MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
MARCO GRENELLE
My name is Marco Grenelle, and I’m probably insane. It troubles me, though I’ve learned to adapt. People tell me I look like a kid, but that night of the fire I was twenty-six years old and I’d lived half my life like a rodent in underground tunnels of filth and flood and fear of sudden death or deliberate torment. I’d learned how to negotiate cave-ins and repair sewer pipes and splice electrical wires. I’d been made aware in my youth of the wickedness of people, and I’d learned the unfortunate necessity of being able to kill without hesitation or remorse if I wanted to live. Stories we recall of survival are deliberately pathetic and cruel. Precious light and water ought not to be a gift we earn through virtue or fortune. The sun is a birthright. Is that not obvious? Memories of life underground and how we’ve struggled to reach the surface, those indignities we’ve suffered, tragedies we’ve endured, are necessarily painful to record and share. Yet without them, our history will go unnoticed, our trials unknown. Each of us in the undercity has a story. We’re far from the end, but there has to be a beginning. So, let me start here.
CARS & VEHICLES
CosmopolitanZenith
Algren
Delaney
Zane
Model Seven
Model Five
Liberty 1200 electric
Recco electric
Marmon
Bryant Plus 8
Imperial
Grandville autocycle
Hanley
Lyman
Luna
Royale
Zinetti
Métr
SCHOOLS & INSTITUTIONS
Holborne Institute
Regency College
Van Fleet College
Zynismus Academy
Seagraves Compendium
Carales School
Molly Institute
Hugo Academy
Numanus University
Sacred Sisters of Tadmor Clinic
Diocesan orphanage
Flaxton Youth Academy
Grointon School
Veeder Hall
Antin School
Villar-Brunn
Mignard Institute
Mollison Institute
Organic Medicine Institute
Cultural Mechanics Institute
Trilling Academy
Pausanius College
Helvidius Academy
Willsford Academy
Coupole School
Terrentius College
Eaton Academy of Art
Willard House
Jhering Hospital
Flammarion Hospital
Sherley Moore Medical Clinic
Ézpezel Hospital
Herophilus Medical
Temple Mount Academy
Caiéta Ánqueil Sanctuary
Parrish-Lavinian Tower at Zinsser Court
Mendel Building
Citium House
Hippocrates College
National Cathedral
Thessandrus Hippodrome
Ferdinand Club
Grace Academy
Archimbault Cathedral
Mallarmé Church of Perpetual Grace
Drumont Prison
Jouhandeau asylum
Montclos Gardens
Immanuel Fields
Orphalene Platform
Hesperien Pier
Dome of Eternity
Sabbath Square
Hoheimer Docks
Ile de Lutitia
Fields of Mnestheus
FOOD & DRINK
Cordon Rouge bottle
Potatoes Varénne
Mercara lamb
Bottle of Valmore
Seawrack
Cocoa coffee
Mandamour brandy
Tetuan tea
Oulmés tea
Almus liquor
Phárés
Minzaj
Morillo beer
Requeña cigar
Ras-el-Ma
Ulla liqueur
Spirits of Yindall
Filo (liquor)
Griffo weed
Hoggari
Tcháro cigarettes
Pincraçio liqueur
Butter cheese wine
Ilux liquor
Honey muffin
Maldoror beer
Zerekten liquor
Djemaa smoke
Pothinius wine
Messana pies
Lilien cheese
Butter sticks
Jade Morini
Valmore
Zemlya
Emerald wine
Fulton sausage
Gobseck
Tafilalet cheese
Miggly cookies
Gordoñia cheese
LeVau sausages
Corn muffins
Apple wine
Tuodra
La Forgue bourbon
Aïssa sauce
Mandamour brandy
Vanilla madeleines
Coulette pie
Eggs Kerezza
Red-head rosy sausage
Conyer sauce
Crumb cookies
Aged Tuodra
Aïssa sauces
Pajapiros
Udo gum
Gujari wine
Cocoa cookies
Cheese noodles
Emerald Myrlyn
Atargatis mushrooms
Honeyberry muffins
Lucha leaves
Swamp-green cinnamon
Caféreus champagne
Boucle seeds
Laval oysters
Askour caviar
Tafra grain
(Dangerous)
Terumi
Vanilla-scented Garabito
Speckled Shotun
Halévy mushrooms
Tübingen blueberries
Tülloch stems
Black Tartarean
MUSIC & THEATRES
“Miss Mary’s Music Box”
Fosdick’s Concerto in D major
“By Twilight Stars Above”
“Endymion”
“Flight of Orestes”
“Theme of Moses”
Schindler’s “Triplet”
“The Summer Matinée of Elise Obrirst”
“Love’s Secret Heart”
“Lucky Me, Loving You”
Sappho aria
“Navigato” in E major
Oren Gustine “Song of Life”
Veljish Opera
“The Moon of Love Above”
“O How Cupid’s Arrows Fly”
Hymn of Dawn
Five-string Kithura
Ten-string mahlousjka
Campo horn
Phelps Heron-Knorr
Zigeunerweisen
Orpheum Folly
Olympia
Baghdad Gardens
Alpen Haus
Aeolian Hall
Memorial Park Theater
Cosmo House
Sadler Bandshell
Emporium Playhouse
Lyceum
Gessonex Musée
Imperial
Lautrec
Opera House
WEAPONS & INVENTIONS, ETC.
Chlorocyanic gas
Hydrocyanic gas
Malthus rifle
Hand bomb
Borrado 90s
Rodochi 12s
Remedios gun
Punt gun
Earth mines
Prionic gas
Incendiary pipes
Radio rockets
Charnel pellets
Gäeten revolver
Mechanical rifles
Gas Myrmidon guns
Mobile incinerators
Radioactive phenotheric gas
Diatomite
Tri-nitrophlogistics
Robots
Invisible soldiers
Electric ear-horns
Standard Interpreters
Aphaca incense
Tonny’s mint
Romberg pills
Phenacetin
Luchita serum
VeraForm
Oromorphium
Völker oil
Tacontine pills
Taxile tablets
Stubble shoes
Conklin shoes
Rochforte shoes
Hoyt boots
Clarion beads
Thryrrus gems
Bindle shells
Schulz’s passion for accuracy and nuanced detail inspire tales colored by history’s treasure trove of world events, transcendent descriptions of scenery, and the ability to capture the human condition authentically. Each of seven novels, reflective of Monte’s unique writing style and methods, have been inspired by a pursuit of meticulously documented facts, gathered to layer color and depth, create powerful visual sagas.
Each novel transports readers into scenes and conversations amongst characters as if they were participants. This dedication to fact combing and weaving fictional story threads lead to the release of a thousand page Jazz Age novel, published in three parts including the famed Naughty, paved the way for Crossing Eden – a tale of a nation in the last months of the Roaring Twenties – a glittering decade of exuberance and doubt, optimism and fear.
Most recently published is Metropolis, a dystopian, complex novel, that sweeps readers through a whirlwind escapade transcending time, eras, social while navigating world tragedies still relevant – nearly prophetic – of today’s unfolding events.
An avid supporter of his local artistic community, Monte resurrected the Santa Barbara Writers Conference and its decades old community of writers. As the eldest son of Charles M. Schulz, Monte inherited his father’s appreciation for the power of the written word. Both and author and instructor, Monte has taught literary writing style at SBWC and is a lecturer at the College of Creative Studies at the University of California at Santa Barbara (UCSB).
As a multi-talented, creative virtuoso, Schulz is also a composer, songwriter, producer and collaborator. Performing under the name Seraphonium, and to manifest his lyrical and melodic intuitions, Monte marshaled musical collaborations with 72 of the most accomplished and respected musicians from the Los Angeles and Santa Barbara areas. Recorded in Santa Barbara, “After Many A Summer” is an ambitious and sophisticated body of work.
