The Luteces do not smile. This is not a declaration of their reaction. This is an objective fact: the Luteces do not smile. Their postures are clinical–spines as straight as freshly ironed button-ups, hands clasped together in front of them (tightly, like covalent bonds), faces cold and analytical (Rosalind’s degrees colder than Robert’s).
“Good,” “better,” “best.”
Language is heterogenous. A word in its neutral, unused state is homogenous, having a single meaning. In use, words gain a unique measure of meaning by the user and the listener, resulting in two opposing meanings, rendering them uncorrelatable, untranslatable. Good, better, best: the meaning between them all are both infinite and null–a total lack of concurrent validity.
Now, something not cold, not clinical: there is a spark in the Luteces eyes. The other excites their interests, piquing them above baseline. Beyond this, they do not show their attraction.
“One would not ask Beethoven what each piano key means.” “One would simply ask him to play.”
The thing that is no longer a woman smiles wider, showing its teeth. When it finds one unlike the others, one who does not quite know them, one who has not lost family, friends, pets, neighbours and school teachers, to Khthonios’ bite, they are inclined to corner such a creature. France is lost. The unassimilated have made a home in the sewers, while Khthonios lounges about Versailles.
There is no anger. No violence. Only efficiency and uniformity. For the first time in a long time, Paris is clean, and the people are polite.
“Have you ever visited France? It’s such a beautiful place."
“Perhaps you’d like a tour.”
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