say, and fear no one will adequately satisfy my quandary. Lacking evidence to the contrary, I will continue to call myself Grantaire. And I feel certain that Grantaire-that-was (if he differs from Grantaire-that-is) would have no quarrel with my adoption of the name. Thus, I am Grantaire, unchanging and new-made with every moment, never to be more advanced than I now stand.
"And who can honestly lay claim to change? I call all improvements falsely classified, I call all development misdirection. Man wishes to believe in movement that carries forward--and upward, if we are to more into directional terms--in time, that somehow we march ever skyward on the backs of those who have come before. That we lay down our lives in order that humanity may one day reach perfection--As if perfection were anything so certain, and as if humanity and perfection are two terms not entirely at odds! Oh, we are dreamers, we who walk upright and think our wants necessity, who think our minor indignations cause for war.
"And what trouble we cause, what glorious bloodbaths we are able to produce! Violence beyond conception, revolution beyond our wildest dreams. We want not pain, but thirst for glory. We wish to be called beings of peace and love and care, beings who stand for equality, but in the end we are beasts above all else. Every attribute above base urge is merely a cover, another disguise donned in following those wishes for perfection. We class and we categorize and we latch onto love, but what is all of this in the end?
"But there it is again: if we ever may have an end. For years this was my one belief. That eventually each of us will find nothing and will become nothing in the sweep and crash of time. That to face execution is to stand upon the precipice of this nothing, and that the pull of the trigger brings about the final dissipation. What of this, now? What of this when I and we stand here, and Enjolras waits beyond? I must broaden my disbelief, I must work harder at my doubt.
"Ah, the mysteries of this world, and of these worlds! And how insensible we beings are."
no subject
But he can find Enjolras. He can do that much.
Shouldering through the situation's impossibilities, Grantaire falls into a well-developed habit: he talks. Talks with vague recollection that the person with him is an individual, and that the individual is named Eponine. Talks without attachment and without particularly pruning his thoughts. Talks around the matters most tugging for concern.
"It is contrary to my norm to take action or move forward in any way save speech. In the Parisian cafes, I am known for two talents: my propensity for producing words and for dissipation. Such has been the worth of my education. One might think that my propensity for irreverence, combined with an obdurate refusal to decrease the volume of my speech, would have backed me into trouble. But I have not the genius nor the magnetism to be worthy of arrest.
"Nor do I desire such notice. I ask only that I may speak and enjoy the company of others, that I may drink freely, that I may pursue the company of the fairer sex, and that I not be left behind when the world around should crash into black; which is an event unlikely to occur, but can you show me proof that it will not? Something waits or nothing waits or we may find some concept for which we hold not the words or comprehension. Such as this, one might aptly note, this inexplicable jumping of world and displacement of time, of self...
"Am I myself now that I am here? Have I changed in my being? Am I Grantaire, and are you Eponine, called 'Ponine? I cannot say, and fear no one will adequately satisfy my quandary. Lacking evidence to the contrary, I will continue to call myself Grantaire. And I feel certain that Grantaire-that-was (if he differs from Grantaire-that-is) would have no quarrel with my adoption of the name. Thus, I am Grantaire, unchanging and new-made with every moment, never to be more advanced than I now stand.
"And who can honestly lay claim to change? I call all improvements falsely classified, I call all development misdirection. Man wishes to believe in movement that carries forward--and upward, if we are to more into directional terms--in time, that somehow we march ever skyward on the backs of those who have come before. That we lay down our lives in order that humanity may one day reach perfection--As if perfection were anything so certain, and as if humanity and perfection are two terms not entirely at odds! Oh, we are dreamers, we who walk upright and think our wants necessity, who think our minor indignations cause for war.
"And what trouble we cause, what glorious bloodbaths we are able to produce! Violence beyond conception, revolution beyond our wildest dreams. We want not pain, but thirst for glory. We wish to be called beings of peace and love and care, beings who stand for equality, but in the end we are beasts above all else. Every attribute above base urge is merely a cover, another disguise donned in following those wishes for perfection. We class and we categorize and we latch onto love, but what is all of this in the end?
"But there it is again: if we ever may have an end. For years this was my one belief. That eventually each of us will find nothing and will become nothing in the sweep and crash of time. That to face execution is to stand upon the precipice of this nothing, and that the pull of the trigger brings about the final dissipation. What of this, now? What of this when I and we stand here, and Enjolras waits beyond? I must broaden my disbelief, I must work harder at my doubt.
"Ah, the mysteries of this world, and of these worlds! And how insensible we beings are."