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fishmech · 11 months ago

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Mutation or Death by John B. Michel from RASP Pamphlet

"MUTATION OR DEATH" is a transcript of the speech delivered by Donald A. Wollheim for John B. Michel at the Third Eastern Science Fiction Convention, Philadelphia, October 1937.

Mr. CHAIRMAN, MEMBERS of the Convention Committee, visitors, and friends: What I am about to say is the result of much thinking and introspection on my part and on the part of the several of my friends here today who support a new program for the future of science fiction -- which shall be the main topic of my talk this afternoon. To open this discussion it would be well to put forward a statement pregnant with meaning, a statement above all appropriate to the speech, a statement heavily loaded with dynamite and fraught with shaking possibilities. I hereby make that statement. The Science Fiction Age, as we have known it during the past few years, is over. Definitely over and done with. Dead, gentlemen, of intellectual bankruptcy.

UNFORTUNATELY FOR ANY persons who might still be harboring any thoughts of optimism while moping over the moldering corpse, the decision is entirely final. I am not fooling when I say this. You can take it or leave it. But I believe, in the light of what I shall say further on in this talk, you'll take it. Naturally such a statement calls for proof, strong, unbending proof guaranteed to stand up under criticism of the most searching nature. Need I offer any more positive a proof than the conduct of this convention itself? Gentlemen, we are gathered here this afternoon in solemn conclave -- to do what? To do precisely what? In a few words let me put forth my opinion on what we are doing. My opinion is that we are baloney bending, throwing the bull, indulging in dull flights of fancy, tossing barrels of rhodomontade all over the place. I SEE BEFORE ME FANS, writers, editors, and publishers, stf fans all and but a handful really awake to the enormous possibilities inherent in that fragile little thing called science fiction, that potentially mighty force which is rapidly being buried in a deluge of obscure issues, meaningless phrases, stupid interpretations, and aimless goals. When the first science fiction fan organizations came into existence several years ago, they did so because of a need -- a need, however obscure, which nevertheless existed. That need was expression. We all know the various organizations that were formed. Why recall their history, their mistakes, their stupid, colossal, blundering mistakes of bickering and internal strife and more and still more baloney bending? In reviewing the field in its entirety we would be doing nothing more than adding to the dull, dreary reams upon reams of historical fact, consigned already to the limbo of forgotten things.

THE VERY FACT THAT no single science fiction organization has ever made any lasting impression on anything (except for the single exception of the ISA which did more or less practical research work on rockets before its dissolution) speaks for itself. It speaks in a resounding question: Just where has science fiction got to in six or seven years of loosely organized existence? On a world scale, nowhere. Locally, practically nothing has been done. The great local organizations are gone, their banners furled and tossed on the scrap heap. Internationally, science fiction is but the last gasping beats of a never very strong and young and healthy heart. What remains of it all is a gigantic junk pile of stinking literature and less than puerile achievement. Just what is this urge to organize, anyway? Why do science fiction fans gather all over the world in local clubs and sit up far in the nights to publish fan magazines and correspond on a scale almost unprecedented in its scope? Certainly because they like science fiction. And why do they like science fiction? Wherein lies this mysterious attraction which prompts most of them to make a fetish out of a new form of literature, a little tin god, as it were, before which their souls bend and scrape? Is it because of the cadence of the words, the turn of the clever phrases, well constructed paragraphs, a temporary exaltation on reading some powerful descriptive scene? Is it to orate and argue endlessly about the qualities of this or that writer or the shortcomings of this or that writer? We all know that science fiction itself is something different in literature. But what form and shape has it given the ideas of its adherents? Again I repeat, wherein lies this mysterious compelling force which has made science fiction fans accomplish what little practical work they have accomplished?

THE ANSWER IN GREAT part is that science fiction is the smoothest form of escape literature known. In its infinite depths the lost, the lonesome, the inhibited, the frustrated soul finds understanding and expression, precisely because the world to which they escape is a world of their own fancies and imaginings -- a world which they like. In this haven of refuge their creative instincts are given full rein. I venture to predict that a heavy majority of science fiction fans are escapists. I think I'm right when I say that because I'm a more or less normal type of fan, and I was an escapist and in a certain sense I still am. But why have the fans stopped at this point, content to revel in a seemingly unending debauch of good fellowship leading to what may seem to be a common end and purpose? As you can see by looking about you in the fan field, what remains of the great directive forces, the organizations proper, is nothing. Fandom has resounded for almost a decade with the hullabaloo and the shouting, and now the hollow shell of a structure stopped suddenly in headlong growth sounds to nothing but a painful silence, sterile on the shores of a lost world. What are you people looking for, anyway? Do you really intend to go on harping for more and better science fiction? Do you really think that merely asking for more and better science fiction is, in some miraculous way, to lift the field out of the slough? What makes you think that the editors and publishers of the magazines are going to give you their ears? Have they in the past? No. Can it actually be your intended purpose to continue arguing on the pros and cons of the literature of science fiction forever? Can it? If such is your purpose, you are a pack of fools, content to sit smugly by while the fine talents inherent in your brains, the brains which provided the spark which sent science fiction leaping to a halted youth, stagnate.

SCIENCE FICTION HAS finally come to the parting of the ways with meaningless idealism, and, with that idealism, dies. Science fiction must mutate -- must change into a new form of idealism, a fighting, practical idealism, an idealism based on action and not on words, on experience and achievements and not on bombastic and irrelevant swaggerings. The main point of this whole discussion is that you fans must prepare to incept this new state of things, else nothing is left but a slow, gradual decay of the gaunt corpse of the body stf until it disappears, eaten up by the fiery acid of mighty world events.

BUT YOU CANNOT! Because, gentlemen, the world is catching up with you and will pass you by. Because, gentlemen, there is something in each and every one of you fans which places him automatically above the level of the average person; which, in short, gives him a vastly broadened view of things in general. The outlook is there, the brains are there. Yet, nothing has happened! But why not give science fiction a meaning? Naturally all types of fiction are idealized versions of situations found in everyday life. Science fiction is an idealized type of vision of the life of the future. What is wrong with science fiction today is that its outlook on the future has changed; or rather, has never existed in a rational sense. How can science fiction have any rational outlook on the future when today exists the greatest confusion in world affairs since the dawn of recorded history? WHAT IS IMPORTANT to us is what science fiction is going to do about it. Science fiction has to do something about it because its very life is bound up with the future and today practical events are working to shape the outline of that future in bold, sharp relief. Today we are face to face, FACE TO FACE, I repeat, with the choice: CIVILIZATION or BARBARISM -- reason or ignorance. As idealists, as visionaries, we cannot retreat before this challenge. We must accept it and carry the battle into the enemy's camp. Hitherto, this challenge has not even been recognized, much less accepted. So come out of your secure cubbyholes of clubrooms and laboratories and meeting places and look at the world before you. It is swiftly sinking in darkness and chaos. Why? Because the masses are being led by stupid men to a dreary doom. Dare any of you deny this? Look at the daily newspapers. Look at the authoritative weeklies and monthlies. You see nothing but confusion and the abandonment of every decent instinct left to this mad system under which we live. As idealists we cannot refuse to accept the challenge of the future.

THUS TODAY THE world of science fiction totters. Even science, its mainstay, wavers increasingly toward the vague and obscure. It would seem as though science were too secure in its ivory tower to pay much heed to the wails and groans (and pardon me if I use this old bromide) of suffering humanity. In its lofty and utterly pure elevation it squats safely amidst its own escapist atmosphere and does precisely nothing practical in the way of saving itself from the consequences of the coming world smash. Out of its test tubes and instruments it extracts life and the energy of the atom and with them both it fills up our war machine and vomits death and terror throughout the world. On one hand we are faced with the sickening spectacle of scientists throughout the world turning their backs on cold logic for the magic tinsel of colored military trappings, of a Pirandello in art and a Marconi in radio stooging for the Fascist dictator and general dirty rat, Benito Mussolini. On our own side of the Atlantic, renowned scientists and savants such as Millikan and others bow hypocritically before a standardized version of a God (of which none of them could possibly conceive) and attend rallies and demonstrations to uphold our military pride and honor. As the technical brains of the world in their supreme cynicism line up on the side of reaction, the backbone of science fiction itself dies, dies of inaction, of do-nothingness, of an inability to forget for a while its above-it-allness and lead humanity out of the Valley of the Shadow into the dazzling light of a triumphant future. WHY ALL THIS? Because we have become stale and we stink in our staleness to the high heavens. Because we are conventional and set in our ways and the old way of life is easier to go on living because it demands little effort on the part of the haves and near-haves. We continue to do the same old things in the same old way and are smug and content in our pipe-dreams of super-scientific smoke. "Why change?" we cry.

Why NOT change? Why in hell not DO something about it? Great guns! We have brains, technical brains, introspective brains, thoughts and ideals that would put the greatest minds to shame for scope and insight. Put these brains to work before it is too late! The planet is ready for work, for practical work to wipe clean the slate and start anew. We must start anew if we have to smash every old superstition and outworn idea to do it. We fans can do a lot towards the realization of this rational idea. We can do that because determination very often means achievement. And how sick we are at base of this dull, unsatisfying world, this stupid asininely organized system of ours which demands that a man brutalize and cynicize himself for the possession of a few dollars in a savage, barbarous, and utterly boring struggle to exist. We say: "Put a stop to this -- NOW!" We say: "Smash this status quo of ours by smashing the present existing forms of economic and social life!" Boldly, perhaps a bit crudely, we say: "Down with it!" Down with it before the war-lovers clamp on the screws and bind us in submission for who knows how long! Let humanity swing along in its goalless rut for more hundreds and thousands of years while the universe beckons for our participation in its active life? Not for us! FEARLESSLY AND BEFORE the entire world we state our platform and beliefs (and I speak for all the visitors here today wearing the red delegate badges of the NYFA). We come out wholly and completely in support of every force seeking the advancement of civilization along strictly scientific and humanitarian lines. All help to the democratic forces of the world! All help to the heroic defenders of Madrid and Shanghai, defenders of democracy! Death and destruction to all forms of reaction! The machine that will shatter forever the reactional assault on civilization is already in motion. Let us become part of it. It is our job to work and plan and prepare, to teach and expound for the coming of that day when the human race shall stand erect as should a man and gaze on the stark, naked cosmos with firm eyes, to feel the solid, inconceivable impact of the grim void, to flood its consciousness with the realization that in the vast emptiness we must stand on our own feet and fight it out! THEREFORE: Be it moved that this, the Third Eastern Science Fiction Convention, shall place itself on record as opposing all forces leading to barbarism, the advancement of pseudo-sciences and militaristic ideologies, and shall further resolve that science fiction should by nature stand for all forces working for a more unified world, a more Utopian existence, the application of science to human happiness, and a saner outlook on life.

The convention members rejected the motion 12 to 8, along straight non-Futurian : Futurian lines.

#ancient fandom #the futurians #1937

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silliott · 1 year ago

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Lockwood and Co.

Massive Spoiler warning

AHHHHHHHGGGGHSHSJDJSJDJSJSJ!!!!!!

I don’t even know where to start. I’m doing all five books at once but who cares. I know this series is for like 12 year olds but I’m allowed to enjoy younger literature sometimes!!!!

My friend, Ryn, introduced me to this series. It follows a ghost hunting girl named Lucy Carlyle and her friends/co workers who work together at London smallest ghost hunting agency: Lockwood & Co.

It’s a little bit spooky and a lot bit interesting, there’s mysteries to solve through all five books and one main mystery… “what’s the cause of The Problem?”

spoiler warning!!!!! I recommend reading the books before going any further (if you’re curious as to what I rated it: 10/10 GO READ THEM!!)

The Problem is what they’ve named three outbreak of ghosts across England, it started 50 years ago and is only getting worse. Ghosts are attached to a “source”, and item that has enough significance to them, it ties them to the living world, preventing them from leaving.

Lucy’s job is to get rid of the source so the spirits don’t attack living humans. She’s a listener, someone who can hear snippets of dialogue from ghosts, or other sounds associated with them.

There’s 2 definite types of ghosts, Type 1s, which are mostly tame and mostly disconnected from the living realm, and Type 2, ghosts who are more violent and more attached to the living realm.

Most ghosts can’t hold real conversation, but Marissa Fittes, the founder of Fittes agency has claimed she’s encountered a Type 3 ghost, a ghost that is so attached to the living realm that it is fully conscious and can hold conversations. Type three ghosts can only speak with certain people, the strongest of listeners.

Most people are skeptical of this, Lucy included, until she encounters a Type three. Skull, she ends up nicknaming the ghost, because it’s attached to its skull. The skull is kept in a jar that her colleague, George stole from Fittes when he got fired.

The skull is my FAVORITE character. He plays a major role in all of the books except the first one (she finds out he can speak at the very end of book one) and he’s comical and sarcastic.

Lockwood and Co has a Show adaptation, but it only covers the first two books. I don’t enjoy the show as much as the books, they remove all of the character from Skull, he’s just some random ghost basically. And they even KILL. HIM. OFF. In the end.

They ended up canceling the show, which sucks, but I don’t know how they could have continued it after killing off Skull, because he’s the reason Lucy comes back to Lockwood after she leaves to save him from herself. (A weird ghost told her he would die because of her and Lucy is head over heels for Lockwood). He’s the reason they find out Tom Rotwell (The owner of another huge agency) was doing sketchy shit and causing an upwelling of ghosts in a small town by trying to enter the Land of the Dead, he’s the reason Lucy got out of the land of the dead when she and Lockwood entered that realm to escape Rotwell when they were almost getting caught, he’s the reason they figured out Penelope Fittes (the current owner of Fittes) was actually Marrissa Fittes POSSESSING PENELOPES BODY. He’s the reason Lucy and Lockwood left the Fittes building alive after Marissa attempted to kill them by detonating a big ass bomb to kill all three of them.

Skull is INCREDIBLY under appreciated in the show, they make him just some old dude who can be killed off by some stupid mirror instead of the funny, sarcastic, Lucy’s age, ghost friend he was who saved their asses more times than I can count.

Jonathon Stroud is a fucking god. I don’t care that these books are directed towards a younger audience they will always have a place in my heart. I HIGHLY recommend you read them, even after being spoiled by this review.

I think Joe Cornish could have done so much better with the show, and I hope someone revisits the idea of some sort of visual media, show or movie, for these books in the future

I give this series a 10/10 total, it was so fucking good.

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7r0773r · 2 years ago

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Montano’s Malady by Enrique Vila-Matas, translated by Jonathan Dunne

Perhaps this is what literature is, the invention of another life that could well be our own, the invention of a double. Ricardo Piglia says that to recall with a memory that is not our own is a variant of the double, but it is also a perfect metaphor for literary experience.

Having quoted Piglia, I observe that I live surrounded by quotations from books and authors. I am literature-sick. If I carry on like this, literature could end up swallowing me, like a doll in a whirlpool, causing me to lose my bearings in its limitless regions. I find literature more and more stifling, at the age of fifty it frightens me to think that my destiny is to turn into a walking dictionary of quotations. (p. 4)

***

Every day in Barcelona became horrible, very morbid. I would cry in my sleep and then wake up and tell Rosa that it was nothing, really, Rosa, just a dream or something like that, nothing, Rosa. But it was not a dream or even a nightmare, it was a mournful voice, I knew this very well, a voice that even at night prowled about me and told me that I was going to die and that I didn't have long to live. I would wake up in the night and tell Rosa that it was nothing, just a dream, but shortly thereafter I would go to the kitchen to have a drink. Rosa would follow me to the kitchen and, as soon as she caught me with a bottle of something, she would tell me that I was in a very bad way, that it would even be better for me to start writing reviews again and to think about literature, or else to travel, yes, to travel to a faraway country, I needed it. And I would stand there, openmouthed and sad, staring silently at the kitchen calendar. (p. 23)

***

I slept almost all the hours of the outward journey to Chile. The few moments I spent awake between one sleeping pill and the next were criminal. I could only think to flip through the in-flight magazine, where I came across some verses by Pablo Neruda, perfect for reminding me that death and literature existed: "There are lonely cemeteries, / graves full of bones without sound, / the heart passing through a tunnel, / dark, dark, dark, / as in a shipwreck we die from within ...” (p. 25)

***

"You destroy everything you love!" she exclaimed suddenly. I hadn't expected her to get heated up quite so soon. "I love my children and I haven't destroyed them," I answered jokingly, I really had not intended to pick a serious fight. "What children? Don't bring Montano into this, you've done him enough damage already, stuffing literature into the poor boy, he speaks in book—do you know what it means to speak in book?" I stopped and thought for a few seconds and, before I explained that I had planned the fight only for this diary and we would do well to continue the idvllic state in which we had been living since my return from Chile, replied (not wanting her to believe that a literary critic of my stature was incapable of answering her question), "To speak in book means to read the world as if it were the continuation of a never-ending text." (p. 33)

***

The story opens with a quotation from Macedonio Fernández with which my son presumably wishes to comment ironically on the lifting of his writer's block: "‘Everything has been written, everything has been said, everything has been done,’ God heard someone telling him when he had yet to create the world, when there still wasn't anything. ‘Someone already told me that,’ he rejoined perhaps from the old, cleft Void. And he began.” (p. 45)

***

I wonder how I can have been so stupid, believing for so long that I must eradicate my Montano's malady, when it is the only worthwhile and truly comfortable possession I have. I also wonder why I should apologize for being so literary if, in the final outcome, only literature could save the spirit in an age as deplorable as ours. My life should be, once and for all, purely and only literature. (p. 144)

***

DECEMBER 25 OR LE RICORDANZE

The memories of various lay anniversaries dance today.

On such a day, forty-five years ago, in 1956, Robert Walser died. After lunch at the sanatorium, he decided to go for a hike in the snow, to climb to Rosenberg, where there are some ruins. From the top there was a wonderful view over the mountains of Alpstein. The hour was soothing, it was midday, and outside there was snow, pure snow, as far as the eye could see. The solitary hiker set out and began to fill his lungs with the clear winter air. He left Herisau Sanatorium behind. He climbed through beeches and firs up the side of Schochenberg. Two children found him where he dropped down dead in the snow, in perpetual ecstasy over the Swiss winter.

Walser, or the art of disappearing.

In one of his novels, The Tanner Siblings, there are some lines that presage his own death in the snow; in the mouth of one character he places an elegy to Sebastian, the poet found dead in the snow. "With what nobility he has chosen his tomb! He lies among splendid green firs covered in snow. I don't want to inform anyone. Nature bends down to contemplate her deceased, the stars sing softly around his head and the night birds caw: it is the best music for someone who cannot hear or feel."

Walser, or the art of disappearing at Christmas, of knowing how on such a sentimental date to leave the writing room, the room of phantoms.

On such a day, thirty-nine years ago, on December 25, 1962, the Great Snowfall took place over Barcelona. It is one of the most important memories of my early years. That morning the patio of my parents' home appeared covered in snow and I couldn't believe it. To start with, I thought it was part of my mother's Christmas decorations. I remember that December 25th very well. Me with a scarf inside the house, listening to my mother say that for a city like Barcelona, so abandoned by the hand of God, it was a blessing that, even if it was only the once, He should have remembered us and brought us snow on the most appropriate day, Christmas Day, with divine punctuality.

For me, Christmas Day will always be the day of the Great snowfall. Wrapped in two jerseys and a scarf inside the house, I switched on the radio and suddenly we heard a message of peace and Christmas goodwill from Salvador Dalí, a few emotional words from the Ampurdán painter telling us that, from that day on, he planned to orient all his life toward Franco's Spain and the family: "Isabella the Catholic, consecrated hosts, melons, rosaries, truculent indigestion, bullfights, Calanda drums and Ampurdán sardines. To sum up: my life must be oriented toward Spain and the family."

We listened to that message in respectful silence mixed with some astonishment. The snow fell stealthily on the patio outside, as at the beginning of a Christmas tale.

"Dalí's turned into one of us," said my father.

On such a day, forty-five years ago, in 1956, W. G. Sebald's grandfather died, having gone out for a walk in the snow and collapsed on top of it at almost exactly the same time as another walker, Robert Walser, was also struck down on the snow, in a similar landscape.

Two dead for a single Christmas Day.

Eleven days ago, last Friday, December 14th, the writer W. G. Sebald died while out driving. He always seemed to have just emerged from another age: a slightly ancient man who, in sight of solitary landscapes, came across traces of a past in ruins that referred him to the wholeness of the world.

I am seated next to the Christmas tree in my home, and I remember the Great Snowfall of my childhood and that speech by Dalí, and I begin to listen to Vittorio Gassman reciting Leopardi's Le ricordanze, and I let the memories, mine and others', invade me, and I tell myself that without them and without those memories’ ruins, without memory, life would be even more distressing, though it may be even more distressing to realize that the more our memory grows, the more our death grows. Because man is just a machine for remembering and forgetting, heading for death. And I don't say this with sadness because it's also true that memory, disguised as life, turns death into something subtle and tenuous.

The memories dance for me and I adhere to the indispensable fabric of my memory and my identity—in this case, that reached with my double odyssey—and I tell myself that I am somebody only because I remember, which is to say that I am because I remember; I am the one memory has always helped, preventing him from falling into absolute distress, has helped during years with flashes and luminous sparks in which every day, in a ray of sun, charming and tragic, the tragic dust of time has danced for me.

There are two of me. I have a double odyssey's identity. One is lurking in the Chinese wall and the other, more Christmassy and sedentary, listens to Gassman at home: “Viene il vento recando il suon dell'ora / dalla torre del borgo. . ."

The detective's patience to trap a memory can verge on the ridiculous. One is satisfied with a cake dunked in tea; another, with a drop of perfume at the bottom of an empty bottle; another, with il suon dell'ora, a peal of bells swept by the wind from the village tower. Tastes, minimal smells, sounds of the past. I'm ashamed to say so, because it's not very poetic, shall we say, but this is how it is and I can't change it: my dunked cake, my drop of perfume, my music of the wind is a prosaic and vulgar mouthful��as brief as childhood—of a Catalan beverage called Cacaolat, a mixture of milk and cocoa that I used to drink daily during morning break at school.

I only have to taste that beverage for the memories to return. But this word, Cacaolat, could not be more ridiculous and less poetic, which may explain why I have spent half my life hating writers who work with their memories, and instead defending those who without the dead weight of memories are in a position to reach their maturity more quickly. I have spent half my life defending those writers who do not live off the rents of the past, and who can demonstrate an up-to-date imagination, an imagination capable of inventing out of the present, out of nothingness itself.

Half a life boasting of finding hardly anything in my tedious childhood, just a scarf, a patio covered in snow, and not much else. Half a life congratulating myself on never having had to resort to childhood to be able to write, congratulating myself on not becoming emotional when I examined a situation from my early years. And yet all this suddenly collapsed a few months ago in Barcelona's Rovira Square, the approximate geographical center of my childhood; it collapsed when I visited this square recently to witness the filming of a sequence from Shanghai Nights, Juan Marsé's novel that Fernando Trueba was making into a film. The set designers had turned Rovira Square into what it was fifty years before. It was as if I had pressed the time machine's exact switch. Suddenly everything was the same as fifty years ago; even the posters for the double bill showing at the long-since-disappeared Rovira Cinema were the same; even the atmosphere of the air in the square struck me as identical to that of fifty years ago. I immediately understood—as when took LSD in my formative years—that Time does not exist, everything is present.

I cried, I could not hold back the tears. I cried before the unexpected return of the past. Something very similar occurs in a passage from Sebald's Vertigo. The narrator of "All'estero," a chapter in that book, travels with a friend, Clara, who succumbs to the temptation to enter the school she had been to as a child: "In one of the classrooms, the very one where she had been taught in the early 1950s, the selfsame schoolmistress was still teaching, almost thirty years later, her voice quite unchanged—still warning the children to keep at their work, as she had done then [. . .] Alone in the entrance hall, surrounded by closed doors that had seemed at one time like mighty portals, Clara was overcome by tears [. . .]. We returned to her grandmother's flat in Ottakring, and neither on the way there nor that entire evening did she regain her composure following this unexpected encounter with her past."

Here Sebald seems to be telling us that the past, all past, is still happening, surfacing, is there, doing its own thing. Without handing out a calling card or needing us to invoke it, the past, our past, is happening in the present. It's thrilling, it's terrifying. It reminds me of Emily Dickinson begging the Lord not to leave her alone down here. I believe that she sensed that we are completely alone, without anybody, in a world that is only a dark basement, where we may have been put for good. (pp. 209-13)

***

What I do remember is that I spent the whole of the outward journey to Cuenca wondering whether I should go to Matz Peak at the beginning of June to read excerpts from this diary in the open air at midnight and experience the "mountain spirit." It is, no doubt, an extravagant invitation, which has obsessed me for some time now. I can't help it. I see myself there alone, in shorts, the only foreigner surrounded by German-language writers, not understanding a word anybody says, after a journey by airplane, train, bus, and cable car. I'm sure that, if I end up going to Matz Peak, everything will be so odd, so novelesque that, on my return, I shall be able to write a fair few things about what happened to me up there. But I have one doubt. Is it worth undertaking such a long journey just to come back and relate the interminable series of strange experiences I'll have had? What if I stay at home and simply imagine them? Do I not trust in my own imagination? Must I travel so far in pursuit of real events when those I imagine on Matz Peak are bound to be superior? Or do I think that what I'll find on that peak is beyond my powers of imagination? I would love to be surprised by events, but what if I climb the peak and everything there is bland, outrageously normal: a handful of nuts in Tyrolese costume reading their rubbish at midnight in front of a few tents and seeking the mountain spirit inside a circle of torches? What if it turns out that the dull drone of the washing machine I am carefully listening to now is actually much more odd, normal, or stupid? (p. 220)

***

Every year's the same at around this time. The number of illiterates in this country is on the increase, but this seems to be unimportant, there are more and more Book Days and it's up to me to explain why we have to read. Yesterday, on the radio, I was invited to explain to listeners in two seconds why they should be encouraged to read. For them literally to be encouraged, I replied. I was going to add: and at the same time to achieve the spirit’s salvation, Musil’s ideal. I didn’t say this, it struck me as excessive and also I'd have overstepped the two-second limit.

I am no longer so rigidly literature-sick. Or, rather, I begin not to understand why I must advocate reading. Let every illiterate in this country do what he wants, of course. Besides, I hate virtually the whole of humanity and I spend the day planting mental bombs against all those businessmen who publish books, those departmental managers, market directors on the wire, and economics graduates. I plant mental bombs against them and against their disciplined followers and the rest of the world in general. So I wonder why I should lend them a hand and recommend that they read books if I only wish them ill, if I only want their stupidity to grow and for them to crash, once and for all, as they travel on the train of ignorance that we all pay for, but that one day they will pay a high price for, falling into the bottomless pit of failure, taking themselves elsewhere, into a different industry. What's more, I loathe them so much that I'd be delighted if they were obliged to read, if a perfidious decree appeared from somewhere, a drastic order to become acquainted with books, and suddenly this country's cities turned into libraries of forced, chaotic, daft intellectual activity. (pp. 220-21)

***

Preciselv because literature enables us to understand life, it tells us what can be, but also what could have been. There is nothing sometimes farther away from reality than literature, which is constantly reminding us that life is like this and the world has been organized like that, but it could be otherwise. There is nothing more subversive than literature, which aims to return us to true life by exposing what real life and History smother. Magris knows this very well, he is deeply interested in what could have been, had History or human life taken another course. Anyone who's interested in this is interested in reading. This is not advocacy. After all, there are times—like now—when I wouldn't recommend reading even to Pico's moles, even to my worst enemies. (pp. 222-23)

#enrique vila-matas #book quotes

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thingsiwannareblog · 2 months ago

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In high school I wanted to write a book about this, and these resources were EXACTLY what I was looking for! It was going to be a series of essays by various scholars, exploring all the things that vampires tend to be metaphors of: sex, death, disease, addiction, queerness, the Other, etc. etc. and why exploring these topics through a fantastical lens was helpful for certain time periods and so on! It was going to be titled “Thirst: What Vampires Mean and Why They Matter.”

It was going to be the third book in a series of four. The whole thing was actually constructed the same way as a multi-movement symphony in the Classical music canon:

Sonata-Allegro first movement (vampire novel 1, which would be an epistolary novel with portions in many different and modern formats - if Dracula has newspaper clippings and phonograph transcripts, then mine would have captures of websites, fictitious research papers and lab reports, and archived IRC conversations!)

a Theme and Variations movement (vampire short stories compilation, each sharing a nominal theme but progressing over the course of the book towards more and more twisty and indirect takes on the theme, just like a musical theme and variations)

a “Slow Movement” (the scholarly analysis I described above, also including a semi scientific explanation for how the vampires in the novels worked!)

and then the Finale, which would be another Sonata-Allegro and therefore the sequel to the first vampire novel!

The whole work would collectively be titled “A Symphony in Crimson” and was very very edgy and sophisticated and cool and surely the greatest thing ever! (Remember, I was in high school and also pretty damn pretentious!)

I actually did a substantial amount of research - literary for the essays, plus reading as much as I could about the origins of the myth and its evolution over time, scholarly work about Dracula and Varney and Carmilla all of them - and bio lit-review for the sciency vampire mechanics of the novels (how would super strength work? What would an obligate sanguivore’s metabolism be like? What could explain the aversion to sunlight and running water? What would the transmission mechanism be? I got so in-depth that it was to the point where I had identified certain phenotype traits that I suspected would correlate with someone as having a stronger resistance to the vampire retrovirus!). For like a year or more, I would stay at the school library for hours doing reading and research after my classes were done because that was my main hobby. …And definitely NOT because I was procrastinating and avoiding all my classes, extracurriculars, and studying for standardized tests, nope…

Actually writing is, of course, substantially harder. I got as far as nine plot summaries (including the two novels and several of the short stories) and one or two incredibly rough and bad chapters of novel 1.

And then something terrible happened. Something that shook me to my core and made me abandon my project entirely;

Twilight got big.

I was FAR too much of a hipster/contrarian/gatekeeper/snob to stand it! Vampires, my nerdy and niche and counter-cultural special interest, were suddenly mainstream! Just mere months ago I had been openly mocked for my fascination with them, and then suddenly they over saturated the pop culture zeitgeist to the point where it was “basic” of me to like them!

I was FURIOUS and devastated and swore off my magnum-opus-to-be… and DEFINITELY wasn’t secretly relieved because it was turning out that writing was way, WAY harder than geeking out in a library and hoarding books and articles.

Anyways, I still think about the whole thing sometimes. For one thing, I’ve realized how immature it was of me to abandon vampires as an interest just because they were suddenly popular. Twilight ain’t fine literature, but a lot of my objections to it were actually internalized misogyny rearing its ugly head (“it’s GIRLY and STUPID and TRIVIAL, and I don’t like it because I’m NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS!”). In the end, it’s an okay book series, and Stephanie Meyer *actually wrote and published* four books (in that series alone), which is more than I can say now and probably more than I ever will be able to say.

only if you feel like sharing - ive been thinking about vampires in lit/media recently and considering how there are sometimes parallels with media representation of addiction.. do you by any chance have any recommended resources related to this (or addiction rep in media in general)?

I'm going to be honest, I'm mostly a casual enjoyer of literature/media/etc. I tend to just point at various books/shows/movies and go "bitch me too". so I don't really know where to point you in regards to real actual resources. I will, however, point you in the direction of my beloved mutual @annabelle--cane... they Know and Understand this shit better than anyone else I know

#long ramble #ADHD #vampires #lofty plans and no follow through #my life in a nutshell #reformed twilight hater #Dracula

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finitevariety · 2 years ago

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can we hear your argument about the correct way to understand bronte’s ‘the professor’?

warning that there's an EXTREMELY long post below. Don't click 'Keep reading' unless you're sure you can face it.

The correct way to read the novel is as a satire. I say this not because it's necessarily the accurate interpretation, but because it's the most interesting.

I'm excited to get into this, but first let's tie it back to the post I tagged earlier by seeing what reviews for The Professor indicate about the state of critical thought today (the prognosis is grim).

Typically, reviews fall into two camps:

One: Charlotte Brontë is a stupid fucking woman who betrayed feminism and therefore doesn't deserve rights anyway. Why did she write about a main character who's so RUDE?!

Two: Charlotte, you've done it again! Truly this is a romance for the ages! Can't wait to call my husband 'monsieur' for the rest of my natural life! This truly is a marriage of equals! Go feminism!

There is also a secret third type of terrible review that's basically 'this is your brain on mid-10s ~feminist~ internet', in which feminism was less about gaining power for cis and trans women of all races, but more of a vehicle to advance the nebulous idea of empowerment.

'Not like other girls but make it a poorly-drawn webcomic' vibes, you know?

Bluntly, nothing here admits to the possibility that Brontë might have been aware she was writing about an unrelatable, flawed asshole, and that that might have been exactly what she wanted to do.

I don't pretend to be an expert about Victorian literature or criticism of such, but the dominant opinion over the years seems to have been that The Professor is first-draft back-of-a-drawer stuff that was deservedly rejected by 9 publishers and languished correctly in said drawer before being posthumously released. For some, it's the Go Set a Watchman of her canon.

Many lean into the idea that The Professor is a wish-fulfilment fantasy concerning the married headmaster under whom she studied in Belgium, and with whom she was certainly infatuated. I do think this interpretation can be convincing—and it's been covered elsewhere by smarter people than me, so I won't bother.

What I'm going to do is look at why I think satire is a far more satisfying interpretation that does have justification in both the text and its context. I'll look at:

The Professor as a parody of the Victorian self-help genre; and

The unreliable narrator, more broadly

I was also going to examine the novel in relation to Brontë's other work, and particularly Villette, but the post was fucking long enough already. I really do apologise for its length: please know that this is me attempting to be concise.

The Professor as a parody of the Victorian self-help genre

There is a plague of whiny nerds who call themselves bookworms yet get scared and call the lit-police when the moral of a story isn't laid out at the end like an after school special. For years now, these #amwriting fucks have considered 'not-chris-evans.jpg' the ultimate gotcha on interminable twitter threads.

This shitty mic-drop fails to consider that there are some people for whom purpose and target will always be unclear. If Twitter had existed in the 1700s, there would be people incandescent with rage that Jonathan Swift wanted to buy and eat impoverished babies. One only has to look at what this supposedly literate group did to Isabel Fall to know that to make satire intelligble to these people you'd have to break out the crayons.

Another important consideration is that satire which was clear within its time can, bereft of context, seem earnest. It's my argument that this has happened to The Professor.

Heather Glen, in her 2004 book Charlotte Brontë: The Imagination in History, makes the compelling case that The Professor is written as a fictional example of a self-help genre which was popular at the time:

It is not a clumsy fictionalization of autobiographical concerns; or a draft for its author's later, more popular works, but a novel of a very different kind (p34)

She identifies Brontë's Preface as a key signpost, linking its explicit references to themes of self-reliance and discipline to the maxims so popular in the genre.

These references continue throughout the novel, with Crimsworth making much of his industry, effort, and self-restraint. But there are clear and telling differences between these self-help narratives and the life led by Crimsworth.

This might as well be him, right down to the decision to broadcast to the world.

Self-help was, as the name suggested, focused on the individual—authors such as Craik and Smiles argued that poverty was caused by personal irresponsibility and conversely could be alleviated by discipline. (As a side note, the self-help trend did coincide with 'mutual improvement societies', a more radical movement created by and for working class men to educate themselves and participate in political life.)

The bootstrap-bios of the self-help genre are exactly what you'd expect. In the conclusion to Volume 1, Craik highlights the promised reward, if one only puts one's mind to it: joy.

Crimsworth is set apart from these heroes of self-help because he is so bereft of positive emotion. In fact, his entire worldview is poisoned: to him, existence is impersonal, violent, and hostile. I'll swing back to Glen for this, because she lays out in significant detail just how paranoid and brutal his mental landscape is:

Crimsworth is the empty, sad shell which houses all hustle culture rise and grind don't-deserve-a-bedframe fundamentally pathetic fucking idiots of the Victorian Era, and Brontë is, I argue, lampooning this sigma male grindset nearly 200 years before the rest of us. His self-strictness curdles the supposed happy ending, and it's so fucking good if you interpret that as deliberate:

again, Glen:

the scene in which he proposes to her is charged with half-suppressed violence: he holds his beloved in 'a somewhat ruthless grasp' and insists that she speak his language, not her own. She, for her part, is 'as stirless in her happiness, as a mouse in its terror'

He professes contentment, when they marry, but there is never any peace to be found. Yet, for the story to end, and for him to consider it a story worth telling—one where self-discipline and hard work won the day—he must pretend at it. He might even believe it—but are we supposed to do so also? I don't think so.

2. The unreliable narrator, more broadly

Crimsworth tells us that:

The other day, in looking over my papers, I found in my desk the following copy of a letter, sent by me a year since to an old school acquaintance...

To this letter I never got an answer...what has become of him since, I know not. The leisure time I have at command, and which I intended to employ for his private benefit, I shall now dedicate to that of the public at large. My narrative is not exciting, and above all, not marvellous; but it may interest some individuals, who, having toiled in the same vocation as myself, will find in my experience frequent reflections of their own. The above letter will serve as an introduction. I now proceed.

Crimsworth refers to this person (Charles) in distant terms. He's an 'old school acquaintaince'. His fate is unknown, but this does not keep him up at night. Crimsworth implies that there's less affection there than utility: he'd intended to bestow on Charles the dubious gift of this tale, and now it's our turn instead. In the letter, too, he's at pains to point out that he would never lift a finger for him, especially for rotten work:

you were a sarcastic, observant, shrewd, cold-blooded creature; my own portrait I will not attempt to draw, but I cannot recollect that it was a strikingly attractive one—can you? What animal magnetism drew thee and me together I know not; certainly I never experienced anything of the Pylades and Orestes sentiment for you, and I have reason to believe that you, on your part, were equally free from all romantic regard to me. Still, out of school hours we walked and talked continually together; when the theme of conversation was our companions or our masters we understood each other, and when I recurred to some sentiment of affection, some vague love of an excellent or beautiful object, whether in animate or inanimate nature, your sardonic coldness did not move me. I felt myself superior to that check then as I do now.

but he writes, anyway, not for Charles's benefit, but because he wants to be heard and understood as he was then. The companions have changed, but if there is anyone who will agree with him about their character and motivations, he believes it will be sardonic, cold-blooded Charles.

Yet Charles did not reply, and so he turns to us for vindication.

Am I reading too much into this? I don't think so. Here's a fragment from a reworked Preface which would have replaced this first section and given us an alternate explanation for the existence of the text:

I had the pleasure of knowing Mr Crimsworth very well—and can vouch for his having been a respectable man—though perhaps not altogether the character he seems to have thought he was.

Here, the signposting is even clearer: we are not to take Crimsworth's tale entirely at its word.

Catherine Malone highlights this fragment when she examines Crimsworth's perception of his relationship to sex.

while at the beginning of the novel he declares an interest only in women with 'the clear, cheering gleam of intellect' (p. 13), asserting that for a professor, feminine 'mental qualities; application, love of knowledge, natural capacity, docility, truthfulness, gratefulness are the charms that attract his notice and win his regard' (p. 120) ...

the puritanical image he presents is continually undermined by his regard for physical beauty, manifest in his obsession with the boarded window in his bedroom at M. Pelet's, and his observations on his female pupils and the women with whom he has already come into contact. During the party at brother's house, Crimsworth is not introduced to the 'group of pretty girls' surrounding Edward and feels that he can take no part in the dancing: 'Many smiling faces and graceful figures glided me-but the smiles were lavished on other eyes-the figures sustained by other hands than mine-I turned away tantalized' (p. 24). Similarly, it is Mlle Reuter's outer rather than inner charms wh chiefly attract Crimsworth. It is he who nearly falls in love Zoraide and she, confident in her relationship with Pelet, who with his affections. Although any relationship between the two had been largely of Crimsworth's imagining, on discovering the engagement, he considers Zoraide and Pelet's deceit an act of 'treachery' (p. 112)—one which does not just cause him momentary bitterness, shame, or embarrassment but temporarily extinguishes his entire 'faith in love and friendship' (p. 111)

What Crimsworth tells himself about his desires is at odds with his reactions.

One final aspect to discuss (because I really need to finish this post up and go to bed) is gaze. In The Professor, being seen is understood as an assault; The Professor exists, we are told, because Crimsworth wished to present his tale to 'the public at large'. When Crimsworth has a narrative he thinks he controls, he'll share it—but even in the bounds of that text it's clear that he bristles under scrutiny.

Glen compiles near-endless examples of references to sight and seeing in The Professor, but I'm most interested in the way that plays out in interactions with his brother.

His first meeting with his brother is described like so:

my mind busied itself in conjectures concerning the meeting about to take place. Amidst much that was doubtful in the subject of these conjectures, there was one thing tolerably certain—I was in no danger of encountering severe disappointment; from this, the moderation of my expectations guaranteed me. I anticipated no overflowings of fraternal tenderness; Edward’s letters had always been such as to prevent the engendering or harbouring of delusions of this sort. Still, as I sat awaiting his arrival, I felt eager—very eager—I cannot tell you why; my hand, so utterly a stranger to the grasp of a kindred hand, clenched itself to repress the tremor with which impatience would fain have shaken it.

He will concede to feeling eager, but he cannot—will not—tell you why. After all, he has moderated his expectations! He does not hope! Fuck off!

He hardens himself still further, and in so doing insulates himself from disappointment—or, indeed, connection:

I can't help but feel like it is deliberate on Brontë's part that we see his professed successes as defeats. This is a man who despite all his hardness and his flaws has found himself a wife—but is that worth anything? Has he allowed himself to be understood even as much as he was back in his schooldays with maybe-dead 'acquaintance' Charles? Does he feel even a fraction of the contentment he thought he would, if only he followed the rules? Does his wife?

Towards the end of the novel is a terrifying passage that demonstrates, imo, that Frances, his wife, knows his deal far, far better than he does. Their pal, Hunsden, shares a miniature of a woman he was once into, Lucia, admitting that 'I should certainly have liked to marry her, and that I have not done so is a proof that I could not.'

In Crimsworth's list of desirable attributes from above, it is docility that ranks highest, and Frances knows it. She loves him, as other passages show, but she also sobbed as they were married, and in the scene before the wedding criticised Hunsden for an attitude that Crimsworth demonstrates throughout the text: being a facts don't care about your feelings dipshit.

so: it is very fun to interpret The Professor as a surprisingly relevant satire of the self-made man. I think there's ample justification for this in the text, which repeatedly and deliberately sets up and exposes the contradictions in character that Crimsworth himself cannot see.

I can't decide whether it's worse to assume Brontë didn't know what she was doing when she wrote about this dickhead, or that she did and he's wonderful actually. Perhaps one of those interpretations is even correct—but I am a huge fan of unreliable narrators, and I think it's 100% defensible, and far more interesting, to see Crimsworth as one.

#when i say long post i mean it #charlotte bronte #this fell off a bit at the end because it's midnight #haarping on #there is an upcoming branwell segue in bfo that i'm gonna make everyone's problem

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marshmallow-phd · 3 years ago

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Gravity

Genre: Angst, Unrequited Love

Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader

A/N: This was basically just a therapy write.

What is worth? It is neither tangible nor seeable. It doesn’t have a body or a shell. Yet, the endless chase to catch it, to hold it captive, is a never ending disease that eats away at the brain and tears apart the heart. It’s only descriptor is feeling. A judgement. Something either is or isn’t. When it's an object in question, the call for worth is passive, innocent. It’s wanted or it's not. The deterioration comes into play when the worth is applied to a person.

Kim Junmyeon was worth the world.

With a smile that could chase away a storm and a heart too good and pure for the human populace, he was truly worth more than the world. He was worth more than you deserved.

Not only was his face kind, but it was handsome. Beautiful, even. Candid photos were museum worthy masterpieces. There was a gentleness, a softness to his eyes and cheeks that contradicted the sharpness of his jaw and the strength of his body. His laugh was infectious and his mind as vast and deep as the ocean. The sum of his whole was worth so much.

But you were not worthy of such a person. You weren’t as stunning as a sunset over the mountains or as extraordinary as a new discovery. You were simply… you. Staring from afar, admiring but never touching.

You wished you could be worthy. You wished you could be special enough - good enough to be with him. Pretty enough would be something decent to settle for. But you were invisible. A person on the sidelines. Out of the spotlight. You were an admirer - not one to be admired.

“You’re doing it again.”

You blinked, your attention torn away from the spot where Junmyeon was standing, laughing and chatting with a few of his seniors. Kyungsoo, who sat to your left at the small table in the entertainment building’s cafe, didn’t even look up from the script he was currently reviewing. He’d only been given it the day before and was still considering if he wanted the part that was being offered to him.

Your gaze dropped to the opened yet untouched notebook lying in front of you on the somewhat sticky surface. Someone must have spilled their syprup-y coffee and didn’t do the best job at cleaning it up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Without moving his head, Kyungsoo looked at you over the rim of his glasses. Even though you were sure you were nothing more than a blur to his eyes at the moment, he could always see right through you. “If you keep staring at him like that, you’re going to give yourself away.”

The ultimate nightmare. The humiliation of being found out. The sweet but awkward rejection that you knew would follow. With his laugh still ringing in your ears, you forced yourself to tune Junmyeon out.

Pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger, Kyungsoo straightened and closed the script. “We can go somewhere else, if that would help.”

You wanted to argue no. That you weren’t a coward. That you weren’t going to run and hide simply because you looked at him like he was the night sky while you were stuck on the ground. You used to have better control of yourself. You used to be able to hide it better. But lately, it had only gotten worse.

And you were a coward.

“Yeah. Maybe one of the practice rooms is empty.”

“There’s usually one.”

After gathering up your things, you followed Kyungsoo out of the cafe, stealing a final glance. Junmyeon didn’t so much as twitch in your direction. It wouldn’t have been surprising if he hadn’t even realized that you were there in the cafe for the past half hour.

Kyungsoo settled into one corner of the worn navy blue couch while you squeezed into the other. Not speaking a word, he went back to reading the script. That was a nicety of your friendship. Comfortable silence was more than readily available when needed. He didn’t push or give unasked for advice. He was an ear to listen and a presence to take in when you didn’t want to be alone.

You stared down at the notebook in your lap where your next story ideas were supposed to be filling the pages. But nothing was coming out. Not even the vague pictures you’d had earlier this morning. The only things being called to the paper were the sentences held in the invisible tears you refused to shed. Words of wishes and frustrations swirled around inside the tiny droplets, every letter as heavy as lead. Your cruel mind kept echoing at you the conversation that had constricted the air in your lungs.

Two days ago, you’d accidentally overheard a drama staff worker jokingly say that Junmyeon and his current co-star seemed awfully close, more than merely friends. Stomach lurching, you ran to the nearest bathroom. Nothing came out but almost fifteen minutes of deliberate breathing had gone by before you emerged again. Kyungsoo was quick to dismiss the comment after barely three words from you. The effect, however, still lingered.

Despite the history of your intrusive thoughts, you wanted to believe that you could be good enough. That you were worthy of being beside someone like Junmyeon. His co-costar was stunning, even in real life. Someone who didn’t need photoshop to draw out gasps of awe and astonishment. Someone you most certainly couldn’t compete with in any race.

You weren’t asking for much. Just to be able to hold his hand, your fingers interlaced between his own. The fantasy you allowed yourself to indulge in at times wasn’t a grand gesture or a modern fairytale. You wanted simplicity. The smaller moments that could mean so much. Mundane, to some eyes.

Warm sun rays leaked through the closed blinds over the living room windows. A clock on the wall ticked away the meaningless minutes. Sometimes soft music hummed in the background, sometimes there was nothing but silence. Junmyeon would lay across the length of the couch with you wrapped around his side. His fingers would absentmindedly caress your shoulder or arm. In his other hand was a book, held open by his thumb and pinky. Your own hand drifted through his hair while he read aloud.

The two of you had dozens of endless conversations about books. About the ones you loved and the ones you hated. About deeper meanings and the reflections of life. His love of literature - from the celebrated classics to the obscure unknown - had been what initially drew you in. Everything else was what made you stay.

A muscle in your hand cramped. The peaceful scene faded from your eyes. The page was now filled with barely legible, ink-smeared words. You’d written the entire scenario out, along with your heart, without even realizing it.

In a panic, you ripped the paper from its spiral hold, crumpled it up, and tossed it to the trash can across the room. It missed.

“I doubt whatever you wrote was that bad,” Kyungsoo murmured. He read the final few lines of the script and closed it.

“It wasn’t,” you admitted bitterly. “But I shouldn’t have written it.” You described the scene to him while your eyes stayed trained on the loose thread twirling between your fingers.

He sighed. “You’re never going to tell him, are you?”

“I can’t.”

“You can. You’re just stopping yourself.”

You scoffed. “Why would I deliberately set myself up like that? Break me the rest of the way?”

Kyungsoo stared at you, long and hard, his expression blank to those who couldn’t read the tell-tale signs that his thoughts were in overdrive. “You’re really hurting, aren’t you?”

You sniffed, though no tears were yet forcing their way to the surface. “Most days.”

“Then walk away.”

“I can’t.” Your voice broke - just like your heart. The world blurred when you shook your head. “I can’t… simplify it. But-- It’s like I was this stupid lump of rock drifting aimlessly through space, content with my life. Then suddenly, I came across this brilliant star that shined so brightly and… we collided. And now I’m stuck in his orbit. But he just keeps on spinning while my whole world had changed completely. He’s… my gravity. I don’t know anything else anymore.”

“Maybe it’s time to find your own orbit.”

Afraid it might crack again, your voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t know how.”

The door creaked open and your heart leapt. Junmyeon stuck his head inside. Had he overheard everything?

“There you are! I turned away for a second and suddenly you two weren’t in the cafe anymore.”

He’d… He’d seen you? In the cafe?

“It was too loud,” Kyungsoo lied, covering up for you like he always did.

“It’s always too loud for you,” Junmyeon teased. Then his face morphed into that leader-esque expression. “We need to head to rehearsal. You’re welcome to join us,” he nodded to you.

“No, that’s okay,” you said quickly in response. “I have a writer’s meeting.” No, you didn’t, but space felt like the right choice at the moment. You tried not to focus on the lack of disappointment coming from the direction of the door.

“Maybe next time.” Junmyeon slapped the side of the door. “Let’s go, Soo.”

You were actually the first one on your feet, muttering goodbyes to both of them and then walking down the hall perhaps a little too fast.

You didn’t allow your mind to think the whole way home. Every action was done in automatic mode. Only the minimal amount of awareness was used. But when the apartment door clicked behind you, when the near darkness wrapped you up, when the silence crept in and the empty couch mocked you… you broke.

Knees buckling from under you, the cold hard floor came closer and you didn’t leave that spot just inside the room as the tears and sobs crashed out in waves.

This was what you hated the most. The breakdowns that came with no excuse. They were built up by your own mind, by your intrusive thoughts. You tortured yourself with what you could never have. The attacks were random and it was only recently that you had learned to hold them in long enough until you were safe within your own walls. One time, you hadn’t made it. Kyungsoo had been there to pat your shoulder.

Kyungsoo. He was right.

That clarity was coming through as the tears dried and your breathing evened out again. You needed space. You needed to separate yourself from what wasn’t good for you and not see him. Not even have the temptation to.

This was going to hurt like hell.

The office somehow looked smaller with the bare walls. Since the day you moved in, you tried to liven it up, give it character, make it reflect the interests you loved. How were you supposed to write if this place felt like a stifling corporate desert, dry of any creativity?

Not that you ever actually wrote in this twelve by eight space. This place had been reserved for meetings and other usually boring necessities. You didn’t know the next time a budget meeting or an email check would be conducted here. You could be back in a few months and move back in as if you never left. Or someone else could take over. Only time would tell.

The box that currently had your attention was nearly full. You’d have to come back for the rest. There wasn’t much left, anyway. You took another look around to see if there was anything else you could do at the moment. The monitors were black, the tower underneath - so much smaller than the one you’d had as a kid - was powered off, and the chair that was aligned just so to your favored adjustments was pushed into the gray desk. Saying goodbye to this place really did hurt.

But you needed to do this.

And yet, you felt like you were drowning, being dragged deeper into the black water. Your lungs were screaming for relief.

“You’re really leaving?”

Your shoulders stiffened. At first, you didn’t look up at him. You weren’t sure what to say to him. Being here… it was the last place you expected him to be today. Kyungsoo would have told him, but you wouldn’t have waited around for him to appear.

“Hi, Junmyeon.” You folded up the top of the box, overlapping the pieces so it would stay shut in transport.

“I thought you liked it here?”

“I love it,” you confessed. “But I- I need to go home for a little while.”

“Are you homesick?”

“Something like that.” Definitely some version of sick.

He nodded. “Will you be gone long?” His eyes drifted over the holes in the walls leftover from the frames that used to hang in front of them.

“I don’t know.” You shifted your weight from one foot to the other. This was…. You should go. Pushing your fingers under the box, you started to lift it to take it home.

“Do you have to go?”

The question stalled you. Confused, the box went back down on the desk. “Why are you here, Junmyeon?”

He shrugged, though it didn’t shake off the stiffness in his shoulders. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his arms all the way to his wrists covered up by the sleeves of his shirt. Lately he had been rolling them up. You wondered what had changed today. “You’re our friend.”

Friend.

Friend. Friend. Friend.

The word rang over and over like a declaration of war. Our friend.

The smart thing to do would have been to nod, say goodbye, and leave. But - instead - you opened your mouth.

“I will always be your friend.”

That didn't make him smile like you would have thought. “So, then why do you have to leave?”

You rubbed your eyebrow, fighting within yourself. You lost.

“Have you ever had a friend so head over heels for someone that won’t even look at them twice? But they don’t care? Because as long as the person they’re looking at is happy, then they’re happy. Even if your friend is completely miserable in the process. Because they no longer care about their own self. They just keep looking at the other person, doing anything that entails that they’re still happy.” You swallowed thickly to try and keep your voice steady. By your sides, your hands were trembling at this roundabout confession. “And you want to shake them. You want to tell them to get out. Because as long as they stick around, they won’t look at one else. No one else exists. Well, this is me. Getting out.”

The frown on Junmyeon’s face deepened as he let your words sink in. “Who is it? Will you tell me?”

No. Because this was enough of an admittance. Because it was time to find your own sense of gravity.

So, without a word, you picked up the box and left the office.

Waiting for you when you came back was the scene you had written in the practice room that day, flattened out but still wrinkled as it laid on the desk.

#exo #kim junmyeon x reader #kim junmyeon #kim joonmyeon #suho #suho x reader #exo oneshot #exo drabble #exo angst #exo unrequited love #kpop

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isuckatreadinglol · 4 years ago

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Six of Crows Review

Alright, first book review on this blog...here we go: *spoiler warning, duh*

Book: Six of Crows Author: Leigh Bardugo

My Rating: 5/5

First off, this is the first YA fantasy I've ever read so I have no idea what I was expecting...and I fuckin loved it.

Second, I binge read this book in three days and it usually takes me a month to read anything ever so that's definitely saying something. I came for Kaz Brekker after watching Shadow & Bone on Netflix and stayed for the amazing plot, diverse and intricate characters, the incredible action and twists, and of course Kaz Brekker. The one thing that I loved was how fast paced this book went, and I genuinely could not stray far from the book because of how addicting it was. There was something in every chapter and you never got bored. The last part had taken the most time for me to complete because of how much action Leigh crammed in the last 60 pages, which made it a bit hard to follow along but it was still epic.

The Characters:

Kaz, Inej, Jesper, Wylan, Nina, Matthias

"“What’s the easiest way to steal a man’s wallet?” “Knife to the throat?” asked Inej. “Gun to the back?” said Jesper. “Poison in his cup?” suggested Nina. “You’re all horrible,” said Matthias."

The most diverse set of characters I have ever met. There were 6 characters, and the POV's were constantly changing and at some point, while I read someone else's chapter I was worried about the other characters and anticipating the next chapters. This was honestly an amazing decision to tell this story and I never got sick of the characters (except maybe Matthias, sorry).

Not only does Leigh do an excellent job portraying trauma in her characters (especially Kaz), she also keeps the character's as diverse as possible, from Nina being a plus sized character with badass confidence to Wylan overcoming his dyslexia and even Inej being a brown character. Every character had their own stories and the flashbacks/backstories were always a pleasure to read through.

Kaz Brekker is a stone cold, morally grey, manipulative, and terrible criminal which of course...makes him an even better protagonist. He definitely rocks the Hot Boy Who Is Mean To Everyone Except That One Chick Because Of His Tragic Backstory trope.

"There was no part of him that was not broken, that had not healed wrong, and there was no part of him that was not stronger for having been broken."

He is an anti-hero with his own plans and goals, while also caring so much about his crew that he would do anything for them. I'm very excited to see his character develop with Inej in Crooked Kingdom as well as his relationship with her because I am too obsessed with the two of them. I also enjoyed how Leigh allowed Kaz to fuck up and make mistakes, showing that he wasn't just some perfect character that knew everything about everything, and reading his inner dialogue when he realized his fuck-ups felt refreshing. His backstory was very well written and very tragic (we get it he's emo). It felt so personal knowing why he was they way he was when he sealed himself off from the world. He's also drippy as fuck.

Inej Ghafa just radiates bad bitch energy and when Kaz called her "dangerous" I screamed "DAMN RIGHT". Her mental drive was beautifully written during her chapters, especially while she climbed the incinerator.

"The heat of the incinerator wrapped around Inej like a living thing, a desert dragon in his den, hiding from the ice, waiting for her. She knew her body's limits and knew she had no more to give. She'd made a bad wager. It was as simple as that. The autumn leaf might cling to its branch, but it was already dead. The only question was when it would fall...

Should she jump now or simply wait for her body to give?

Inej felt wetness on her cheeks. Was she crying? Now? After everything she'd done and had done to her?"

Most importantly, she was a raw character who pushed herself throughout the book not just for herself but for the rest of the crew. She was selfless but she was also incredibly strong, driven by her future. Inej is the most inspiring character in the book and I have fallen in love with her more times than I could count. (lowkey carried the team imma be honest)

JESPER FAHEY Y'ALL. My queer sharpshooter king. I think I related to him the most and I loved every chapter with him. Though, I felt like Jesper was treated more as a side character than a main one, especially since he was stuck with Wylan for the entirety of the heist but BOY WHEN I FOUND OUT HE WAS A FABRIKATOR...I might have also screamed. He was definitely the comedic relief and he always kept me laughing at his little comments. Excited to see him and Wylan get together and also hoping for more of Jesper's character.

"Well, we’ve managed to get ourselves locked into the most secure prison in the world. We’re either geniuses or the dumbest sons of bitches to ever breathe air."

“If any of you survive, make sure I have an open casket. The world deserves a few more moments with this face.”

Nina Zenik...bro. She is so powerful. The moment she took parem was *chefs kiss* and it was the most badass scene I had ever experienced. When I began reading her chapters I didn't really enjoy them but when the heist actually began her inner dialogue won me over completely. When she was with Jarl Brum I could not stop laughing at the things she was saying in her head, and even when things were intense she always had something to say which made her character come to life. Her personality is hilarious, and sarcastic and she's also so HOT like my gay ass was swooning. She is who I aspire to be, that is all.

Matthias Helvar. Personally, I didn't really like his character so much because of how stubborn and he was (and how many times I wanted to punch his stupid ass), however he was still a pretty cool character with some good moments in there. He demonstrated religious corruption well, and he definitely faced a lot of inner conflict due to the pressure of what he was taught when he was younger. His POVs were a little boring but I loved it when he called Kaz a demjin.

Wylan Van Eck was a super fun character to have around. I definitely enjoyed watching his character grow as he spent more time with the Dregs. I didn't love him as much as the big three (Kaz, Jesper, Inej) and don't have much to say on him except that I admired his strength throughout the last part, especially when confronting his father after hearing all the horrible things he said about his own son. Jesper defending him made me melt big time.

"He's smarter than most of us put together, and he deserves a better father than you."

I literally could not have asked for such a creative group of characters and to see them work together makes me feel like I'm part of a big, criminal family.

The Ships

The ships were a fun addition to the story and the best part was that they never overstepped the actual objective of the plot but rather worked with it to enhance the connections between each character.

Kaz and Inej: Let me just cry for a second.

"She'd laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and gotten drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him."

"I will have you without armor, Kaz Brekker. Or I will not have you at all."

"I'm going to get my money, Kaz vowed. And I'm going to get my girl."

This one hurt me. I am in love with these two and their relationship with each other makes it so much better. They are not meant to be together yet they are connected in so many ways. I did not think I would fall in love so easy, but here I am.

Matthias and Nina: I was not convinced by these two, especially with how weird their relationship was. They constantly seemed like they hated each other (valid) and some of their romantic scenes felt forced. In the end, I enjoyed seeing Nina grow on Matthias to wake his stubborn ass up. I swear that man refused to have feelings. Anyway, I still have mixed feelings on these two.

Wylan and Jesper: They are so cute. Like insanely cute. Like even I was blushing during their cute scenes. Their relationship isn't as developed yet so I am excited to see them in Crooked Kingdom.

Final Thoughts:

Representation? Check

Map? Check

Two maps?!? Fuck yeah

Amazing plot and worldbuilding? Check

Hilarious banter? Mhm

Great writing? Check

Well- written characters? 100%

Overall, this story will forever be my comfort book and I was impressed by the YA fantasy side of literature. It's hard to believe yet comforting that these characters are my age, makes me feel powerful. I loved every bit of this book and now I kinda wanna grab some friends and pull a heist.

#six of crows #grishaverse #the grisha series #crow club #shadow and bone #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #nina zenik #jesper fahey #wylan van eck #no mourners no funerals #the dregs #soc #sabspoilers #the crows #book review #booklr #ya fantasy #kanej

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system-of-a-feather · 1 year ago

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Actually will back this up. As someone whose worked in two research labs in behavior and psychology and am currently working full time supporting research, science - even i the most respected and reviewed journals - are full of issues, oversights, and crap. Huge, and its everywhere. And this isnt to be alarmist or a conspiracy theorist or "science is Fake Anyways" - I wouldnt be working full time and planning to stay full time in research if that was my opinion - but rather that science is hardly this absolute fact that most not actively involved in the field think it is.

I went to a heavily reputable university where one of the professors who specialized in memory research claimed that a large majority of researchers in the specific field of memory research (specifically in the neurobiological focused view) do not believe in repressed and recovering memories to be a thing that is shown to be possible in literature and that he was more open minded but doubtful. He sighted a number of peer reviewed reputable articles and to be blunt? They were hogwash. Full of absolutely stupid concept validity and generalizability, but for highly reputable journals that focus on investigating the neurobiological underpinnings and function of memory, most of the methods done were standard in neurobiology to create consistent, reliable and repeatable results which almost always comes at the cost of concept validity (how well the research depicts the thing its trying to research) and generalizability (how well and accurately said data applies to a general populace). The articles and research are genuinely respectable and they discuss data from a very specific perspective with the methods for a very specific approach.

Of course anyone in the DID community would have a SPIT TAKE at researchers at large not believing in repressed and retrieval of memories, I did myself and briefly tried to discuss it before getting too frustrated with the inherent lack of understanding of the concept at hand (and also understanding that repressed memories was not his main research interest and thus not expecting him to be an expert on it) and deciding to agree to strongly disagree.

It's a hard dichotomy to make peace and balance with co-existing but research and science on their own and kept in a bubble of one article or a handful of articles is always going to be way way way more subjective and debatable than most think it is. So when syscourse gets down to "show your evidence in research and science" yall are wasting time and energy cause unfortunate newsflash is that science agrees with both depending on which perspective and values in the research community you focus on and while they are different results, they are not "bad science" or invalid because you like one perspective over the other

Solid understanding and interpretting literature in research is not about reading and understanding one source, nor is it 10 or really any number. There is no "winning" in research. There is no "winning" using research. There is no "right and wrong". Honestly, and as much as a lot of people probably are uncomfortable with it being said, once you get involved in research, it just boils back down to opinions on what research is most valid and why and st that point you are just back at syscourse / discourse all over again, just academic and professional

my biggest syscourse fear is someone will eventually say "hey, roxy, you've published in peer reviewed journals, what do you think of the state of plurality research?" and i will have to give a four hour talk about how large swathes of the research literature across many fields (including our field) , even in respectable journals, is functionally meaningless bullshit, and i will sound like a tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist

seriously, if you're in college right now and you're in the sciences, see if you get get permission to sit in on some of the graduate journal club meetings. you will gradually realize that there are major flaws in a lot of published research that only someone in that niche area might immediately recognize (in other words, stuff that even some reviewers and editors might miss, but that a whole room full of PIs and grad students might not)

#alter: riku #on research #research #syscourse #syscourse tw

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skeezsbbygirl · 5 years ago

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call me that too + kim seungmin

this one’s for anon who requested a seungmin scenario with a dash of oppa kink. i didn’t go too overboard hehe, just a sprinkle of a suggestive theme at the end (i’ll leave it to your imagination asdjhfrirgjgl cuz i can’t handle them feelssss ugh)

nonetheless, I hope you guys enjoy! oh and thank you for the love that you guys are showing for “peaches + bang chan” uwuuuu (ღ˘⌣˘ღ)

REQUEST BOX IS STILL OPEN. STREAM GOD’S MENU AND VOTE FOR OUR BOYS.

[5:12 p.m.] A yawn escaped your lips as you managed to go through all your assigned lectures for the day. You logged out from your university's portal and shut your laptop close, not wanting to stare at the bright screen any longer. You sauntered towards the kitchen and opened the drawer that contained all your caffeine-related pick-me-ups. As you were about to grab a mug, your actions were halted by your phone's ringtone, signalling a call as it rang on the coffee table from your apartment's living room. You managed to accept the call before it was dropped.

SeungMong <3

"Hey," you answered, sauntering back to the kitchen as you cradled your phone in between your right ear and shoulder to keep your hands free. "Baby, are you busy?" Seungmin asked. You shook your head but you mentally facepalmed as you remembered that the boy on the other line couldn't see you, "No. I just finished some school stuff. What's up?"

"Can you come over? Chan-hyung wants to take us out for dinner," Seungmin replied and you could faintly hear Jisung and Changbin screaming in the background -- something about Chan covering food expenses for the first time. You lightly chuckled and responded, "Yeah sure, I'll be there in twenty."

An hour passed and you were all gathered at the boys’ go-to restaurant, which was three blocks down from your university's dormitory.

"Am I dreaming?" Jisung teased as he hopped off Chan's car, Changbin and Jeongin not far behind him. “Somebody drive him back home,” Chan groaned to which the younger one giggled, jumping on his back in the process. “Hyung, come on. I was just poking fun at you,” Jisung cooed at the elder, earning him a light flick on the forehead from Chan.

You beamed at the sight of the boys playfully bickering. “Pay attention to me,” Seungmin whined and nudged your shoulder. You broke into a cheesy grin and gave his cheek a peck, “You always have my attention.”

Seungmin extended a hand towards you, to which you gladly complied, squeezing his hand three times as you intertwined your hand with his -- your silent way of saying ‘I love you’.

Soon after, you guys were seated inside the restaurant and you fell into each of your own said conversations.

“How was your day?” Seungmin asked as he adjusted his seat closer to yours. “Better now that I’m with you,” you said in a voice soft with affection. Seungmin chuckled, “Stop it.” You shook your head, leaning closer so that your forehead touched his. “You’re so cute,” you teased, which earned you a pout from the older male. “You do know that I’m a year older than you, right?” Seungmin bragged. You rolled your eyes, “Your point being?”

Seungmin sighed in defeat, opting to plant a kiss on your lips, but you were interrupted by multiple groans and a chorus of complains. “Get a room already!” Felix exclaimed with his hands covering his eyes, a poor attempt to discard the sight of yours and Seungmin’s “sickening” affection, as Minho described it. You stuck a tongue out at Felix, “Stop being so bitter.”

Felix faked sob and Jeongin joined in on his act, embracing the older male and patting his head.

Soon, your playful banter came to an end as your orders arrived. You guys were eating in silence, uttering a compliment here and there towards the dishes that you were served, until Hyunjin called for your attention.

“Oh, (y/n), before I forget,” the older male started, only stopping for a second to sip on his drink. “I found that outline you’ve been looking for,” he continued. “Please tell me you have it,” you pleaded, eager to finish the book review that your professor has quested upon your class a week ago. Hyunjin nodded, “The copy is in the car, I got you.”

You cheered as you reached out your hand to give him a high-five. “You’re the best, oppa.”

With your response, Hyunjin immediately side-eyed Seungmin’s reaction. He might have known something or at least sensed something, specifically when Seungmin blabbered -- well, more like ranted -- about you not calling him the said endearment you just used on Hyunjin a few seconds ago.

Let’s rewind, shall we?

Hyunjin was an hour away from a deadline, and yes, he admits that he may have finished his project sooner, but a certain someone, who goes by the name of Jisung, decided that it would be more fun to play video games over at Felix and Changbin’s dorm. “That stupid project isn’t even due for another day. Chill out, dude,” Jisung claimed with burgeoning excitement. Instead of turning his friend down -- or better, kicking his tempting ass out of the dorm -- he caved in.

Hours later, he was cramming at least two days worth of work into an hour. Then comes your boyfriend, Seungmin. “Hyunjin!” the younger male called out from their dorm’s entrance. “In here!” Hyunjin hollered, his fingers still hot on his laptop’s keyboard, seven more questions and a descriptive about his said stand on the project, and he’ll be done -- both figuratively and literally, his brain’s slowly pan-frying itself to destruction. He mentally cursed Jisung.

“Procrastination at its finest,” Seungmin mocked as he entered Hyunjin’s room. “You can nag me later, bur right now I have to finish this and then kick Jisung’s ass,” Hyunjin said with firm persistence. The younger lad sighed and sat down on a bean bag at the corner of the room. “I don’t have the energy to nag,” Seungmin whispered, but Hyunjin still managed to catch his words. He jokingly rolled his eyes, finding slight amusement towards Seungmin’s puppy expression.

“You and (y/n), had a fight?” Hyunjin asked, his attention still on his laptop but he figured he needed Seungmin for a little background noise to keep him sane, plus the guy’s one of his best friends. “Not really,” Seungmin disagreed. “Then, what got you all gloomy?” Hyunjin insisted, but he was only met with silence.

“Seungmo, come on, spill.”

“She addresses you as an ‘oppa’,” Seungmin blurted out after a few seconds. “Who addresses me as what?” Hyunjin asked, his eyebrows contorted in confusion. “(y/n),” Seungmin answered as he buried his face in his arms. “Seungmo, you do know that she does that to everybody that’s older than her, right?” Hyunjin replied, “It’s called being polite.”

“Well, I call it being unfair.”

Hyunjin chuckled in amusement, “Please elaborate.”

“You and I are the same age, which means that I’m older than her too, but she doesn’t call me that,” Seungmin whined.

And that’s how Seungmin ended up being silent for the rest of the night. You, being unaware of the situation, shrugged it off, thinking that he was just exhausted from his vocal lessons. Until, Hyunjin decided to let you in on the puppy’s cause of gloominess.

“Here, now go ace that literature course,” Hyunjin handed you the outline he promised, giving your head a pat in the process. “Thank you, oppa.”

“One more thing, (y/n),” Hyunjin said as he leaned down and whispered, “Seungmin wants to be called that too.”

“Huh?” you turned to him in confusion, but Hyunjin just stared at you and decided that you would come into revelation in a few seconds. “Oh,” you gasped, eyes lighting up in the process. “That’s why he’s been acting weird,” you added. Hyunjin smiled in approval, “Do something and wipe that pout off his face.”

The car ride back to your dorm was silent. Seungmin kept his eyes on the road, no words were exchanged between the two of you and he clearly showed no effort of doing so any time soon. You’re slowly running out of time as your building came into view a few minutes later. Seungmin slowly stopped the car and got out, he jogged towards your side and opened the door for you.

Go time.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” Seungmin said. His expression was sad but he still managed to give you a kiss on the forehead. He was about to pull away but you prevented him from doing so by holding his face in your hands. You stared at him lovingly, thanking the universe for bringing this man into your life.

“I love you, oppa,” you whispered, but loud enough for him to hear you.

A soft gasp escaped from his lips as his eyes widened, “What did you just call me?”

“Oppa, why?” you giggled and gave his nose a kiss. “Don’t get me wrong, I feel like I’m on top of the world right now, but you never call me that,” Seungmin wondered, his arms now wrapped around your waist, allowing him to pull you closer. “Let’s just say, a little bird told me,” you teased.

“Hwang Hyunjin!”

You laughed, “Don’t get mad at him.”

“Listen,” you called back for his attention, “I don’t call you oppa because I use that on everybody who’s older than me, well close friends of course, but you know what I mean.”

“And you, Kim Seungmin, are not just anybody. You’re my person, my everything, my whole world. You’re special to me and you matter the most,” you explained, pouring your feelings out for the said man. You were about to say more in order to get rid of Seungmin’s doubt, but he cut you off with a kiss.

You guys were practically making out in your dormitory’s parking lot, but it’s the least of your worries right now.

You pulled away first as you tried to catch your breath. “I love you so much, (y/n),” Seungmin confessed, his expression now darker as you witnessed his eyes fill with desire. “And I’ll prove that to you.”

“What do you mean, oppa?”

Seungmin leaned down, his lips dangerously close to your ear. “Don’t test me, baby.”

You whimpered in response, “Do whatever you want. I’m all yours, oppa.”

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thefolioarchives · 3 years ago

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Reading of 2021, Part V

26. City of Saints and Madmen by Jeff Vandermeer

Vandermeer is one of my favourite authors and his Southern Reach trilogy was my main reason for going back to uni to do my master's. This short story collection was published long before SR, so it's daft that I didn’t read it for my dissertation and throughout reading it I felt like I was being smacked in the face with that realisation, again and again. Kind of torturous for a person who still has panic attacks about small stuff she said on the phone to a stranger, let alone big life stuff like your master's degree. Hahahahaha. *Goes and cries for a bit*

Moving on, this collection brings into focus the fictional, terrifying and crazy city that is Ambergris. From the perspective of returning missionaries, a historical pamphlet for tourists and nightmarish narratives of the lives of lowly artists. I'm a big fan of this as a concept and I feel like Vandermeer has managed to make Ambergris come alive through the various accounts of the characters we meet and its old and creepy history. It didn't GRIP me, however, not like Annihilation did all those years ago and it did not make me immediately want to read Shriek and Finch: an Afterword (novels that are included in this edition as well). The writing style is quite different from his other works that I've read, a bit old-timey as we like to say in the business, which made it hard for me to thoroughly immerse myself in it.

27. Her Body and Other Parties by Carmen Maria Macado

Another short story collection! This one was marketed to me as some brilliant reinvention of SFF. I hate when they try to do that as it sets the bar so incredibly high and I can't help but be swept away in the assumptions and reviews. What kind of expectations can a person who loves genre literature expect after reading something like that? Well, I was expecting the high heavens and sadly it didn't live up to its marketing. To be honest, there isn't a lot of science fiction or fantasy in these stories and if I was to describe it I'd maybe call it contemporary fiction with a dash of magical realism and the uncanny. I'm not saying all genre literature has smack me in the face with dragons and photon torpedoes, but sure, I was expecting more. That being said, I loved some of the stories a lot and I appreciate Macado's creativity in presenting her stories and characters. I especially liked "Inventory" (a woman recounts her sexual history while awaiting the end of the world), "Mothers" (a jump in time story about a woman and her ex, their life and journey towards motherhood), "Especially Heinous" (this one was probably my favourite: each little snippet is a take on a Law and Order: SVU episode (I have never seen the show), as Benson and Stabler struggle with mental issues, doppelgangers, criminals and relationships) and the "Resident" (an author arrives at an artistic retreat and weird things start to happen).

28. The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham

I have a lot of feelings about this book. It tells the story of 4 men who grew up on a reservation in the American Midwest and how one stupid mistake, can lead to… bad things, basically. The narrative is tense with the potential of violence throughout, no one is safe as reckonings must be made. What I really loved about this story is how the Native American culture is represented. The cultural references felt completely unique and for someone who's never read a book where the majority of the characters ( here mostly all) are Native American, it's powerful to read how much of that original culture has been retained throughout years of blood, slaughter and violent oppression. And yet there's this friction between the old and the new that I enjoy as well. How one of the main characters is in school and they're told to create a mural. She wants to create one that's dedicated to basketball because basketball is her passion but her teacher is all "but what about your heritage?". Is that what all native American identities boil down to? Heritage? Either way, it brought up a lot of interesting questions and themes that I'm keen to explore in more literature like this.

29. A Memory Called Empire by Arkady Martine.

I think I bought this book on sale a long time ago after reading how it had been nominated or won a lot of SFF awards, but I didn't pick it up until going on holiday in late June. This is essentially political fantasy intrigue dressed up as science fiction. A space station needs a new ambassador in the capital of a massive galactic empire because the other one died under mysterious circumstances and drama ensues! The "science" part of this book is so vague and it kind of bothers me. Here are some of my questions:

How has the empire managed to expand so much? How does space travel aka the jump gates work? Did the empire create them? What's the difference between humans and whatever the galactic empire's main "race" is? Did the humans come from earth, originally? How does it work that an entire planet is a city? WHAT THE HELL DOES EVERYONE DO FOR WORK?

I like the main characters (and the relationship that develop between "newbie in town" and "established authority trying to teach newbie the ways" is well done) but the city gave me a distinct Hunger Games Capitol vibe (without the excessive decadence) which in turn took me out of the story a little bit. Maybe it's an issue when creating a supposedly sprawling metropolis. Some of the finer details get glossed over, its history is never fully established and you only really get to see a small portion of it. I'm a big fan of fictional cities and I like to be able to almost smell them off the page, if that makes sense. However, this book never stops going and it's, overall, a very exciting read. The ending sets up a nice story for the second book which, to be fair, sounds like it might answer some of my space-related questions so I might be picking that one up at some point.

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britneyshakespeare · 4 years ago

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Barnes and Noble’s website wouldn’t let me post my review of Mirrors: The Aborigine Poetry of Eldred Van-Ooy by Justin Spring because it “contained inappropriate content.”

I called the book racist because it makes up an Aborigine poet but in the afterword Justin Spring admits there was no Eldred Van-Ooy and he wrote most of the poetry himself (the rest was found from an unknown source and is being displayed in the book up to that point as if it’s an authentic representation of Aboriginal Australian literature, when there is no proof of that).

I was infuriated because I bought a book and it was literary blackface. This is one of two books on Barnes and Noble’s entire website that contains—or claims to contain—poetry from this 50,000-year-long, oldest-living-culture-on-the-planet whose members have been victims of colonization, forced assimilation, and genocide.

And there is no information, on any website I’ve found (and I looked around quite a lot before I bought it), that will warn you that this book does not have authentic Aborigine poetry in it. Because that’s the point. Spring reveals in the afterword that it’s a lie as a part of some stupid thought experiment on how we interpret art, truth as a ground of “shifting mirrors” (where the title comes from)... and it’s just... there are so many ways you could write this concept into a book without exploiting marginalized people.

Other than that I don’t hold back in describing how offensive this book is, I don’t believe I was “inappropriate.” I did not use profanity, but I suppose whatever moderating system B&N has in place thinks I defamed Spring’s character, because I call him out for being a well-established and wealthy white author who does not sympathize with indigenous people, and is using people’s curiosity for an extremely underappreciated oral literary culture to profit and center himself.

There have been even fewer books of Aborigine poetry published in English than you might expect, and Spring’s book is the first of few results that show up when you search the words “Aborigine poetry” on B&N’s website. I also pointed that out in the review, which is why I bought it on little information. He’s one of the sole visible voices for this entire group in the vast genre of poetry, but his book features zero actual Aboriginal people.

Consumers deserve to be aware of this, and I should not have to mince words on how insensitive this book’s very existence is. It’s poison to literature, to academia, to culture, to philosophy. Who would want this? Who is enlightened enough to search for Aborigine poetry, and dense enough to think anything about this book is acceptable for publication?

Does anyone know if it’s possible to appeal Barnes and Noble reviews, or should I just try rewriting the review again but taking out the part where I call the book an elaborate pull-my-finger joke?

I don’t want to, but if I have to, I’ll sacrifice the final paragraph where I say a more genial approach to the author’s idea would be to start the book over again at page one, with simply: “We’re no strangers to love. You know the rules, and so do I. A full commitment’s what I’m thinking of. You wouldn’t get this from any other guy. I... just wanna tell you how I’m feeling... gotta make you... understand.”

Update 10/30/2021: Someone in a comment pointed out that the word “Aborigine” is considered derogatory, which I did not know as an American with no personal connection to this culture. Aboriginal people, First Nations peoples, Torres Straight Island Peoples, Indigenous Australians, or more specific culture groups’ names are more appropriate. None of the reading or schooling I’ve done in my life has ever distinguished between different terminology, which is probably because of its distance from where I am. I would also blame Justin Spring for using the word in his title and normalizing it. These are not excuses, though, and I do take responsibility for my ignorance, but I do not want to erase the evidence of its existence, so I’m writing this update instead of pretending I never made the mistake in the first place. For a more extensive reference on Aboriginal terminology, this PDF is a helpful read.

#racism cw #colonization #racism in publishing #is that a tag??? idk how to... make other ppl aware of this #ill tag this as #aboriginal culture #there aren't a lot of suggested tags in that... ppl who care about this topic of racism in academia and poetry and all that #should definitely be aware of this book. this needs to be widespread knowledge. there's literally radio silence about the content online.#and that's probably bc a lot of ppl haven't read it. poetry is underappreciated. especially translated poetry. ppl dont buy it a lot.#other than colonization that's why there isn't a lot of poetry available in english from this culture. ppl dont want to read poetry from #almost any culture. especially from non-english-speaking cultures. especially from non-western and non-white cultures!#there are a lot of factors involved as to why this obvious example of racism has just kinda flew below the radar.#text post #rant #the writing style of the book is also insufferable and i found spring annoying and irritating before i got to the big racist reveal.#he's such an affluent white guy who worships his own self-supposed brilliance and doesn't realize not every thought he has needs to be #preserved forever and presented as art. ESPECIALLY WHEN YOURE WEARING THE MASK OF A MARGINALIZED UNDERREPPED DEMOGRAPHIC.#altho even tho i found spring's prose in the foreword to be really annoying... i couldn't have predicted how appalled id be at the end.#ppl think the biggest problem with modern poetry is the popularity of instapoets. no. ppl actually read instapoets at least.#and they have some dodgy messages sometimes but theyre not that deep. the style is bad. is that the worst thing in the world?#it's not the worst thing about modern poetry. the biggest problem is that ppl don't care about the marginalized. or at least not their #history. or their preservation. DEFINITELY not translation. there are so few efforts to break the barriers of western academia in poetry.#most of those efforts are insufficient. and sometimes the product can be something as insidious as mirrors: the aborigine poetry of eldred #van-ooy by justin spring.#i really just would've rather been rickrolled. i really would.

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starryeyedskeptic · 4 years ago

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House of Blood and Earth book review

*Spoilers*

I am trash and in the mood for smut. And really we don’t read Maas for its contribution to literature. Let’s just all admit that we are in it for the smut. Fun fact Maas minored in religion in college, makes so much sense that her books have repressed sexual energy. Like a good Christian girl gone bad she goes extra hard on the sex, booze and drugs at least in crescent city anyway.

Was super disappointed with this book there was only one smut scene really. I wasn’t sure I was going to finish the book, the beginning really turned me off, it reeked of entitlement and basic AF party girl behaviour. Bryce has the confidence to do what she wants / get away with doing stupid shit because every Alpha male e.g Her brother, Hunt, Conner and even the bouncer in the club she frequents looking out for her virtue (jokes on them she has none). But as the story focused more on the plot it improved and this story really is a redemption arc for Bryce.

The books starts off with our girl Bryce and Danika getting matching tramp stamps. They come and go as they pleases at her place of work but Bryce does have a powerful daddy not the sexual kind (yet) so anything goes. They are your typical early 2010s party girls re Taylor swift 1989 heyday (all her friends are young and hot and in their prime like swift’s squad) and it was cringe inducing reading it. Let’s all face it we were probably all POS and everyone we knew was a POS in our early 20s (a time when we were our draft selves). Basically it’s like Lena Dunham Girls (not a fan) but supernatural, daddy issues and crime.

Back to the story Bryce being a basic AF entitled girl. She goes home high as a kite to find her friends and Connor her potential boyfriend all murdered (Knew Connor wasn’t going to be end game, he was a werewolf and they never get the girl in a supernatural ensemble).

Two years have passed and she is traumatised by the events and has been sober since then. She has had a fall in grace re Taylor swift reputation era. Her texts had leaked where she says that she fucked someone in the toilets and to not tell Connor - it became a song. She get thrown back into the investigation and *thrust* in the Hunter’s direction. (Okay we get it Maas you like Alpha male with Big Dicks. I’m starting to think that Maas has a Neanderthal /Hunter & Gatherer/ caveman fetish. The fucking is always done primitively. The mate always sensing the sex on the female.)

As the story progresses we find out that Bryce is a softie and hunt is a good guy and the plot is engaging as the mystery hots up. The race to the end was action packed and satisfying. Would recommend this book for a fun read but not for smut cause there was barely any *sads*.

There were things that annoyed me, you can really tell this was written during the *metoo era*. I love it when she goes on a feminism rant about men but then need to be fucked by a man to take the edge off her. Also this is a romance, those random rants are stupid because we know she is going to end up with one. Why does Maas think anyone would be coming to her for feminism advice? Maas just stay in your lane and keep to smut your toe dipping in feminism make me feel icky and I don’t think you know what feminism and equality mean.

I did not like Bryce but willing to overlook for overall story. Bryce is that friend you have in your early 20s that guilt’s you into dropping everything in your life to be on standby for her drama (she was mad at one of the character because she wasn’t there when SHE needed her even through that character had her own problems to deal with). There is a fine line between being kickass and being a C*&t. Yes she had trauma but so does everyone else so being a rude doesn’t equal ballsy.

This isn’t my first rodeo. By now we should know that she will not end up with Hunt (a mere general) perhaps she will end up with Aidas the man is a prince of Hel because only the biggest and baddest dick will do for a Maas MC. No second rate 10inch dicks for her (looking at you Tamlin). End game lovers need to have the power to move mountains when he comes it’s in the Job description.

#bryce quinlan #house of blood and earth #sarah j maas #crescent city #hunt alathar #danika fendyr #sjm #micah domitus #hunt x bryce

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lady-divine-writes · 4 years ago

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Good Omens - Addiction (Rated NC17)

Summary: Aziraphale is addicted to affection. Addicted to touch. But being an addict, he can't seem to manage to find a healthy relationship, nor make any relationship last. After his latest break up, he decides to forgo the emotion and go straight for physical satisfaction.

... He just wants to find someone who needs his body. He's not particularly picky as to who - or what - that entails. (5792 words)

Notes: A major re-working of another piece I wrote. If you guys like this one, I will complete the scene that should come after it ;) Let me know. Vampire Crowley. Warnings for mention of blood and blood sucking. Sexual content.

Read on AO3.

Aziraphale walks slowly around the perimeter of his bed, eyeballing the outfits he’d laid out earlier, scathingly critical of every item he chose even though, had you asked him two hours ago, he would have claimed each as tied for favorite. He’s 90% dressed already - cream colored trousers and a matching long-sleeved button down, a pale blue waistcoat (one he’s been told matches his eyes perfectly), tartan socks, and his best cocoa brown Derbys. All he needs now is a bowtie.

Does he need a bowtie? He doesn’t know exactly what the protocol is regarding neckwear where he’s going. He definitely prefers to wear a bowtie. Would not wearing one send some sort of message? Aziraphale assumes forgoing a bowtie might make him appear more casual. At ease. But in the context of the place he’s headed, might it also mean that he’s easy?

He sighs. He’s thinking too hard about this. This place he’s going - he’s paying to be there! What the Hell does the possible hidden innuendo of wearing or not wearing a bowtie matter under those circumstances? He hasn’t left the house without a bowtie on in over four decades!

He’s wearing the bowtie.

His gaze slides over his bed, the ties in the running lined up side by side on his comforter. He reaches for one, fingers hovering just above before he changes his mind and goes for the one beside it, picking it up between pinched fingers and holding it to his neck. He turns to his full length mirror and takes a peek.

“This one?” he asks no one, appraising the plain, gray fabric. “No. No, that won’t do.” He tosses it back on the bed and grabs another one - a tartan tie that matches his socks.

Heaven’s Dress Tartan. His family’s tartan. It’s pretty much the tie he wears for every occasion.

Naively, it makes him feel protected.

“This one?” he muses, already nodding his head. “Yes, this one.” Aziraphale slips the narrow strip of fabric about his neck and ties it. He looks himself over in the mirror, chest puffed with pride, but it doesn’t last long.

What is he doing?

He’s too old for this.

Maybe he should pack it in, wrap up his libido and call it quits. He’s had a good run, hasn’t he? He doesn’t need the physical. No more hugs, no more kisses, no more sex - that wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Aziraphale’s eyes drop from his smart outfit to his feet.

Except it would.

It would for Aziraphale.

He can’t give up touch. He’s never done well without some speck of it in his life.

Deep down inside, he knows he can’t survive without it.

It’s not as simple as feeling lonely or unfulfilled. His need for affection goes beyond that. And it’s stronger - so much stronger - than him.

Being an addict is no small burden. Aziraphale knows that firsthand. He’s seen what addiction can do to people. He’s seen how it can devastate families.

He sat around for years and watched, powerless, as it destroyed his own.

Addiction tore his father apart – his need for money, a lust for more, more, more that he valued over his wife and child, turning him from parental figure into perfect stranger well before Aziraphale’s formative years, then into an enemy when Aziraphale decided against going into medicine, law, or business (the big three that would ensure the family fortune would multiply and thrive long after his father was gone) and instead majored in linguistics and literature.

His father’s addiction led to his mother’s. She’d hit the bottle to numb the pain of watching her husband, the man she’d loved since secondary school, drift away, drinking herself stupid until she couldn’t remember what day it was, where she lived … or that she had a son.

But addiction isn’t only cause and effect. It can be hereditary. It spread through the Fell family like wildfire, jumping from generation to generation. It started with Aziraphale’s great-great-great-great-grandfather on his father’s side and trickled down. Since Aziraphale is the last living Fell, his family’s vices have caught up to him, pooled around his ankles with nowhere else to flow to.

Threatening to drag him under.

Aziraphale has an addiction, too. Anyone who talks to him for about five minutes would say that his drug of choice is books, and indeed there are a good many reasons to believe that. Aziraphale loves books. He’s amassed such a collection that he even became an antique book dealer, but mostly as an excuse to find a place big enough to house his vast collection.

No, Aziraphale gets addicted to people. To affection. To whatever feels like love at the time. And he can’t live without it. He’ll take it from anyone willing to give even a smidgen of it, usually finding himself in relationships that dry up before they fully blossom with people who weren’t worth his time to begin with. Not that these relationships would have gone anywhere if given the chance. That’s part of the problem. Aziraphale tries so hard to find the tenderness stolen from him at too early an age, he doesn’t necessarily look for substance. He plants the seeds of his affection in ground long wrung out, spots where rain won’t ever find them, away from the sun’s nurturing rays.

Tonight, walking alone through the city streets at a truly ill-advised hour, he’s suffering the aftershocks of one such break-up. But this time, Aziraphale was prepared … somewhat. Which is to say he saw the signs. He knew the end was coming, even if he couldn’t stop it. But instead of doing the adult thing and cutting ties painlessly, he let it play itself out, sucking from it every drop he could. And afterwards, when he’d brought home his obligatory box of random stuff from his ex’s apartment – toothbrush, shaving cream, CDs, a few shirts, underwear, the possessions that he’d used to stake his claim - he knew where he would go.

He arrives at the obscure establishment before ten o’clock, having fooled himself that he’s ready to move on even before his ex’s side of the bed is cold. He’s doing right by himself. No more leaping into empty relationships just to have his mind messed with and his heart broken.

He’s skipping straight to the physical.

This is the way to go.

But there is also the chance that he’s being phenomenally stupid.

Aziraphale has paid money for questionable things before, things that he’s looked back on and regretted, shoving them as far behind him as he could so as not to think about them ever again.

But paying to feed his addiction - he’s never done that.

The place he’s gone to, with its ornate wooden door set into the face of an everyday brick wall, looks like a day spa if anything – a rather foreboding day spa. In a way, Aziraphale had expected it to look that way. That or a bar. Where else did these kinds of transactions take place? A bordello, perhaps? He’d heard about one that operates out of a hotel downtown, but this one got far better reviews from people in the know.

Let it never be said that Aziraphale didn’t do his research.

From what he’d heard, this place isn’t only the most exclusive of its kind in London, it’s the most discreet.

Silent as the grave, he’d been told.

There is no buzzer, no knocker, not even a door knob. No indication at all that anyone is allowed in but Aziraphale knows better. He sends a text to a number he paid a hefty sum for, along with a selfie that takes longer than he’d care to admit to take, but that’s not entirely his fault. There are strict requirements for this photograph - angle, background, head tilt, etc. The phone number is one-time use. After he hits send, he won’t be able to follow up with another message, so his picture needs to be up to spec.

Each selfie he takes, he despises immediately. The first one … well, the first one always bites, doesn’t it? In the second one, his face is too fat. Chubby chipmunk cheeks and puckered lips? He looks like a frickin’ cherub! The third one … ugh! Where was he even looking? The fourth one - definite serial killer with that awkward, thin-lipped grin.

He can’t keep doing this. He has to pick one! He’s running out of time! Ten o’clock sharp the message had said! If he’s going to do this, he can’t afford to be even a minute late!

He decides that his next picture will be his absolute last. Whatever comes out of this shot, he can’t take another one. He holds his phone up at the pre-determined angle, holds his breath, plasters on his most sincere smile … and prays to God.

Just then, the unthinkable happens.

He fumbles his phone.

He’d been holding so hard to it and his smile that his fingers had begun to sweat. He loses traction, the traitorous thing sliding out of his grasp. The shutter clicks, the flash fires, and his phone makes a lyrical trill of affirmation.

Aziraphale’s stomach drops like a lead balloon straight to his feet.

That noise - that skipping of high-pitched notes that he chose at random because they reminded him of Rites of Spring - indicates that the picture sent without Aziraphale having a chance to double check it first.

“Oh … Hell!” he curses. He should have taken the damned thing at home! The glow from his reading lantern would have given his skin a soft, golden cast; made him look younger; mysterious; but he forgot that a picture would be required. In every photo he’s taken in this doorway, illuminated only by a chemical bulb above his head, he looks anemic, harsh shadows thrown by the overly bright flash elongating his nose, hollowing his cheeks, sinking his eyes into their sockets. But this one, snapped off while his phone was negotiating gravity, is likely to be the worst one yet! Instead of a solid face, he’ll look like a blur.

A middle-aged blur with absolutely no relationship prospects. Not even a cat.

Aziraphale scrolls frantically through his gallery to try and find the picture, see what disaster he’s unleashed, but he can’t locate it.

“Where are you, you little …?” he mumbles, heart thrumming so hard it’s beginning to make him nauseous. The picture isn’t in his saved file. Not on his SD card. It’s not in his sent messages. So where the frick is it!? Aziraphale has to see it, has to know what he’s done, has to know if he’s failed. Has to know if it’s worth waiting out here, or if he should turn tail and head for his bookshop. Somewhere in between bribing his phone and threatening to smash the screen to bits, the door pops open with a click.

Aziraphale’s blood runs cold, his head shooting up like a prairie dog’s on its guard.

The door.

The door is open.

He mustn’t have sent a horrifying photograph after all!

But it may not stay open for long so he’d better move his arse!

He pushes the door further and steps inside. It closes behind him the moment he’s through. He turns quickly to see who shut it since he didn’t notice a doorman when he entered.

But there’s no one.

He’s in the foyer of this large, imposing place completely alone.

As far as he can tell.

He has the distinct feeling he’s being watched.

Of course he’s being watched! he scolds himself. They probably have security cameras everywhere in a place like this! There’s nothing sinister about that! Why, he went to a thrift store not too long ago that had a security camera installed over every aisle, and the most notable item they had for sale was a velvet painting of Margaret Thatcher! Pull yourself together, Aziraphale, for Heaven’s sake!

Now that he’s inside, the place reminds him more of a bank than a spa: long stretches of empty hallway decorated in shows of old school wealth - leather chairs, ornate mirrors, glossy wood drawing tables, a long Persian runner leading him to his destination with chandeliers marking the path every ten feet or so. There’s been more money invested in this one hall than Aziraphale’s father could afford to put into their entire house, even with his lofty inheritance.

He can’t help thinking it would make the old man pea green with envy if he were alive to see it.

Little does Aziraphale know that there are two other hallways ahead of him just like this one.

Aziraphale walks through a total of three locked doors to get to what could be deemed ‘the main lobby’. He’s not escorted, but he does need to be buzzed through, the same melancholy voice asking him to repeat his name through an intercom at every checkpoint. Aziraphale marvels at the embassy-level security but he can’t help but wonder: is this a common practice at these places? No one mentioned anything about this.

What sort of trouble are they trying to prevent?

Aziraphale imagines most people might turn around at this point, go back the way they came and forget all about this place, but not him. As he approaches the final door there is no going back for him now. Not when he’s so close to what he wants.

He goes through the procedure one last time – name and then buzz. But this door is heavier, takes a bit more strength to push open. Black lighting overhead engulfs the room, creates a void that makes everything within indefinable. A few feet in, a wraparound counter fluoresces purple. Aziraphale sees only a single occupant in this room - a man sitting behind the counter who looks, from the outset, like a regular human being.

Of course, Aziraphale has never met a vampire before. He has no idea what one should look like.

He walks up to the counter, the door behind him swinging close and shutting with the same poignant click as the rest. But once this door seals, it takes the light with it, plunging Aziraphale momentarily into near complete black.

The man doesn’t look up at Aziraphale’s arrival. Aziraphale clears his throat to get his attention.

“E-excuse me?” he says nervously, his stomach flipping somersaults from his pelvis up to his neck. His voice sounds thin and disappointing to his own ears. Then again, he barely speaks to anyone from day to day. Maybe it sounds exactly the way it should.

The man sitting behind the counter – dark-skinned but with an ashy paler - blatantly ignores Aziraphale, who’d be standing practically on top of him if not for the counter between them. He flips exaggeratedly through the pages of his magazine (Aziraphale can’t tell which one in the unhelpful light), but doesn’t acknowledge him.

“Excuse me?” Aziraphale repeats, louder but still weak.

The man sniffs the air. He shifts only his eyes to address Aziraphale, looks him over, then returns to his magazine. “Wot do you want?”

“I … uh … I have an appointment. F-for a session.” Session. Is that the right word for it? No one Aziraphale talked to about this gave him the in on the lingo. “With a man by the name of Crowley.”

The disinterested man flips another page. “An appointment, huh?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes dart around, looking for anyone else who might be willing to help him. For as popular as this place sounded, it’s surprisingly deserted. Aziraphale can’t see a single other soul anywhere. Of course, aside from the glowing furniture, it’s so dark in there – a darkness his eyes refuse to get accustomed to – someone could be standing right beside him and he might not know it. “I’m … uh … sort of new at this.” His statement is met with a silence as thick as a brick wall. He chuckles, anxiety starting to get the better of him.

He feels vaguely like he might be in danger.

If he backed out now, walked out the door, would the man behind the counter even notice?

Then Aziraphale realizes fuck! He’d probably need to be buzzed out the same way he was buzzed in. And the man behind the counter might have to be the one to do it. He has the same dry, unenthusiastic tone in his voice as the one that greeted Aziraphale at every door.

The man glances Aziraphale’s way, then blows out a breath, obviously annoyed he’s still there. “I’ll tell him you’re here Mr. …”

“Fell. Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale Fell,” the man repeats but doesn’t reach for a phone or make a move to inform anyone that Aziraphale has arrived. He gives the air another disdainful sniff and scrunches his nose, raising his magazine to cover it. “Did you have sushi for lunch, Mr. Fell?”

“Uh …” Aziraphale clamps his lips together tight, self-conscious of what he must smell like to a creature with super-sensitive olfactory organs. He did have sushi, but that was days ago. There’s no way he could still smell like it, especially with the amount of Listermint he uses daily.

“Was it refrigerated properly? Or do you buy your food from the day-old section of your local market?”

Aziraphale’s hackles rise. He disregards the feeling that he’s in danger in defense of his favorite restaurant. “I really don’t think that Hot Stone would stoop to selling day-old sushi!”

“Did you even remember where you were going when you left your house today?” the man scolds without listening to him. “I mean, have some respect, for Satan’s sake!”

“That’s enough, Ligur.” A new voice, amused but stern, says from the shadows. “If you don’t stop badgering the customers, we won’t have any, and then how will you afford your flat? Hmm?”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir,” Ligur replies, barely bringing himself to care.

Inconceivably quick, their new guest goes from standing in the light to standing before Aziraphale. Ligur snickers at the move, like he’s seen it too many times before, but Aziraphale doesn’t pay him any mind. Ligur might not be impressed, but Aziraphale can’t. stop. staring.

Aziraphale has never seen such a man.

He’s never imagined a man like him could exist. He’s sure he could spend his entire life trying to think him up and still never come up with him. He captivates Aziraphale in a matter of seconds, mystifies him without lifting a finger. He’s tall, slim, and fair. He reminds Aziraphale of a prince from an old world fairy tale. In fact, Aziraphale knows just the book he’d find it in. He intends on searching for it the moment he returns to his shop (he thinks hopefully). The man’s eyes, even in the absence of light, are piercing, simmering in their depths with a light all their own.

The man doesn’t walk up to Aziraphale. He stalks. And the way he carries himself leads Aziraphale to believe he can take anything he wants with a snap of his fingers. At the moment, he’s stolen Aziraphale’s voice, his breath, practically every thought in his head.

Aziraphale’s entire focus becomes this man.

The man moves a step forward. Aziraphale takes a subconscious step back.

“I believe that you are my ten o’clock,” the man says.

Aziraphale nods, not sure if he’s expected to speak ... or if he’s allowed. “Are … are you … Mr. Crowley?”

“In the flesh. And you must be Aziraphale.” Crowley’s tongue curls around his words, the hint of an accent making an appearance. Several accents, actually. At his root, the man sounds English, but not born. But his accent is acquired, not practiced, bred from immersion. There are other touches here and there - a dash of Birmingham, a little cockney perhaps, an Irish brogue, peppered upon a foundation that sounds firmly Scottish. Lilts and rolls add flavor to Aziraphale’s name so that he feels he’s hearing it spoken out loud for the first time. Even lost in that dialect soup, Aziraphale doesn’t think it’ll ever sound more perfect than it does rolling off Crowley’s tongue. It tickles his eardrums, silently begs Crowley to say it again.

“I am,” Aziraphale says. “Aziraphale Fell. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It will be soon.” Crowley winks. “Follow me, Mr. Fell.” He smiles, teeth impeccably straight and disarmingly white. It could be a trick of the black lights, but those teeth … that smile … make him look predatory, and Aziraphale considers again if coming here was the smartest idea, especially since he did so impulsively, took no precautions. He was so distracted by his break-up, so wrapped up in shoulds and shouldn’ts, what people would think of him if they ever found out, that he didn’t tell anyone where he was going.

What if he simply disappears?

No one in his life would dream of looking for him here, and he left absolutely no clues to point them in this direction.

Regardless of the warning bells tolling in his head, new ones firing off with each pound of his heart, Aziraphale follows Crowley down several vacant hallways. The place was dark to begin with, but this section is nearly pitch black with the exception of a red light bulb here, a green light bulb there, their faint illuminations doing nothing more than throwing shadows on the walls – shadows deep enough to disappear in. Crowley walks swiftly. Aziraphale almost loses him twice, but he slows in a hall lined on both sides with doors. Aziraphale hears moans come from behind several of the doors and his heart speeds in his chest.

It slams to a stop when he hears a man scream – strained and blood curdling.

Aziraphale can’t tell if the man is screaming in pleasure or in pain.

Aziraphale points to the door. “Um … is he going to be alri---?”

“Right this way, Mr. Fell,” Crowley interrupts, opening the last door on the left. “This is my private office. No one will dare disturb us in here.” Aziraphale hesitates but decides to go inside, not because he feels any more comfortable with this than he did a moment ago, but because if he doesn’t, he might run the other way. Crowley waits patiently till Aziraphale steps in, then shuts, and locks, the door. “Now … what can I help you with today?”

Aziraphale paces the room, examining its violet walls with their black-and-white photographs mounted in minimalist glass frames. It isn’t much brighter in here than in the lobby, but it’s more inviting - the sort of space created specifically for people to spend time in together, get to know one another. A round, wooden table in the center of the room holds a pair of crystal flutes and a bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice. Candles cover every level surface - some thick white pillars, some long white tapers, in holders of brushed gold, and scent the air with the sweet fragrance of vanilla. Their dancing flames reflect off the glass, the constant flickering making the room appear to sway. It’s disorienting. It gets Aziraphale’s adrenaline pumping and his heart racing, which Aziraphale assumes is the desired effect.

He’d heard that a speeding human heart can be a powerful aphrodisiac for a vampire.

They apparently get off on it.

Against a far wall sits a plush, red sofa, and against another, a four-poster bed.

Aziraphale bypasses the bed (it isn’t his gut decision, just the safest seeming one) and heads for the sofa. “I … I have a problem. An addiction.”

“Go on.” Crowley strolls over to join him, each step he takes deliberate, noiseless, as if his feet don’t make contact with the ground at all, gliding on the air right above. Aziraphale watches Crowley settle onto the far end of the sofa, sitting catty-corner to keep his amber eyes on him. That predatory expression he wears moves from his smile to his eyes, which track Aziraphale’s movements with unnerving precision. “Well, I … I’m addicted to affection, a-and everything that comes with it - touching, holding, kissing, sex, from anyone who wants me, really. And I fall irrationally in love with the wrong people over and over because of it.”

“A-ha.” Crowley crosses his legs. He draws it out, diverting Aziraphale’s attention purposefully to them. “So tell me why you think I can help you.”

Aziraphale swallows hard, mesmerized by the way Crowley moves, the fluidity of limbs that would look spindly on a human but not on him. Not in the slightest. “Because even though I need companionship, nobody seems to need me. But from the things I hear, you gentlemen … do.”

“We’re not desperate, Mr. Fell,” Crowley groans, rolling his head back on his neck, his eyes following along.

“Oh, no! No, no, no! That’s not what I …!”

“We service a distinguished clientele. We have certain expectations.”

“I understand that.”

Crowley gives Aziraphale a thorough once over with eyes that burn through him, every move Aziraphale makes telling Crowley more than his words.

“What do you do for a living, Mr. Fell?” Something about the way Crowley repeatedly calls Aziraphale ‘Mr. Fell’ shoots right to his stomach and lower, twisting everything up inside him, making him feel compliant, confused ...

“I’m an antique book dealer,” Aziraphale replies.

Crowley chuckles. “Ah. So you hawk old, worn-out romance novels to elderly women wanting a tingle in their lady gardens?”

“Uh … no,” Aziraphale says with a chuckle himself because, he has to admit, he’s gotten one or two of those in his lifetime. “Mostly literature, first editions, rare texts, misprinted Bibles, that sort of thing.”

“And you make a living from that?”

“I do,” Aziraphale says, a tad uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Not that I need to. I live mainly off the interest of a generous inheritance. I get to do whatever I want mostly.”

“I see.” Crowley’s tone shifts, as if Aziraphale passed some sort of test. “And where do you currently live?” With a flick of Crowley’s eyes, Aziraphale’s hand crawls up his own shirt, reaching for his bowtie. He grabs a tail and pulls it, unties it, then goes after the top button. He toys with it, undoes it, feeling constricted, uncomfortable while it’s fastened.

“I live over my store front in Soho.”

Crowley slides an inch closer. “With a roommate or …?”

“A-alone.” Aziraphale moves on to the second button. “I live … I live alone.”

“Impressive. And your blood type is AB negative?”

“As far as I know.”

“Interesting.” Crowley moves another inch closer. “Alright. Let’s give you a shot.”

“A-and how do you do that … exactly?”

“Give me your arm so I can take a taste. Then I’ll know if we can use you.”

Crowley holds out his hand, long fingers with black painted nails motioning for Aziraphale’s, but Aziraphale doesn’t take it. He has a second of doubt, of Are you nuts!? that stays him. But it’s been so long since Aziraphale has felt truly wanted. And this man … or this creature … wants what he has to offer. Aziraphale can see it in his eyes. It’s cut and dry. No muss, no fuss, no emotions involved. Giving in should be easy. This is what he came for.

“If you’re nervous, I could always …” Crowley makes a gesture toward Aziraphale’s neck and smiles an alluring, toothy grin – charismatic, hard to resist. But Aziraphale might not be ready for what Crowley’s proposing. It seems a little too intimate.

“O-oh no.” Aziraphale rolls up his sleeve. “It’s not that. I was just … uh … thinking.”

“Oh.” That single syllable sounds tragically disappointed. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, of course. But just so you know, it’s always an option.”

Aziraphale gets a sudden image in his head of Crowley lying on top of him, licking down his neck, his fingers undoing the rest of his buttons and reaching beneath his shirt, nails scratching lightly down his skin. He envisions Crowley removing his clothes one piece at a time, marking his flesh with kisses, with bites, taking small sips as he paves a trail to his trousers. Sharp fangs slice through the threads that keep the button sewn on and he pulls down the zip with his teeth. There’s a mouth on Aziraphale’s cock, sucking, hands massaging his chest, the gentle brush of silky hair against his thighs, the occasional sting of a cut opening, a tongue collecting, and Aziraphale writhing with the sweet agony of it. He doesn’t picture himself cumming quickly, but sees himself sliding along the beveled edge, getting to that point, hanging from the crest of it, just to be sent back to the beginning, to start the process over again.

It feels planted, a suggestion. Aziraphale isn’t sure how. He’s not savvy to the abilities of vampires beside the blood sucking thing. It’s not real. Aziraphale knows he’s still dressed, can feel the fabric of his shirt sleeve balled in his fist, but he starts to sweat at the thought of it. His cock aches because of it. That’s what he wants – the give and the take.

It changes his mind, stops him rolling up his sleeve.

“You know,” Aziraphale says, gaze fixed to Crowley’s seductive eyes, “that does sound like it could be … nice.”

Crowley grins. It’s almost too easy. “Oh, it will be,” he purrs. “I promise.”

Aziraphale scoots closer until they’re sitting beside one another, knees touching. Crowley wastes no time kissing Aziraphale’s neck, cool lips pressing against hot, sensitive skin. Aziraphale moans. God, it’s been so long. And whatever Crowley is doing with his tongue, circling the same spot, nibbling with just enough pressure to make it tingle, feels so intense, it overshadows the hand on Aziraphale’s thigh, creeping up steadily to his crotch, squeezing along the way as the excitement of kissing builds.

As Aziraphale’s heart beats faster and faster, until individual thumps are no longer distinguishable from the whole.

Crowley wraps an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, fangs lengthening as he searches for a place to sink in and drink. He finds the perfect spot and bites. Aziraphale’s eyes go wide.

“Oh … God.” He becomes rigid as the sensation of smooth and sharp assails his skin, but he succumbs to the sublime numbness and melts into Crowley’s arms. “Oh … oh God …”

Crowley retracts his fangs, licking them clean. “This isn’t really the place to be praying,” he says, inhaling Aziraphale’s scent – fresh, rich, healthy, untainted blood. The blood all vampires crave - not from unconscious drunks in the alley behind a night club or filled with preservatives like the bagged gunge they have the option to buy down at NHS Blood and Transport. But whole, pure, and willingly given.

Oh, yes – Aziraphale is an exquisite delight. A rare treat. He’ll make Crowley rich … if he can bear to share him.

Crowley might just decide to keep Aziraphale to himself.

It’s not just Aziraphale’s blood that tempts him. There’s something else, something sizzling beneath his skin that Crowley suspects Aziraphale doesn’t even know about himself. But it sends sparks through Crowley’s skin with every touch, a white light that nearly burns too hot to hold but fuck it all! The second Crowley moves his hand away and it’s gone, it makes Crowley want him more.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Aziraphale mumbles, following Crowley’s mouth, whining like a kicked puppy when it seems he won’t be returning to the task of biting his neck. But it’s not that. Crowley has every intention of taking his time with Aziraphale. Savoring him. He wants to hear Aziraphale beg for it, beg for Crowley’s teeth buried deep into his neck, beg for the euphoria that comes with being fed upon.

“Do you like that, angel?” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale’s skin. He punctuates his question with a nip around Aziraphale’s jugular, carefully so as not to prick it.

“Yes,” Aziraphale whimpers, his shaking hand grabbing Crowley’s knee and squeezing. “Yes, please.”

Crowley hums, lips pressed to Aziraphale’s neck so the vibrations travel down his skin. He licks over the pinprick marks, exploring with his tongue for a spot to take another bite. “You know, I think we might be able to help each other out.”

“You … you do?” Aziraphale rises from the sofa in a trance, following Crowley when he moves their soiree to the bed, preparing to make Aziraphale his own private nightcap.

“Oh yes.” Crowley lays Aziraphale out on the mattress and crawls over him, like in the vision. His fingertips creep up Aziraphale’s neck, up his cheeks, the pads coming to rest against his temples. A blue spark, an arc of static electricity, and Aziraphale’s brain fills with images that cloud his vision over so that Crowley’s eyes disappear, replaced by what promises to be a long night in this room, and all the methods of pleasure Crowley plans on using to distract him while he feeds. Skin against skin, Crowley’s hands covering his as Crowley enters him, his body possessing his. Aziraphale can already feel how hard Crowley would claim him, how sore he would be after, and Aziraphale wants it. Wants it more than life itself.

And he’s willing to pay with every drop to have it.

The vision rolls on. With every fantasized thrust of Crowley’s hips, it monopolizes all five of Aziraphale’s senses - his own moans in his ears with Crowley’s voice dripping honey underneath, the pungent smell of sweat and sex around them, the coppery taste of Crowley’s mouth, the slide of a flesh against his so smooth it feels like marble, and Crowley’s eyes - those snake-like eyes with pupils razor blade thin - watching unblinkingly as Aziraphale comes apart beneath him.

Trapped beneath Crowley’s body on the bed with Crowley’s fingertips rubbing circles against his skin, Aziraphale watches this fantasy in awe - open-mouthed and without an inch of fear. He shudders when he sees himself coming, the memory of similar sensations igniting every nerve in his body, turning fantasy into reality. Crowley absorbs every tremor, the way Aziraphale thrums beneath him, his hips bucking up in search of friction. Crowley smiles, reaches between them to start unbuttoning his own uncomfortable trousers.

And let the feasting begin.

“Oh yes,” he whispers, nose nuzzling against Aziraphale’s neck, following the pounding rhythm of his heart for a place to tuck in. “I could become very addicted to you, Aziraphale Fell. Very addicted.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #aziraphale #crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley

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purplebass · 4 years ago

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Tweety! Is it just me (probably just me) or does that lyric prompt 12 (would a kiss be too much to ask?) give Blackdale vibes? Can you pls write one fic for it?

Hi Kjsheerja! It took me a few weeks, but here I am. 👀 I hope you like it 💜

Couple/Characters: Blackdale, Jesse Blackthorn and Lucie Herondale Rating: T Notes: First Date College AU Title: The Starting Line

Lucie clutched her phone to her chest and grinned. She said yes. And she couldn’t be happier. Her smile turned into a frown when she realized what she had done. She had accepted. She had agreed on going on a date with him.

“What did you do, Lucie?” she asked herself, then sighed. Not that she didn’t want to go on a date with this guy. But it was him. Jesse Blackthorn. He wasn’t famous for being the quarterback of the football team nor because he played another sport. Jesse’s fame had followed him to campus because he was a gifted student. And not only that. At 20, he had already published a book that was getting good reviews.

Lucie had seen him on her first day, during her advanced creative writing class. As a writer herself, she was trying to get in all of the classes related to her favorite thing to do. She would have never expected to find THE Jesse there, sitting in the first row in front of the podium. It was probably a coincidence, or maybe not. After all, he was a writer too, she reminded herself.

Their eyes met, and she realized that he noticed her because he was alone in the classroom, and she was the second person to get there. Lucie’s heart quickened its pace when his forest green eyes lingered on her. She thought she probably looked like a deer caught in the headlights. The boy was obviously attractive, but what made Lucie stare was that she was going to attend this class with a promising young writer. Lucie sort of admired that he had made it.

“Are you also attending this course?” she asked him, then shook her head. “Sorry, stupid question. You’re here, of course you’re attending.”

“No question is ever stupid,” he replied candidly with a genuine smile. “By the way, yes. I figured that the seats would be taken if I came in a few minutes before it started... You too?”

“Yes,” she nodded, strangling her books in her hands. It wasn’t true, but she didn’t care. She would pretend she also decided to turn up one hour before class started for the same reason. He would never know that she was there early because she hadn’t slept at all and she feared she would be late to her first class of the semester.

She sat on a chair near him, but not too close. He followed her with his eyes, and Lucie felt her cheeks warm because she was the center of his attention. But then again, she was the only other person in that room. She looked away, trying not to stare, and put her bag on the floor. It would be long before the class would start, but she didn’t want to do anything to pass the time. In the end she decided to take her notebook out, and started scribbling something.

“Do you also write?” she heard him ask after a few minutes.

Lucie hoped that she didn’t look too startled and glanced at him, forgetting her female protagonist for a moment. “What?”

“Maybe you’re writing something else, sorry,” he quickly brushed the question off as if he had never asked it in the first place.

“I’m writing my first novel,” she murmured. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to hear her. But she would be lying if she said she didn’t want to talk to Jesse about writing. They were in a writing class too.

“What is it about?”

Lucie frowned. “Wait, are you really interested?”

“If you don’t want to share, that’s okay too,” he answered, a smile ever present on his face.

The only people who were interested in her writing were her father and her best friend. She lighted up at Jesse’s concern. “It starts with this girl…” Lucie started, and almost told him the entire plot if her professor hadn’t come at some point.

From then on, every time Lucie had that class, she sat next to Jesse. Well, it was him who sat next to her. After that first encounter, Lucie imposed herself to arrive even earlier than him to class so that they could talk about writing. He gave her advice and heard about her plans for her story, but they also talked about other things. Lucie didn’t understand how it happened, but her interest and admiration for Jesse Blackthorn had turned into a full fleshed crush. Heck, maybe even more. But she never thought that he would ask her out, because despite his warm smile, she thought that he was just being kind to her.

On the day of their date, she had been the first to arrive as well. She looked at her phone to check how early she was. Half an hour. Jesse told her to meet in front of the Starbucks just outside of campus. She had no idea where they would go, and she opted for a casual style. A pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt with a literary quote on it.

“Do you also like Forster?”

Lucie’s heart jumped. Her phone was about to take a tumble too, but she gripped her hold on it before it would. “Did you recognize the quote?”

“I also happen to like this book,” he said, his eyes warm and clear. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows,” he read out loud. “Do you agree?”

“That it doesn’t matter what you do, what you did will always follow you?”

“Do you think this is what it means?”

“Don’t you?”

“Most literature is up to interpretation, Lucie. So you decide what it means to you,” he explained. “Are you ready?”

She wanted to ask, for what?, but she only said, “yes.”

Jesse took her to visit the oldest library in town. “Because you told me you hadn’t seen it yet, and I thought you would like it,” he said.

Lucie told him that it didn’t matter when they went, she liked everything. But she was happy that of all the stereotypical places where he could take her - like Starbucks itself or a pub, he had decided to go there.

She had been fascinated by the books, and decided that she would borrow some in the future so that she would have the chance to go back there. Like all good things, at some point it was time to go back. Jesse accompanied her to her dorm a couple of hours later, insisting that it was late for her to walk alone.It was already late evening, but she hadn’t felt her time pass because she enjoyed herself. Her best friend and roommate Cordelia would be waiting for her, but she would understand.

“So,” Lucie started, not knowing what to say. “I had a lot of fun today,” she ended up saying.

“We have a lot of things in common, Lucie,” he told her, and she thought he was going to say that despite liking the same things, they couldn’t be more than friends.

“Yes,” she cut his reply off. “Sorry,” she laughed hysterically. Way to go, Lucie.

“No, don’t be sorry,” he giggled as well. “Say that you will go out with me again instead.”

“What? You want us to go on another date?” she asked incredulously.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to, but… if I were to be honest, I like you. I would love to know you better, Lucie Herondale,” he told her.

“I would love to know you better too, Jesse Blackthorn,” she nodded.

He took time to reply. “Would a kiss be too much too ask?”

Lucie’s eyes widened for a moment, but she didn’t answer with words. She stood on her tiptoes to reach his face, and kissed him first. Jesse hugged her so she wouldn’t fall, and their lips danced together sweetly, tentatively. The perfect conclusion to a nice date.

“The height might be a problem,” Lucie commented when they broke their connection.

“But I like this problem,” he said, then he lowered himself to kiss her again.

#tsc #blackdale #lucie herondale #jesse blackthorn #lucie and jesse #tlh #the shadohunter chronicles #chain of gold #chain of iron #chain of thorns #tweety.writes #lynchsmatthew #posta

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