NARRATOR:

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away. . . .

CUE THEME

SCENE 1. INT. THE ARK ANGEL. SOMEWHERE IN THE OUTER RIM.

APHRA:

Begin recording.

APHRA (narration):

The first thing you need to know: This time I’m dead. Definitely, definitely dead.

I’ve almost died before. So many times. “More lives than a tooka-cat,” that’s how Sava Toob-Nix used to describe me. And this story, the one that ends with me definitely dead . . . it all starts with one of those times I almost died.

So let’s begin there.

We hear the blasts and explosions of a truly epic space battle—perhaps a bit exaggerated in its epicness because this is the story as Aphra’s telling it, and she is nothing if not over the top.

APHRA (narration):

Imagine it: the most epic space battle you’ve ever seen. Lasers! Explosions! Things that go pew-pew! And right in the middle of it all, our intrepid heroine—that’s me!—Doctor Chelli Lona Aphra. Rogue archaeologist, weapons expert, droid reactivator extraordinaire . . . and did I mention she is also extraordinarily beautiful? Raven tresses . . . that are usually a tangled mess, because they’re stuffed under a very stylish aviator cap, complete with rakish goggles. Brown eyes that spark—yes, spark!—with a yearning for adventure. Intriguing electro-tattoos running down her right arm—foolish, youthful mistake, or sign of an irrepressible daredevil? That’s none of your business!

Let’s join her as she makes her grand escape from a gang of nefarious pirates trying to gun down her glorious ship, the Ark Angel!

A particularly loud boom! as Aphra’s ship is hit.

APHRA:

Dammit . . . hyperdrive down, life support hit. Okay . . . okay . . . that’s fine, nothing to worry about. Activate auxiliary systems and get the crew working on it right away!

A beat as she realizes she’s talking to herself.

APHRA:

Oh, right. There are no auxiliary systems. And I don’t have a crew. Time to get creative . . .

The ship’s comm beeps with an incoming transmission.

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

Doctor Aphra! Surrender the valuable artifacts you have stolen from us and we will leave you and your ship be and continue on our way!

Aphra speaks to Maz as she tinkers furiously with her ship’s control panel, trying to buy time.

APHRA:

Heeeey, Maz Kanata! Always an honor to speak to the galaxy’s most—and I mean most—legendary pirate queen! I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve dreamed of this moment, just the two of us on a comm while trying to shoot each other into the Void. I can’t imagine why you’re shooting at li’l ol’ me, though, I swear you’ve got the wrong girl—

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

Spare me your legendary—and I mean legendary—falsehoods, Aphra, we know you have the antique stealth microdroid dust—

APHRA:

You wound me with these accusations!

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

My crew went to great lengths to secure an artifact so valuable, and you, no doubt, are planning on doing something extraordinarily stupid with it—

APHRA:

What, like use it?

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

Exactly.

APHRA:

Okay. Now this is getting downright personal. Is there no sisterhood among rogues anymore? Tell ya what, why don’t we settle in at one of those backwater holes you love so much, have a drink, talk this out like the proper ladies we are—

Another boom rocks Aphra’s ship. Her tinkering gets even more furious, more desperate.

APHRA:

That was very unladylike, Maz.

The Ark Angel lets out a series of frantic beeps.

APHRA:

Now my life support’s failing, I probably only have a few breaths left in me, I’m going to die out here because you’re convinced I took something from you and, worse yet, that I have some sort of nefarious plan for it—

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

You underestimate how well I—or anyone who’s spoken to you for more than five seconds—know you.

APHRA:

Fine! Of course I took it! And of course I’m going to use it! You pirates think you understand the value of all these artifacts you so carelessly pilfer, but all you really understand is that they’re old, and that means they need to be sold to a dusty old museum where they rot away into nothing. And all without ever being used for their true purpose, fulfilling their true potential—out there in the galaxy, having the extraordinary adventures they were meant for.

I mean. How would you like it if someone put you in a museum, Maz?

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

You are telling me that in your custody, the antique stealth microdroid dust is going to have adventures? Rather than merely being sold to the highest bidder?

APHRA:

Would it . . . make you stop shooting at me if that was the case?

A beat as Maz considers—or at least pretends to.

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

Probably not.

Another loud boom rocks Aphra’s ship.

APHRA:

That’s what I figured. And that’s why . . . I also stole—er, liberated something else from your pirating spoils! The cutest little astromech scraps . . . so shiny, and just sitting there, nestled next to the microdroid dust. I swear, they started talking to me. Wanted me to take ’em home. And I like the shiny, so I obliged.

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

[genuinely puzzled]

The . . . astromech scraps? Those were salvaged from a Corellian junkyard, but they were so rusty, so banged up and broken, even our best techs couldn’t do anything with them. They’re just . . . trash.

APHRA:

Yeah, I love trash. Watch what happens when I place my shiny new astromech bit just so in my central operating system.

We hear a decisive click as Aphra places the droid part in her control panel.

APHRA:

Hooks right in—’cause I’ve got the magic touch. Oh, and I’ve made so many personal modifications to the Ark Angel, my beloved ship will run on anything. Even old droid parts.

A loud explosion rocks Maz’s ship.

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

What! Direct hit, our gravity’s knocked out . . .

APHRA:

Soooo . . . did I mention that I’ve actually been looking for this exact ’mech bit? I had a theory that it would enhance my weapons system—looks like I was right! All-purpose astromech bits! Or at least they are in my hands . . .

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

I don’t understand how you . . . you . . .

APHRA:

Your techs are a buncha charlatans, Maz. You should reaaaalllly consider replacing them if you want to keep that badass pirate queen rep.

MAZ KANATA (on comm):

That isn’t . . . Void! Retreat! This isn’t over, Aphra . . .

APHRA:

Oh, I know.

As Maz’s ship retreats, Aphra actually sounds a little contemplative—

APHRA:

I really do hope we get that drink one day.

Maybe things are better than fine. Maybe I’m helping break new lesbian ground, leading the revolution for new free love.
Or something.

Have faith in yourself to know what's right for you. Whatever answer you need, it's inside you somewhere.

I think it’s true that the older you get, and I am very old, the more you see that being in love and breaking up have a lot in common.

Love is hard. Breaking up is hard. Love is dramatic. Breaking up is dramatic.

Which makes me think that a lot of the questions you have about breaking up might be better thought of as questions about the nature of the love you have with this girl.

There are two rumors about breaking up that I feel might be helpful to address here.
One is that breakups should be clean. The other is that you should only breakup when you're not in love.
The truth is, breakups are usually messy, the way people are messy, the way life is often messy. I's okay for a breakup to feel like a disaster. It doesn't feel okay, but I assure you it is okay.
It's also true that you can breakup with someone you still love. Because those two things are not distinct territories: love and not loving anymore.

Polyamorous or monogamous, your love should be a thing that brings something to you.
It's true that giving can be a part of love. But, contrary to popular belief, love should never take from you, Freddy.

- Tu imagines un peu à quoi ça ressemblait le monde, avant?
- Avant quoi?
- Avant les bungalows.
J'ai froncé les sourcils. Oui, je savais à quoi ressemblais le monde, avant. J'avais vu des photos d'archives lors d'une exposition de la société d'histoire. Dans cette cuvette mal drainée s’étendait autrefois une très ancienne tourbière. Des épinettes, des lacs rougeâtres couverts de sphaigne. Des sarracénies en fleurs, des nénuphars, sans doute quelques nids d'oiseaux migrateurs. Des grenouilles. Des maringouins, des mouches, des papillons, des libellules. Des rats musqués, des ratons laveurs, des couleuvres. Une infinité de bestioles, de bactéries et d'organismes unicellulaires.
Le résultat de millions d'années d'évolution.
Hope a soupiré.
- Tu imagines l'effort collectif nécessaire pour effacer une tourbière? Ça ne se fait pas tout seul. Il faut drainer le terrain, décharger des centaines de tonnes de gravier, passer le bulldozer, la niveleuse, le rouleau compresseur. Creuser des égouts, tracer des rues. Installer l'eau et l'électricité.
Les bungalows environnants m’apparaissaient sous un angle différent : Ils cernaient maintenant le terrain vague, s’apprêtaient à se refermer sur lui et à le recouvrir en silence -comme un tapis de sphaigne à la surface d'un lac. Un monde en valait un autre.
- Les inspecteurs de l'ONU diront ce qu'ils voudront, le bungalow reste la principale arme de destruction massive inventée durant la guerre froide.

Plutôt que la questionner directement, j'annonçai que Hope avait trouvé sa date.
- Quelle date?
- La date de la fin du monde.
- Ah?
Un ange passa. Peut-être n'avais-je pas été assez explicite?
- D'après elle, ça va se passer le 17 juillet 2001.
Ann Randall sembla analyser ces nouvelles données, On aurait cru un maître en train d'évaluer le travail de son élève.
- Bonne date, décréta-t-elle enfin. Les nombres premiers, Mickey, c'est le secret.
Elle versa un doigt de cognac et n'ajouta plus un mot.
Fichus Randall.

-Avez-vous reçu des nouvelles de Hope?
Elle me lança un regard interrogateur et rangea sa bouteille sans la reboucher.
- Moi? Non. Pourquoi?
Je tripotais ma chope de bière, tout de même un peu craintif à me hasarder sur un terrain aussi intime. À l'évidence, Ann n'avait même pas remarqué que Hope était partie.
- Partie où?
- Au Japon.
Elle haussa les sourcils, l'air de dire "voilà qui explique bien des choses", et sirota une gorgée de cognac.
- Ça fait longtemps?
- Quatre mois, bientôt cinq. Je pensais que vous étiez au courant, elle ne vous a pas appelée?
- Non.

Uncle Masa approached me and bowed. That’s how I knew he was real. He would never hugged me when he saw me, like an American uncle would; he always bowed. « You’ve gotten tall! » he said, and grinned, like nothing terrible had happened since I’d last seen him. « We're the same height now. »

« What are you doing here? » I asked.

From his suit jacket pocket, Uncle Masa took out a blue United States Of America passeport wrapped in a silky white ribbon and handed it to me. « I’m here to take you to live with your father. In Tokyo, Japan. Happy birthday! »

Vous regardez avec stupéfaction votre forte tête, votre rebelle de choc dont le premier mot n’a pas été “pa-pa” ou “ma-man” mais “non”, votre hippie, votre écolo, votre baba-cool, votre anarchiste, votre féministe engagée, votre canard trotskiste. En train de tenir des propos de romans-photos de série rose. En fin de compte, les modes passent, les mœurs changent, mais l’Amour reste l’Amour, le miel de la tendresse humaine.

To Learn is to create. Learning- whether it is programming, mathematics, art, music, poetry, biology, or chemistry- is all about breaking down walls and freeing the one thing that kept us alive: knowledge.

Knowledge expands freedom in all its forms. Knowledge breaks down walls. It liberates the oppressed. We are committed to knowledge. Knowledge as a hammer against classism, against sexism, against racism, against gender discrimination, against slavery, against bigotry, against war, against hatred. If there is darkness in the world, we will light it up.”

“Ah, yes, the mix tape. The mating call of the introvert.”

Extroverts sparkle, introverts glow. Extroverts are fireworks, introverts are a fire in the hearth.”

“Being lucky in love might be less a matter of luck and more a matter of paying attention.”

“The introvert's dilemma is that we might not get a lot of invitations for the kind of socializing we like best--small, mellow gatherings. In other words, the kind of socializing other introverts like to do. Because, let's face it: We're introverts. We're all at home waiting to be invited to do introvert things. Which means, of course, that none of us are getting the invitations we crave. It's an introvert standoff.”

“Historically, psychologists have looked at introversion as the absence of extroversion. They measure extroversion, and if you are low in it, then you are considered an introvert. This perpetuates the perception of introversion as negative space, and introverted activities as not really doing anything. We need to train ourselves, and others, out of this idea. We need to start seeing doing nothing (or reading, or working alone on projects, or whatever it is we do to recharge) as activities that are as valid as any social event.”

“Introverts are actually a lot like Clark Kent-- mild and unassuming much of the time, but able to swoop in and turn on our Supercharm when we choose.”

“We know what it feels like to have our energy drained by too much interaction. It feels like my brain is tired, almost like a muscle would be tired. The more depleted my psychic energy is, the slower my thoughts come, the harder it is to speak full sentences or focus on what’s going on around me. My senses become even more sensitive; noise and fuss are more overwhelming. And I become tense, irritated, cranky. That’s when I know I need to stop, sit down, let my brain relax and put up its metaphorical feet.”

“Every introvert alive knows the exquisite pleasure of stepping from the clamor of a party into the bathroom and closing the door”

“Just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean I have nothing to say.”

“I've been accused my whole life of being "too sensitive". This actually kind of pisses me off, but maybe that's just because I'm too sensitive.”

“One of the risks of being quiet is that the other people can fill your silence with their own interpretation: You’re bored. You’re depressed. You’re shy. You’re stuck up. You’re judgemental. When others can’t read us, they write their own story—not always one we choose or that’s true to who we are.”

Est-ce qu'on m'a mis au monde pour que je gosse après mes cuticules? Parce que....

Quand j'arrache les bouts, je perds le rythme. Je vis l'intemporel. Le dédain de mes propres doigts m'aspire vers le supervide de l'univers.

Olfactif

Dans cet S méridien il y avait en dehors de l'odeur habituelle, odeur d'abbés, de décédés, d'œufs, de geais, de haches, de cît-gîts, de cas, d'ailes, d'aime haine au pet de culs, d'airs détestés, de bus vers, de double vés cés, de hies que scient aides grecs, il y avait une certaine senteur de long cou juvénile, une certaine âcreté de rogne, une certaine puanteur lâche et constipée tellement marquées que lorsque deux heures plus tard je passai devant la gare Saint-Lazate je les reconnus et les identifiais dans le parfum cosmétique, fashionable et tailoresque qui émanait d'un bouton mal placé.

Gustatif

Cet autobus avait un certain goût. Curieux mais incontestable. Tout les autobus n'ont pas le même goût. Ça se dit, mais c'est vrai. Suffit d'en faire l'expérience. Celui là — un S — pour ne rien cacher — avait une petite saveur de cacahouète grillée je ne vous dis que ça. La plate-forme avait son fumet spécial, de la cacahouète non seulement grillée mais encore piétinée. A un mètre soixante au-dessus du tremplin, une gourmande, mais il ne s'en trouvait pas, aurait pu lécher quelque chose d'un peu suret qui était un cou d'homme dans sa trentaine. Et à vingt centimètres encore au-dessus, il se présentait au palais exerce la rare dégustation d'un galon tressé un peu cacaoté. Nous dégustâmes ensuite le chouigne-gueume de la dispute, les châtaignes de l'irritation, les raisins de la colère et les frappes de l'amertume. Deux heures plus tard nous eûmes droit au dessert : un bouton de pardessus... une vraie noisette...