“However, this skeptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticism was neither a dogma, nor an idea, nor an art, nor a science; it was a man: Enjolras. Grantaire admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras. To whom did this anarchical scoffer unite himself in this phalanx of absolute minds? To the most absolute. In what manner had Enjolras subjugated him? By his ideas? No. By his character. A phenomenon which is often observable. A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors. That which we lack attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind man. The dwarf adores the drum-major. The toad always has his eyes fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight. Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras.”
Basically what it’s like when someone’s texting or their phone rings in the theater.
Was not expecting that…
WHAT THE…
Turn your face away from the garish light of that dress
THIS DRESS, WHICH EARNED THE AUDIENCE’S FEAR AND LOATHING
A HATEFIRE FUELED FOR THIS HIDEOUS SCRAP OF CLOTHING
