Saturday, December 11, 2010

the new pink bunny

My first pink bunny is from the UK, by a mere chance

and this pink bunny, a 4GB flash driver is from Hong-Kong

My no bra photos in pink

“More curious than enforced, I’ve got up, and my daily routine is about to begin. Reaching for the looking-glass, the old, tarnished, silver one that used to belong to my grandmother, I proceed to take a look filled with admiration that fades as quickly as the years. I still look great, only… not as great as I once looked when I wore my hair down in the long flowing style that set me apart from everyone else. I touch my hair--a part of the routine--it is much much shorter now yet still very rich and shining and still chestnut, and when my eyes grow cold, like they always do, and the look is coming, the look I never share with anyone but myself, I gaze a while longer before setting the looking-glass down. Walking away I know oh so well that I shall return to hold the looking-glass since the looking-glass always holds me.”

Facebook. “JA is a mere felon. How many users want to be hacked and leaked? As we can see, only few people have courage to declare against him even on this forum. Hacker. We are full of fear.”-- Right after this my recent speaking out on the anti JA page, two copies of my two books were sold on Smashwords, and now I ask myself who is that purchaser, a friend or an enemy--any author is so attackable--on the other hand, the purchaser may be only my admirer, who wants to give me a chance to have some additional money. At any rate, I suspect, a new author should undertake the risky comments like mine oftener in order to be read.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

more citation

For those who read the book A rebours (Against the Grain or Against Nature, 1884, the book, which Oscar Wilde loved) by Joris-Karl Huysmans (1848–1907).
With the aid of some quotes from the book I try to prove that the main character of the novel -- Des Esseintes “a slender, nervous young man of thirty, with hollow cheeks, cold, steel-blue eyes, a straight, thin nose and delicate hands” -- is a vampire or something of the kind as a person or entity that definitely lives a nocturnal life.

He lives a life of a nocturnal thing, after “a deep silence wrapped the little house that lay asleep in the darkness.” His first meal he has in the evening:
“At five o’clock in winter, after dusk had closed in, he ate an abstemious breakfast of two boiled eggs, toast and tea; then came dinner at eleven; he used to drink coffee, sometimes tea or wine, during the night, and finally played with a bit of supper about five in the morning, before turning in.”

The windows are designed in some odd way in order that the daylight could not penetrate the rooms freely:
“The dining-room in question resembled a ship’s cabin with its wooden ceiling of arched beams, its bulkheads and flooring of pitch-pine, its tiny window-opening cut through the woodwork as a porthole is in a vessel’s side.
Like those Japanese boxes that fit one inside the other, this room was inserted within a larger one,--the real dining-room as designed by the architect.
This latter apartment was provided with two windows; one of these was now invisible, being hidden by the bulkhead or partition wall, which could however be dropped by touching a spring, so that fresh air might be admitted to circulate freely around and within the pitch-pine enclosure; the other was visible, being situated right opposite the porthole contrived in the woodwork, but was masked in a peculiar way, a large aquarium filling in the whole space intervening between the porthole and the real window in the real house-wall. Thus the daylight that penetrated into the cabin had first to pass through the outer window, the panes of which had been replaced by a single sheet of plain mirror glass, then through the water and last of all through the glazing of the porthole, which was permanently fixed in its place.
At the hour when the steaming samovar stood on the table, the moment when in Autumn the sun would be setting in the west, the water in the aquarium, dull and opaque by daylight, would redden and throw out fiery flashes as if from a glowing furnace over the light-coloured walls.”

Even the moonlight cannot penetrate the rooms unless through the bottle-glass:
“Outside the snow was falling. In the lamplight, ice arabesques glittered on the dark windows and the hoar-frost sparkled like crystals of sugar on the bottle-glass panes speckled with gold.”

He hates how nature looks by daylight:
“As he used to say, Nature has had her day; she has definitely and finally tired out by the sickening monotony of her landscapes and skyscapes the patience of refined temperaments. When all is said and done, what a narrow, vulgar affair it all is, like a petty shopkeeper selling one article of goods to the exclusion of all others; what a tiresome store of green fields and leafy trees, what a wearisome commonplace collection of mountains and seas!”

which is absolutely wrong, if you ask me.
Thus, we can see that the hero’s habits, loathings and likings look much like a vampire’s.
If a vampire, then a vampire-aesthete:
 “…a single book, bound in sea-green morocco, the Adventures of Arthur Gordon Pym, specially printed for his behoof on pure linen-laid paper, hand picked, bearing a sea-gull for water mark.”

Des Esseintes’ conception of sunlight, his feelings about the sun, or maybe Huysmans’: “As though stirred by furious pokers, the sun showed like a kiln-hole, darting a light almost white-hot, burning one’s face.”

Vampires are different. Some of the known or renowned ones I like, some I dislike. To Vampire Des Esseintes, in case if he is such, I feel indifferent, for really, Author did not do much in his book to make us love his main character.

Any thoughts?

Tuesday, September 21, 2010


Read 3 excerpts from my favorite novel Pale Fire (1962) by Vladimir Nabokov. One cannot find the full text of this novel on the Net, alas, and I have got my copy of the book in English, recently, able to share my favorite bits, here and now.
Excerpt (I.) shows the scene of the murder, which was to be an assassination, with Author touching the theme of terrorism in 1962.
Excerpt (III.) is the last paragraph in the novel.
And so. . .


Had I ever seen Gradus before? Let me think. Had I? Memory shakes her head. Nevertheless the killer affirmed to me later that once from my tower, overlooking the Palace orchard, I had waved to him as he and one of my former pages, a boy with hair like excelsior, were carrying cradled glass from the hothouse to a horse-drawn van; but, as the caller now veered toward us and transfixed us with his snake-sad, close-set eyes, I felt such a tremor of recognition that had I been in bed dreaming I would have awoken with a groan.
His first bullet ripped a sleeve button off my black blazer, another sang past my ear. It is evil piffle to assert that he aimed not at me (whom he had just seen in the library--let us be consistent, gentlemen, ours is a rational world after all), but at the gray-locked gentleman behind me. Oh, he was aiming at me all right but missing me every time, the incorrigible bungler, as I instinctively backed, bellowing and spreading my great strong arms (with my left hand still holding the poem, “still clutching the inviolable shade,” to quote Matthew Arnold, 1822-1888), in an effort to halt the advancing madman and shield John, whom I feared he might, quite accidently, hit, while he, my sweet awkward old John kept clawing at me and pulling me after him, back to the protection of his laurels, with the solemn fussiness of a poor lame boy trying to get his spastic brother out of the range of the stones hurled at them by schoolchildren, once a familiar sight in all countries--I still feel--John’s hand fumbling at mine, seeking my fingertips, finding them, only to abandon them at once as if passing to me, in a sublime relay race, the baton of life.
One of the bullets that spared me struck him in the side and went through his heart. His presence behind me abruptly failing me caused me to lose my balance, and simultaneously, to complete the farce of fate, my gardener’s spade dealt gunman Jack from behind the hedge a tremendous blow on the pate, felling him and sending his weapon flying from his grasp. Our savoir retrieved it and helped me to my feet. My coccyx and right wrist hurt badly but the poem was safe. John, though, lay prone on the ground, with a red spot on his white shirt. I still hoped he had not been killed. The madman sat on the porch step, dazedly nursing with bloody hands a bleeding head. Leaving the gardener to watch over him I hurried into the house and concealed the invaluable envelope under a heap of girls’ galoshes, furred snowboots and white wellingtons heaped at the bottom of a closet, from which I exited as if it had been the end of the secret passage that had taken me all the way out of my enchanted castle and right from Zembla to this Arcady. I then dialed 11111 and returned with a glass of water to the scene of the carnage. The poor poet had now been turned over and lay with open dead eyes directed up at the sunny evening azure. The armed gardener and the battered killer were smoking side by side on the steps. The latter, either because he was in pain, or because he had decided to play a new role, ignored me as completely as if I were a stone king on a stone charger in the Tessera Square of Onhava; but the poem was safe.


I started to read the poem. I read faster and faster. I sped through it, snarling, as a furious young heir through an old deceiver’s testament. Where were the battlements of my sunset castle? Where was Zembla the Fair? Where her spine of mountains? Where her long thrill through the mist? And my lovely flower boys, and the spectrum of the stained windows, and the Black Rose Paladins, and the whole marvelous tale? Nothing of it was there! The complex contribution I had been pressing upon him with a hypnotist’s patience and a lover’s urge was simply not there. Oh, but I cannot express the agony! Instead of the wild glorious romance--what did I have? An autobiographical, eminently Appalachian, rather old-fashioned narrative in a neo-Popian prosodic style--beautifully written of course--Shade could not write otherwise than beautifully--but void of my magic, of that special rich streak of magical madness which I was sure would run through it and make it transcend its time.
Gradually I regained my usual composure. I reread Pale Fire more carefully. I liked it better when expecting less. And what was that? What was that dim distant music, those vestiges of color in the air? Here and there I discovered in it and especially, especially in the invaluable variants, echoes and spangles of my mind, a long ripplewake of my glory. I now felt a new, pitiful tenderness toward the poem as one has for a fickle young creature who has been stolen and brutally enjoyed by a black giant but now again is safe in our hall and park, whistling with the stableboys, swimming with the tame seal. The spot still hurts, it must hurt, but with strange gratitude we kiss those heavy wet eyelids and caress that polluted flesh.


Yes, better stop. My notes and self are petering out. Gentlemen, I have suffered very much, and more than any of you can imagine. I pray for the Lord’s benediction to rest on my wretched countrymen. My work is finished. My poet is dead.
“And you, what will you be doing with yourself, poor King, poor Kinbote?” a gently young voice may inquire.
God will help me, I trust, to rid myself of any desire to follow the example of two other characters of this work. I shall continue to exist. I may assume other disguises, other forms, but I shall try to exist. I may turn up yet, on another campus, as an old, happy, healthy, heterosexual Russian, a writer in exile, sans fame, sans future, sans audience, sans anything but his art. I may join forces with Odon in a new motion picture: Escape from Zembla (ball in the palace, bomb in the palace square). I may pander to the simple tastes of theatrical critics and cook up a stage play, an old-fashioned melodrama with three principles: a lunatic who intends to kill an imaginary king, another lunatic who imagines himself to be that king, and a distinguished old poet who stumbles by chance into the line of fire, and perishes in the clash between the two figments. Oh, I may do many things! History permitting, I may sail back to my recovered kingdom, and with a great sob greet the gray coastline and the gleam of a roof in the rain. I may huddle and groan in a madhouse. But whatever happens, wherever the scene is laid, somebody, somewhere, will quietly set out--somebody is buying a ticket, is boarding a bus, a ship, a plane, has landed, is walking toward a million photographers, and presently he will ring at my door--a bigger, more respectable, more competent Gradus.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010


thrilled to share my joy with all aesthetes. On the pages of the book--
and in the video The Love Unleashed Birthday Book--
you can find all three photos of my kitty (orange and white, very beautiful and fluffy), which is one of the star pets of the project Love Unleashed TH (Tokio Hotel)--
her name is Sophie Sunshine. She is my golden princess and I am her human--!/photo.php?pid=403071&fbid=149132921780528&id=126052970755190!/photo.php?pid=403072&fbid=149132925113861&id=126052970755190
Love Unleashed TH (Tokio Hotel), the greatest event of September!/pages/Love-Unleashed-TH/126052970755190?ref=sgm
If it were not for the events like that or sites like this
the Internet would seem an enormous junkyard, a garbage heap. No charm, no mystery, not even a shade of supernatural. Saying this last, I have to remark that I still believe that reading and writing is a sort of magic.

now, more photos of cats for your enjoyment--


Monday, August 30, 2010


“ a Hogarthian page-boy...” (Brideshead Revisited). Like a boy of Francois Boucher (1703-1770), I would say.

--Venus by Francois Boucher. As you can see, the goddess is not in need of your service, since she always has several pageboys on duty at her disposal.

Don’t forget of visiting my forsaken blog, which has stopped existing online only for me but not for you (a reason I explained in the intro post on this blog)--

Saturday, July 24, 2010

say Leo

July morning in the new apartment. Outside my window, sun-gilded, the deep-olive foliage of the old poplars is trembling against the soft-turquoise sky. 25 July. Sirius rises. Happy birthday everyone, who was born under the sign of Leo!
26 July is birthday of the outstanding researcher and non-fiction writer Nina Berberova (1901–1993), Russian-born émigré, professor of Russian literature at Princeton--I love her autobiography The Italics Are Mine--

--her birth, and by a mere chance, mine too.
“My shallow heart's the only thing that's beating”
I read the book Brideshead Revisited more than once, but not in English which was my great mistake, because if only I read at least one book by Evelyn Waugh in original, then I could speak and write English much better than I can now--yet, unfortunately, I never did it because after reading Brideshead Revisited, I started my own projects, and never had much free time to read somebody else's writings.
Nina Berberova (1901-1993), Russian-born writer from St. Petersburg wrote the book "Moura: The Dangerous Life of the Baroness Budberg" (1981), non-fiction biography, in Russian translation entitled "Iron Lady". Countess, later Baroness, Moura (Maria Zakrevskaya Benckendorff) Budberg (c.1891-Nov.1974), was the Ukrainian-born wife of Count Djon (Johann) Benckendorff, a high-ranking Czarist diplomat whom she married in 1911. They owned the mansion called Yendel in Janeda, Estonia where he was shot dead in 1919. Later she was briefly married to Baron Nikolai von Budberg-Bonningshausen, and was at various times the mistress of Sir R. H. Bruce Lockhart, Russian writer Maxim Gorky, and at the end of her dangerous adventures she settled at the household of historian and science fiction writer H.G. Wells, as his secretary. Wells proposed to marry him several times, but she preferred to be his secretary. Being an authoress in a small way, she translated and wrote in English, French and her native Russian--being weak in all the three languages. Knowing of this distinctive peculiarity of her writings, at times I think that I am an authoress like she.
According to Wikipedia, Moura Budberg was the great-great aunt of Nick Clegg, the British Member of Parliament for Sheffield Hallam and, since 18 December 2007, leader of the Liberal Democrats.
Perhaps, at times I seem to be one of the big women, who care about many things and persons, and I seem to do it in my blog, but in fact my heart is small, it can't hold much, only the small circle of interests and only one man.
"Iron Lady" is the term that Nina Berberova invented in her book--but in the opinion of her biographers, this term becomes her personally as nobody else.
The British science fiction writer H. G. Wells, whose secretary Moura Budberg was, several times proposed to marry him, but she refused. When her friends asked her why she kept on living with the old man, she answered: “He smells of honey.” Oh Moura, Moura, could you ever know that one Lara would cite you some day! Mentioning her is of good omen--as well as reading about her and to citing her--because she was a woman who survived. The young people here don’t know how it is important to survive, much more important than any sexual problems. The Survival of the Fittest is not survival of the best. My collected essays The Jetsam may be called Moorings, and I am one of the survivors, the women who survived.
"I had learnt to seek intensity…more of life, a concentrated sense of life." (Nina Berberova, O Magazine, September 2003)
"A concentrated sense of life is pleasure. Our desires vary our life--desire to love, desire to revenge, desire to possess, desire to bestow. To exist with intensity equal to discovery." (Anthony Blanche)

*a thing of the past*

“One should always be in love.”--Oscar Wilde

One should kill everyone who loves him, everyone, with the exception of parents, children and cats. Do it as soon as you notice the eye of a dog that watches your expression, the arched eyebrows, rounded mouth and the manner to follow you wherever you go in the house keeping you in his sight all along. You are sorry for him, of course, it’s a pity and no reason, but do it now lest it’s too late. Because he, oh so loving, will dig a warm sultry burrow nearby your dwelling, from where he’ll be spying on you for some time, and then he’ll begin attack giving you slight shoves and even dragging you so that you would take a look at his dwelling and appreciate its comfort. Well yes, it’s cozy. It’s always warm there, the clean bed, many interesting bric-a-bracs, and each of them he is ready for giving to you--nice, though a little fusty. By the winter, it seems to you that it’s good when there is no draught. Perhaps, this year you’ll stand fast and having wintering somehow in a snowdrift you’ll meet the springtime being free, or rather almost free, because between your shoulder-blades you have a sense of the red spot of the telescopic sight of his loving eye. And you get used to the new circumstance that you have to ring up or at least reply to his messages and to have meal at his at least once a week and to sleep with him at least once ten days. For he loves. Then the inevitable sense of guilt comes--it seems to you that you destroy his life, using the warmth of his heart and giving nothing in return. Now, one especially lonely night, you shall come to him, without a call, and you’ll stay by him. Because it’s pleasure to see his face beaming for the only reason that you are beside. You feel like a magician. Should I tell you how it all would end? His embrace will be tighter and tighter, your private space will be smaller and smaller, his requests will turn into demands, and the happiness on his face will turn into a mask of capricious irritation. Therefore, kill him now. And then, when you are again alone, look in the locker and take out the photo of the only man whom you wanted to give your life, who could make you happy, who you admired--he who killed you one day.
Enjoy the image of some artemis-like nymphs from the artist Julius LeBlanc Stewart (1855-1919)--

*gloriole of quotations*
“I will survive: if the hell rejects me, there is always paradise.”--(Jocelyn Lindenridge-Blanche, our dear boy at a moment of dismals)

"To clutch life's hair, and thrust one naked phrase Like a lean knife through the ribs of time."--(from the sonnet The City of the Soul by Alfred Douglas)

“May it won't be so little which is so dear for You…"--(Marcus Valerius Martialis about a life of a beloved thing)

“If You are with me at heart, if we love each other, then Rome is wherever we live.”--(Marcus Valerius Martialis to his friend)

“Life is like the Games. Some come to compete, some to trade, and the happiest ones to watch.”--(Pythagoras)

“Death has nothing to do with us. While we are, death isn’t here; when death is here, we are no more”.--(Epicure)

Friday, July 02, 2010

a la pointe blanche

ancient pages of the revue--

About my blog new avatar. Il Cammeo Gonzaga is a Hellenistic engraved gem, a cameo cut out from the three layers of an Indian sardonyx, dating from perhaps the 3rd Century BC. The cameo shows the profiles of a man and a woman which conceivably possess family likeness. This capita jugata type of portrait is known from the coins issued by Ptolemy II Philadelphus in Hellenistic Egypt. Such portraits show Ptolemy with his sister and wife, Arsinoe II.

holy days for July:

High Holy Days

July 1 Disciplina. Disciplina was a goddess--in the category of "deified abstraction" (like Libertas or Spes, etc.)--who was worshipped most often by officers and legionaries in the Roman Army. The cult of Disciplina emerged during the principate of Hadrian, which is the main reason it is of concern to us (we take many of Hadrian's religious innovations- -both his personal ones as well as those of wider Greek, Roman, and Egyptian cultures at the time--very seriously, not just the cultus of Antinous). Hadrian was a great military mind, and whenever he visited the various provinces (and he was the only Emperor to visit them all while he was a sitting Emperor), he would always do a military review, and give very in-depth critiques and suggestions to the armies by their individual units. Several of these survive from Africa, where they were inscribed on a monument in the parade grounds in at least one location.

July 16 Antinous Silvanus

Low Holy Days

July 4 Birthday of Matidia, mother of Sabina

July 9 First entry of Hadrian as Emperor into the city of Rome in 118

July 10 Death of Hadrian in 138

July 20 Birthday of Alexander the Great in 356 BCE. I assume that this is a calculated date, translated from the Macedonian dating system into the Latin.

July 25 Sirius Rising, Hermes, Anubis, Hermanubis, Antinous the Hunter, Master of Animals, and Antinous Kynegetigos


Monday, June 28, 2010

nuit blanche

to the happy few
beautiful boys on the revue--

Fuckquests of Saxon in London, one of the bloggers who I follow--
A beautiful boys site. I am not responsible for your safety on the website--


Tuesday, June 22, 2010


in this issue--

“Ready for writing afresh
Study in Tones of the Sunset...”
(Lara Biuts)

*The Snow of Poplars*
Every year in June, the mysterious days come. The snow falls at the height of summer. It’s the poplar-trees are blooming. It looks like somebody’s persiflage, related to old-fashioned joshing, as though someone above the big town smiles ironically infringing the usual rhythm and logic. The snow of poplars. I love it. Not the real snow, but its spirit and image. It is dear and much more expensive, like the apples on the canvas made by Renoir. The fluffy snow falls in the morning--incomprehensible, illogical--beware! it tells! Some could object: stop it, stop talking about the “illogical” or something which “tells”. Why, it’s simply the poplars are blooming, and this fluff, true oh so white, looks like the snow, but it is so annoying. Don’t worry, several days will pass, and it all will return to the order of things: summer will be summer, then autumn, then winter and the real snow. Yes, real, and not this. What’s this? And I’d reply: it’s a trail. Every year the sly poplars check up us all: whether we can appreciate Renoir’s apples or not. I feel agitated when the time comes--the time of the fear of being adult and logical.

“All animals, except man, know that the principal business of life is to enjoy it.”--The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler

*poem by Heinrich Heine :*

Heart, my heart, oh, be not shaken!
Bravely bear thy fate. Once more
Shall the coming Spring restore
What the Winter rude hath taken.
How abundant is thy measure!
Still, O world, how fair thou art!
And thou yet may'st love, my heart,
Everything that gives thee pleasure.

*lyrics El Condor Paso aka If I Could :*
I'd rather be a sparrow than a snail
Yes I would, if I could, I surely would
I'd rather be a hammer than a nail
Yes I would, if I only could,
I surely would
Away, I'd rather sail away
Like a swan that's here and gone
A man gets tied up to the ground
He gives the world its saddest sound
Its saddest sound
I'd rather be a forest than a street
Yes I would, if I could, I surely would
I'd rather feel the earth beneath my feet
Yes I would, if I only could,
I surely would

White Moon. My translation of the poem White Moon by Paul Verlaine--

read “my Evelyn Waugh” on Scribd:

*la blanche biche aka my kitty Sophie*

Friday, June 04, 2010

la maison blanche

*fluff of choice*

On the website, I had a group Fluff of Choice, where my reader still can find some pictures of fluffy things and my kitties.

This fluffy pink monster is a piggy who can sing a song.

My pink bunny. I could not find a pink bunny anywhere in my town, and then I did some searching on the eBay, and there I lately purchased the bunny. By a mere chance the toy is from the UK. He has not a name thus far. In my view, he looks like a teddy-bear and a piggy at the same time.

This is my laptop. His name is MyDove.

My kitty Sophie the Sun.

This my video is entitled “Sophie. Early Period.”--for cat lovers.

read Story of Sophie, published on my Scribd page:

Friday, May 21, 2010


For dog and wolf lovers--one more book of poetry, *The Phillupic Hymns by The Phillupic* can be found at the following CreateSpace page:
May 22 is a birthday of the book’s Author, Phillip A. Bernhardt-House.

[ the next is my re-published entry entitled “pieces of information”, which is Revue_Blanche last issue on the website (for more info, see the previous entry on this site). Read the last but one entry:
enjoy… ]

On the Net, I found out that Le Chateau d'Anthes, a 17th-century castle, is situated Alsace--now a "charming hotel situates in a historic and verdant area and offers comfortable accommodation"--
Town of Soultz--
There is about a dozen of descendants of Georges-Charles d’Anthès on Facebook. Some of them are my FB friends.

A big fan of Georges-Charles d’Anthès (1812-1896), I wrote the essay *The Darling of Fortune*, which is a love story as well. Read the story on my Scribd page:

This year, I can watch *The Pretender* for the first time--
Michael T. Weiss is a good artist. He looks like an aesthete in his photos--

At long last, I’ve read some books by Ronald Firbank (1886-1926), the late Victorian writer, younger contemporary of Oscar Wilde:
For a long while, I knew only his name--“…he dined with Proust and Gide and was on closer terms with Cocteau and Diaghilev; Firbank sent him his novels with fervent inscriptions…” (Evelyn Waugh)--knowing him as an elder contemporary of Harold Acton (1904-1994).

Now I know his two books, and my review is that his books are brilliant works, graceful bagatelles and precious bijoux. I wish I wrote like he. All I’ve learnt of Ronald Firbank is charming and fascinating.

I am a writer. My given name has several derivatives and diminutives that I use as my pen-names. Now, *Wikipedia on the name Lara*--
Lara (state), Venezuela
Lara, Victoria, township in Australia
Lara, Antalya, urban district in Turkey
Lara de los Infantes in Spain
*People; Lara (name).*--Origin Russian (given name); Spanish (surname) Related names Larisa, *Larissa*.--Lara can be a given name or a surname in several languages. In Ukrainian, and Russian other languages, the given name is a short form for Larissa. In Hindi, the given name is a short form for Laranya, which means graceful. The Spanish surname Lara is derived from Lara de los Infantes in the Burgos province of Spain. Notable people bearing this name include:
Agustín Lara (1900-1970), Mexican composer
Alexandra Maria Lara, Romanian actress
Brian Lara (born 1969), Trinidadian cricketer
Eurico Lara (born 1897), Brazilian footballer
Alonso Manrique de Lara, Roman Catholic bishop
Lara Honos-Webb, doctor
Lara Petusky Coger, American journalist
Agustín Lara, Mexican composer
Antonio Lara de Gavilán, Spanish artist
Denisse Lara, American singer
Emilio Lara, Cuban weightlifter
Rafael Paulo de Lara Araújo, Brazilian basketball player
Louis, comte de Narbonne-Lara, French soldier and diplomat
Jerónimo Manrique de Lara, General Inquisitor
Martha Lara (fl. late 20th century), Mexican diplomat & politician
Modesto Lara (born 1973), Dominican Republic judoka
Osvaldo Lara (born 1955), Cuban track and field sprinter
Lara Logan, a television journalist for CBS News in the United States.
Lara Flynn Boyle, the actress.
Lara Fabian, the French and English-language singer whose works include Final Fantasy soundtrack theme The Dream Within.
Lara Dutta, Indian actress.
Lara Hedberg Deam, magazine founder
Juan Jesús Vivas Lara, politician
Lara Cardella, Italian writer
Lara St. John, Canadian Violinist
Carlos Lara Bareiro, Paraguayan composer
Margrét Lára Viðarsdóttir, Icelandic football
Christian Lara, baseball player
Margret Lara Vidarsdottir, Icelandic footballer
Tino de Lara, Filipino actor
José Manuel Lara, Spanish golfer
Bernardo Gutiérrez de Lara, politician
Christian Lara, Ecuadorian footballer
Adelina de Lara, British pianist and composer
Lúcio Lara, former General Secretary of the MPLA
Claude Autant-Lara, French film director
Catherine Lara, French violinist, composer and singer
Pablo Lara, Cuban weightlifter
Alda Lara, poet
Alexandra Maria Lara, German actress
Kiki Lara, Mexican soccer player
Brian Lara, cricketer
Georgia Lara, Greek water polo player
Rocío Lara, Muppeteer
Blanca de La Cerda y Lara, Spanish noblewoman
Marlon Guillermo Lara Orellana, politician
Martha Lara, Mexican politician
Modesto Lara, Dominican athlete
Pablo Lara, Cuban weightlifter
Juan Lara, baseball player
Osvaldo Lara, Cuban swimmer
Erislandi Lara, Cuban boxer
Daniel García Lara, football striker
Nil Lara, American musician
Raúl Lara, soccer player
Martín Acosta y Lara, Uraguayan basketball player
Guillermo Lara, politician
Francisco José Lara, Spanish professional road bicycle racer
Brigido Lara, Mexican artist
Rodrigo Lara Bonilla, Cuban politician
Eduardo Lara, Columbian football manager
Isidore de Lara, English composer
Víctor Neumann-Lara, Mexican mathematician
Rosalio José Castillo Lara, Roman Catholic cardinal
Eurico Lara, Brazilian footballer
Tito Lara, Puerto Rican singer
Joe Lara, American actor and musician
Lara Robert Prejean, American guitarist and singer
Lara Veronin, also known as Lara Liang, is a member of the Taiwainese band, Nan Quan Mama
*Fictional characters:*
Lara Lor-Van, biological mother of the comic book character Superman
Lara Croft, in video games and film
Lara-Su, from Sonic the Hedgehog
Lara-Le, from Sonic the Hedgehog
Lara Perkins, from The L Word
Lara Wade, from the soap opera Shortland Street
Lara Antipova, major character in novel (and film) Doctor Zhivago
LARA, Licensed Agencies for Relief in Asia, c. 1950
Lara language
Lara & Reyes, instrumental band
Lara the Illusionist of the Marvel Universe
Unión Lara, professional soccer club
*Lara (mythology)* Larunda (also Larunde, Laranda, Lara) was a naiad or nymph, daughter of the river Almo in Ovid's Fasti. She was famous for both beauty and loquacity (a trait her parents attempted to curb). She was incapable of keeping secrets, and so revealed to Jupiter's wife Juno his affair with Juturna (Larunda's fellow nymph, and the wife of Janus). For betraying his trust, Jupiter cut out Lara's tongue and ordered Mercury, the psychopomp, to conduct her to Avernus, the gateway to the Underworld and realm of Pluto. Mercury, however, fell in love with Larunda and made love to her on the way; this act has also been interpreted as a rape. Lara thereby became mother to two children, referred to as the Lares, invisible household gods. However, she had to stay in a hidden cottage in the woods so that Jupiter would not find her.

Lara (genus), a genus of beetles
Lara FS Academy
Lara (poem) a poem by Lord Byron
Lara's Theme, musical theme from the film Doctor Zhivago

April 28, 2010

May 21, 2010

Thursday, May 20, 2010

in this issue: desirous & desiratum

***Vampire News and Views***

All of us, his fans are right: Dracula is alive. Here is his present day photo, and as we can see, he survived in that incident, the distressful misunderstanding between him and Van Helsing, which took place in Transylvania in the 1880s, and now, in the 21st century, his dark charm is captivating as usual, he is all right and prospering. Regarding him as my far cousin, I am so happy to see him again.
=> Read the vampire story. I tried to find the text of THE TRUE STORY OF A VAMPIRE a.k.a. The Sad Story of a Vampire by Count Stanislaus Eric Stenbock on the Net, but in vain, and now my blog seems to be the only source of the story within everyone’s reach:

***plea for help***

This is a fragment of the picture, which I can’t find. A boy with a small blue flower in hand, made in Raphael’s times or by Raphael himself--

***courtesy of***

***The Mentalist***

In addition to one of my previous postings
and to my last posting on the website entitled “pieces of information”--
at present, I can enjoy watching The Mentalist, an American crime procedural television series (2008). The Mentalist follows Simon Baker as Patrick Jane, an independent consultant for the California Bureau of Investigation (CBI) based in Sacramento, California. “Although not an officer of the law of any sort, he uses skills and knowledge from his former career as a successful psychic medium (he was faking it, and does not believe anyone actually has psychic abilities) to help a team of CBI agents solve various crimes, with the hope of one day bringing his wife and daughter's murderer to justice.”

***The new music which I like*** and especially the text of the song. It’s an opening of one new TV comedy mini-series about police, entitled One Day At the Police Station--

***my Facebook groups. Please join…***!!/group.php?gid=113266462027775&ref=mf

***quotes notforyou***

“O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.”
(Shakespeare, Sonnet 65)

“You still shall live—such virtue hath my pen—
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.”
(Shakespeare, Sonnet 81)
**Note--** From now on, by a mere trick of fate, this page is a branch office or rather a main office of my blog Revue_Blanche:

Taking a look at the date of my last posting on my blog Revue_Blanche, you can know when I could reach my blog for the last time--with all the rest websites being accessible for me as usual--I could not reach my blog whatever browser I used, though I never changed my laptop, and nothing in my Vista changed. I can’t understand a reason why my blog cannot be visible on my computer, but I suspect that the owners made their site inaccessible to some regions, including the part of the world where I live, because I tried to reach the site with the aid of a computer in the Internet café, but in vain. I asked their help but I never received a reply. Such are the vagaries of fate (?)
Some of my Notes the reader can read on the Goodreads website: