(http://membres.lycos.fr/hiyami/kindred/grave.jpg) 
"Pale Death"  
all pictures on this page are © Hitori
"How can so much beauty hide such a bruised and steely  heart, and why must I 
love him, why must I lean in my weariness upon  his irresistible yet 
indomitable strength? Is he not the wizened  funereal spirit of a dead man in a 
child's clothe?" 
Marius writing about Amadeo, T.V.A., p. 116

Talking about "The Vampire Armand", I've gathered my favorite  parts of the 
book and other graphics on that page:
_A look on T.V.A_ (http://membres.lycos.fr/hiyami/kindred/tva.htm) .  
"The embodiment of thirst itself", according to Lestat.
Which  is dangerous only if you're afraid or too dry to assuage it...   



Do you think you know who is Armand? I've discussed about it for  hours with 
fans, on the Anne Rice mailing list and elsewhere. Some gave  very good points 
about him, but mostly, it looks to me as if they're not  talking of the same 
person as I know. As if they didn't read the same  books as I did.

So... Let me invite you to my vision of this living-dead mystery.  Will you 
dare to have a look in his fascinating soul?  

A foreword. I don't like "vampires". I like or dislike people,  characters, 
whether they're vampires, humans or whatever. And I usually  don't bother to 
talk about the ones I don't like, but save my time for  the ones who bring me 
something.

And, for one, I'm enthralled by Armand. Surely, being a vampire  enhanced his 
uniqueness. Loneliness. Fierceness. The contrast between  his appearance of a 
seventeen years old innocent boy, and his soul, one  of a creature who was 
already alive before North-America even was a  british colony, and who's been 
forced to live on death during the last  five centuries. If he wasn't a 
vampire, 
he wouldn't be the one he is.  But it's just a part of him. It doesn't define 
him wholly.




«You see, they all  want the embrace. There is a kernal in all of them that 
is "half in  love with easeful death" and as I wander through the late-night  
streets in the chill hours, I can hear their plaintive sighs, a muted  chorus 
rising from those beds. Its rhythms penetrating the very  walls.
They summon me. They long for me. Gentleman Death, that has  been my epithet, 
and I so treasure it.»
Armand in 'Interlude with the  undead'




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