
The book that established Thomas Carlyle's reputation when first published in 1837, this spectacular historical masterpiece has since been accepted as the standard work on the subject. It combines a shrewd insight into character, a vivid realization of the picturesque, and a singular ability to bring the past to blazing life, making it a reading experience as thrilling as any novel. As John D. Rosenberg observes in his Introduction, The French Revolution is "one of the grand poems of [Carlyle's] century, yet its poetry consists in being everywhere scrupulously rooted in historical fact."--Publisher.
Also, October 29, 1896 "The Youth's Companion" p 583 at https://archive.org/details/sim_youths-companion_1896-10-29_... . The details have changed a bit from the Britannica story.
That in turn cites Edith Lichel's 1895 "The Story of Two Salons." https://archive.org/details/storytwosalons00sichgoog/page/n1... , which does not give further citations.
The Britannica biography says 'On the evening of the 7th April 1794 — not, as Carlyle says, on a " bleared May morning,"'. Using Carlyle" and "bleared May morning" as search terms finds it comes from "The French Revolution" by Thomas Carlyle, first published in 1837.
However, while that does describe the story of how Condorcet was identified, it does not mention omelettes or eggs only "asks breakfast". Quoting https://archive.org/details/frenchrevolutio16carlgoog/page/n...
> Condorcet has lurked deep, these many months; Argus-eyes watching and searching for him. His concealment is become dangerous to others and himself; he has to fly again, to skulk, round Paris, in thickets and stone-quarries. And so at the Village of Clamars, one bleared May morning, there enters a Figure, ragged, rough-bearded, hunger-stricken; asks breakfast in the tavern there. Suspect, by the look of him! "Servant out of place, sayest thou?" Committee-President of Forty-Sous finds a Latin Horace on him: "Art thou not one of those Ci-devants that were wont to keep servants? Suspect!" He is haled forthwith, breakfast unfinished, towards Bourg-la-Reine, on foot: he faints with exhaustion; is set on a peasant's horse; is flung into his damp prison-cell: on the morrow, recollecting him, you enter; Condorcet lies dead on the floor. They die fast, and disappear: the Notabilities of France disappear, one after one, like lights in a Theatre, which you are snuffing out.
Lovecraft for instance. And Robert Howard (author of Conan).
And, the granddaddy of all: Thomas Carlyle whose “French Revolution” is packed with metaphor, simile, superfluous words, and convoluted sentences... indeed, he made fun of the way he writes in “Sartur Resartus” in a hilarious fashion.
I grew up in a country where probably nobody has ever seen that 1837 book, and almost everyone systematically refuses the very concept of a line.
Instead, people "optimize" their way towards their target, be it the door of a public transport bus or the physician's office.
Pretending not having seen you, they literally pass sideways, over and - if necessary - under you, if you happen to be on their way for more than a couple of seconds.
Try to affirm your rights, they'll push back with twice the physical and verbal strength. Any hope for the authority to mitigate this is an illusion, because those who are in charge of enforcing the rules are expression of that same culture, and transparently dismiss any stride towards predictability as a waste of time.
Lines? A conquest of civilization, hope for a better humanity, prohibited dream!
But you can have a very good pizza almost anytime...