jewishsnickets

[jewishsnickets]

sometimes you just gotta lay in bed and take an hour to write lemony going through it, as one does

There was something Ramona wanted to talk to me about alone. I know this because she told me.

"There's something I want to talk to you about," Ramona said, quietly, so the Baudelaires, cheerfully cleaning up dinner in the next room with Frank and Ernest, would not overhear. "Alone," Ramona continued.

We were not at a point in our lives where we were necessarily encouraging secrecy, especially where the Baudelaires were concerned. However, I had trusted Ramona from a very young, and, also at this point in our lives, practically unmentionable age, and I still trusted her. This was how I found myself waiting in the library for her, studying the curtains by the window and wondering what it was she had to tell me. The odds of it being anything dangerous were low, i reassured myself. Of course, the odds of it being something innocuous were also low. One did not tell an old friend they had to talk about something when that something was as insignificant as, say, Lemony Snicket, you spilled some wine on your necktie. That was the sort of thing you said in mixed Baudelaire company. The odds were also low, I reasoned, examining my necktie in my reflection in the window, that I would find anything in the library to help with the small wine stain on it. I would have to deal with that later.

Ramona entered the library with a small bag and a smile. I returned one of those things.

"It's not bad," she reassured me. "It's just -- I found something, and I wasn't sure what to do with it."

"What did you find?" I asked.

Ramona came over beside me. She reached a hand inside the small bag, and pulled out an object I had never thought I would see again. I maintained my composure remarkably well, although I did have to sit down. My composure did not extend to my knees, apparently.

It was an old notebook, the small kind you can keep in your pocket, if you have a decent sized pocket, or in a compartment in your purse, if you have a purse with a number of compartments. The owner of the notebook had, when she was alive, such a purse. She kept a number of notebooks in that purse over the years, and this brown one with a little card slipped into a slot on the front cover, proclaiming a span of about six months over a very specific year, was the last one I had seen her use, for reasons I am sure you are aware of at this point. They involve newspaper articles, false accusations, and a series of unfortunate mistakes I had just about learned to live with.

"Where did you find it?" I asked.

"She mailed it to me," Ramona said. She sat down beside me, holding the notebook and the bag tight in her lap. "Not long after, actually. She just told me to keep it safe."

"Have you looked at it?"

"She didn't write it for me to read," Ramona murmured.

She hadn't written it for me to read, either. Beatrice had written her notebooks for herself, different than her commonplace books. No one saw the inside of her notebooks, although I can guess what would be in them, this one in particular -- Beatrice's bold, imposing cursive, in a red pen, and the things she said about me, about her, about Bertrand, about our friends, about our enemies. About a time where whatever she said about me was deserved. About a time that held the very, very early days of the eldest Baudelaire, who was still in the other room, helping her sister cut big slices of a chocolate torte while her brother and her adopted ward looked on.

There are things you will find, I am sure, from people you loved who are no longer here. Things they wrote in their own hand, where it is startling to see them so unexpectedly, but also comforting to see evidence you can hold in your own hands to truly say that they were here. Some of these things will be very precious to you. And some of these things, you will come to understand, were not meant for you to see. People are entitled to their own private thoughts and feelings, thoughts and feelings that have everything and nothing to do with you. Someone writing these things does not mean they were not the person you thought they were, but that they were, as anyone else is, as we all are, a layered and complex person doing their best, capable of feeling hurt, of hurting others, of having a few more secrets we never got the chance to fully understand and now never would. Even in death, Beatrice deserved the remains of her privacy. At least from me.

The notebook was not for Ramona, although Beatrice had entrusted it to her, and that was because she knew Ramona would do exactly what she asked. And it was not for me. And we knew this. It was not, necessarily, for Violet, either, but that was something Violet would have to say for herself. I am sure you also understand the thought of us all having to come to terms with this individually, and that we may make different choices. Perhaps Violet would want to respect her mother's privacy as well. Perhaps she would want to read it to see the parts of her mother she didn't know, despite the ache that can leave you with, of new knowledge you can never get clarity on. Perhaps Klaus and Sunny, and even the second Beatrice, would come to their own decisions too. We would have to wait and see what happened. Sometimes, that was all you could do.

I took the notebook from Ramona. It almost tingled in my hands. I thought of Beatrice for a long moment, of the sly quirk of the corner of her mouth, the way her hair fell on her shoulders, of her being quick and clever and brave, angry and frustrated, unforgiving, incomparable, beloved. I brushed my fingers over the cover of the notebook once, the months that felt like a lifetime ago and just yesterday. Ramona and I sat with it, silently, because sometimes that was all you could do too.

"Dessert is ready," someone said from the doorway, and Ramona and I looked up to see Violet, smiling softly. She must have seen the notebook, but she was too polite to mention it.

There was yesterday, and today, and tomorrow -- and now, there was dessert.

[jewishsnickets]

[jewishsnickets]

Nothing on earth could prepare me for this sentence

[jewishsnickets]

Planning your summer vacation? Visit Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s unofficial tourism site made by an official Stain’d-by-the-Sea enthusiast, a word which here means fan.

[jewishsnickets]

Lemony Snicket's Commentary in 'The New American Haggadah'

On ‘The Four Sons’:

Some scholars believe there are four kinds of parents as well.

The Wise Parent is an utter bore. “Listen closely, because you are younger than I am,” says the Wise Parent, “and I will go on and on about Jewish history, based on some foggy memories of my own religious upbringing, as well as an article in a Jewish journal I have recently skimmed.” The Wise Parent must be faced with a small smile of dim interest.

The Wicked Parent tries to cram the story of our liberation into a set of narrow opinions about the world. “The Lord let us out of Egypt,” the Wicked Parent says, “which is why I support a bloodthirsty foreign policy and I’m tired of certain types of people causing problems.” The Wicked Parent should be told with a firm voice: “With a strong hand God rescued the Jews from bondage, but it was my own clumsy hand that spilled hot soup in your lap.”

The Simple Parent does not grasp the concept of freedom. “There will be no macaroons until you eat all of your brisket,” says the Simple Parent at a dinner honoring the liberation of oppressed peoples. “Also, stop slouching at the table.” In answer to such statements, the Wise Child will roll his eyes in the direction of the ceiling and declare: “Let my people go.”

The Parent Who Is Unable to Inquire has had too much wine and should be excused from the table.

Keep reading

[jewishsnickets]

don't think this has been discussed at all mostly because very few people care about lemony's annotated pinocchio but it doesn't seem like coincidence that one of the first things in the book that really affects lemony is directly related to fire. it freaks him out so bad he faints. of course this might just be lemony being lemony but i thought it was notable

[jewishsnickets]

Anyway. Asoue fan. You should listen to sayer podcast.

[jewishsnickets]

onikakushi

[jewishsnickets]

Herman Menzel (American, 1904-1988)

[jewishsnickets]

Snicket siblings you will always be famous

[jewishsnickets]

Scrolling through an instagram account full of things found in old books and. Well.

[jewishsnickets]

'i've seen too much ooc sex,' she says, looking off into the distance, frowning, feeling distressed and horrified. 👀👀👀

is this like, some fourth wall break thing, some actor/movie/play/gustav sebald film thing, or am i misinterpreting

no that's just straight up what i did while writing that part of the post, haha! i have in fact, even recently, seen too much ooc sex and quite frankly i've had enough of it. you can't just slap two characters together!! their sex scene should mean something!! it should be them!! by god!!!!!!!!!!! this goes for every scene to ever exist but particularly sex scenes!!!!!!!

however, let's indulge. what exactly is this? i don't know but i had fun

beatrice snaps the book shut with a disgusted look. “i’ve seen too much bad sex,” she says.

the baker behind the pastry counter raises both eyebrows; bertrand, deep in surveying the cinnamon buns, only frowns. “surely not in your personal life,” he says.

“no, I just mean,” beatrice says, moving across the bakery, “people aren’t creative enough or they’re just suggesting things that make no sense – look, look at this – ” she flips the book open again and puts it between bertrand and the cinnamon buns. (the baker, for his part, turns his head and reads the spine of the book.) “no one can actually move their leg like that.”

“i don't think so,” bertrand says. he steps to the side, back to the cinnamon buns. “not without pulling something. do you want one or two?”

“I want three,” beatrice says, flipping through the book again. she’d bought it from a high shelf in the corner of the drugstore in tedia, right before the troupe moved again, hoping to be properly entertained on the ride to paltryville, but it was not living up to the promising cover description. a long night of hot, lurid passion, her ass. at least she hadn't actually paid for it. “and that chocolate babka by the register. and this -- ” she shoves the book back in front of his face.

“might be hard to purchase that,” bertrand muses. "I can’t figure out where anyone is supposed to be. whose arm is that? aren’t there supposed to be four people in this scene?”

“exactly!” beatrice exclaims. “whose arm is that? and where did that one guy go? do they really think the human body bends that way? and the lead-up to it all was so trite, everything just for the drama – “ (she does not see bertrand roll his eyes, but he does. it’s very rich for beatrice baudelaire of all people to say something is too much for the drama.) “ – and he would not say that! not everyone is destined to fall into bed and immediately start saying baby every six seconds – ”

bertrand looks at her.

“that was one time!” beatrice shouted, pointing the book at him. “lemony and I were doing a bit! you’d been singing build me up buttercup all week! it wasn't like we lost all semblance of personality just for kicks!”

bertrand grins and makes his way over to the danish in the meantime. “is that blueberry?”

the baker nods.

“is it too much to ask,” beatrice continues, “to just have a good good time?!”

the baker shakes his head.

“I think we’ll take two,” bertrand says, “and the three cinnamon buns, and the babka, and – is that a raspberry tart? can you ship that, by any chance? just to the city, the offices of the daily punctilio, to a mr. lemony snicket – ”

“who even wrote this,” beatrice mutters, turning the book over in her hands, “who even thought this was good – is this worth taking home, do you think? do you think lemony would red pen the hell out of this or he’d just be disappointed?”

bertrand hmms. he’s got his wallet out, and the baker is ringing up three large white boxes on the counter, another set beside them. “you know he hates logistically unfeasible oral as much as you.”

the baker looks approvingly at the register.

it's a point for both sides, but -- “i’m gonna bring it,” beatrice says. she jams it into the pocket of her coat, hits up against her pocket dictionary, decides that’s literary misconduct and puts it in her other pocket. “I need him to suffer with us.” she crosses to the register and picks up the three boxes. she flashes a bright smile at the baker, who immediately undercharges the tart. (she deserves it, he thinks, with a smile like that. and whatever is going on in her personal life.)

bertrand puts his wallet back, does the polite thing and says thank you, and then herds beatrice out of the bakery, a hand on her back.

“now,” he says, reaching around her and sliding the book out of her pocket, putting it into his own and replacing the weight the book had been at her hip with the press of his hand. “how about we go through this page by page? I’d like to really know just how bad this is. so i can prepare lemony, of course."

[jewishsnickets]

[jewishsnickets]

the second year of Hanukkah without the snickets is, beatrice thinks, a little lonely. the second year, because the first year they were on an island, far away from any snicket.

this year, though.

they’re back in the city now, the city that’s suppose to be where they’re closer to their friends who are like a family to them. that was before.

before they left.

she hasn’t seen jacques or kit for too long, and lemony - beatrice firmly pushes her thoughts about lemony away.

they used to celebrate Hanukkah together, all of them. as she takes out the menorah, she remembers how kit and her used to be in charge of lighting it. she remembers the feeling of carefully handing the candle to kit. she remembers getting competitive at dreidel. she remembers lemony talking in detail about the how a friend he’d met in that faraway town who taught him a special latke recipe. she remembers that time jacques brought jerome.

the phone rings.

“kit and i - we accidentally bought too many potatoes,” jacques says. “can we come over?”

it sounds like an excuse, beatrice thinks. it’s probably an excuse. she doesn’t say so. she thinks, maybe jacques and kit miss them too, just like they miss their brother. in a way, they’d all been family.

in a way, she still considers them family.

beatrice glances at bertrand.

JS, she mouths at him.

he freezes for a moment, and then nods slowly.

“yeah,” beatrice says into the phone. “come over.”

[jewishsnickets]

Hello 👋,

I hope this message finds you well. My name is Aziz, and I’m reaching out with a heartfelt plea to help my family find safety and reunite with our mother. 😞

The ongoing war in Gaza has torn my family apart. My mother and newborn sister are stranded in Egypt, while I, along with the rest of my sex family members, am trapped in the midst of the genocide in Gaza. We have not only been separated but have also lost our home and are enduring unimaginable hardships. 💔

Your support can make a difference. Whether by reading our story, donating, or sharing our campaign with others, you can help us reunite, find safety, and start anew. 🙏🕊

Thank you, from the depths of my heart, for your kindness, compassion, and solidarity during this difficult time. ❤🍉

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https://gofund.me/58268669