onyx

Once reinstated to the court in 1536, Mary and her ladies sought her father’s approval for the colours she purchased and, more significantly, wore when in his presence. Mary’s requests for Henry’s opinion on her wardrobe choices suggest a strong desire on her part to appear conciliatory and interested in her father’s attention and approval. A letter dated from the spring of 1538 indicates that such overtures were not entirely welcome; despite an initial rebuff, Lady Kingston made a second attempt on Mary’s behalf to wring an opinion out of the king […]

The Odyssey but retold as a low-stakes modern adventure of one guy out with his girlfriend leaving the bar with his buddies to do just one (1) simple thing real quick, it'll take like 15 minutes tops, he'll be right back, but then some bullshit happens and the trip keeps getting more complicated as more bullshit keeps happening while he just tries to get back to the bar because he promised his girlfriend that he'd get back and he knows that she's still there because she told him she'd wait there.

His girlfriend had been fending off the 5 drunk guys for most of the evening by explaining that even if she was going to ditch her boyfriend, she can't possibly leave without finishing her beer, which she is keeping perpetually full via careful sleight of hand where she's just pouring it back and forth into and out of the pitcher.

alright I've got to do some quick math to explain attitudes towards AI to my boss.

Question 2/3

Question 3/3

In September 1533 Bishop Fisher told Charles V, via his ambassador in England, 'the pope's weapons become very malleable when directed against the obdurate and the pertinacious and, therefore, it is incumbent upon Your Majesty to interfere in this affair and undertake a work which must be as pleasing in the eyes of God as war upon the Turks.' A few weeks later Catherine of Aragon was expressing her hopes 'of the defeat and death at the pope's hands of this second Turk,' the joint invocation of papal authority and the Turk indicating that Catherine was anticipating an anti-Henrician crusade. Chapuys [...] was a busy man in these years, conveying the treasonable thoughts of Englishmen to the Emperor. In September 1534 he reported to his master that Lord Darcy had promised northern support for any Habsburg invasion: 'With the assistance of Your Majesty Darcy would raise the banner of the Crucifix together with yours'. Cromwell had been right. Darcy was a traitor long before October 1536.

The Venetians could not hide their perplexity. Why, if Henry and Katherine were involved in a dispute that was rocking Christendom, did they still continue to attend functions together, to dine together in public and to behave, with their daughter present, as if nothing was going at all? In June 1530, the Signory in Venice were told [...] 'this most virtuous Queen maintains strenuously that all her king and lord does, is done by him for true and pure conscience' sake[...]' Maybe this is the line that Katharine took with Mary, absolving her husband of blame, emphasising that conscience was the key to the difficulties that Henry faced. It would certainly explain Mary's otherwise misguided confidence in her father, whose conscience was actually one of the most self-serving and self-pitying in history. At an impressionable age, Mary learned that conscience was the most important justification for behaviour that anyone could make. It became her guiding principle— a clear conscience was what you owed yourself and God—and the cause of much of her unhappiness.

Just remembering when Anakin Solo met his cousin Ben Skywalker as a newborn and called him ugly.

The crusade theme was taken up by Princess Mary in October 1535, the year of More's death. Commenting to Chapuys on Charles V's recent conquest of Tunis, she remarked that the conquest of England 'itself will be highly acceptable in the eyes of God and no less glory will be gained by it than by the conquest of Tunis or even Africa.'

But for María and the other Spanish women, Richmond must have felt like a gilded cage. Their household was kept in comparative isolation even from others living in the palace, and there was little to do but wait for the tides of fortune to turn. Not surprisingly, she was desperate to return home. She reminded her brother-in-law Ochoa repeatedly that she had no intention of remaining in England after her mistress’s marriage, and declared that ‘this is not a land to stop [in] unless necessary’. She was so unhappy that she could not bear to contemplate the glory of going home in case it did not come true: ‘I want my departure so much that I cannot receive it except as a mockery.’

Shakespeare made the Wars of the Roses the basis of seven of his plays, delineating the ‘purple testament of bleeding war’, and summing up the significance of 1399, when it all began, as destined to shower the landscape ‘with faithful English blood’. This emphasis on the human cost of civil war should help underline one essential feature of Tudor England. Kings might be appointed by God (in both their own and their subjects’ minds) and they might possess authority and wealth; yet their power was contingent on the good opinion of their subjects no less than a modern democracy. If they lost that good opinion, they ran the risk of losing their crown – not swiftly, by decorous electoral process, but slowly and painfully, through resistance, rebellion, civil strife, and often culminating in violent death.