#clear-sightedly

[sigmaleph]

yesterday i watched When Evil Lurks, which is a recent argentinian horror film i found out about for reasons entirely unrelated to being argentinian (this rotten tomatoes article ranks it as the best horror film of 2023)

it's at first glance a simple plot, demonic possession in tiny rural town, guy tries to save his family from it, but with an interesting-to-me twist on that, which is that

demonic possession is a recognised phenomenon. The government has standard protocols to deal with it; having actually encountered an instance of demonic possession is rare, but basic things about what to do and not do are common knowledge.

when the main character tells people about the demon, the answer isn't "demons aren't real", it's "how would you, a random hick, recognise a possessed person if you saw one" or "nah, demons are a big city thing, we live in the ass-end of nowhere, there can't be one here".

which leads to a theme of the film; the horror isn't coming from an outside-context event nobody was prepared for, but rather people who should know better acting short-sightedly and failing to deal with a problem they totally could have.

a woman reports her son has been possessed. everyone knows this means a demon is trying to be born into the world, and if they don't kill it (carefully, properly, using specialised equipment and trained professionals) there will be dire consequences (not fully specified, but lots of people die merely in the process of the demon being born). The 'cleaner' (professional demon-killer) doesn't get there for a year. it's not clear why; one wealthy landowner speculates the whole thing was meant to screw with him, and I don't think he's right but clearly something comparably fucked up is going on, even if it's impersonal institutional failure rather than politicking. and because they took too long, the demon has grown in power, its influence has spread, and it mind controls someone into ambushing and killing the cleaner as the starting event of the plot.

the main characters get dragged into a plan where, well, the government isn't dealing with it, so let's just carry the possessed person a few hundred kilometres away (he cannot move under his own power) and make it someone else's problem. everyone has the background to know this is predictably a terrible idea that makes everything worse.

one of the standard things-everyone-knows about demons is you should not use guns against them. nevertheless people keep pointing guns at the various manifestations of demonic activity, while people are yelling at them not to.

in i think fitting accordance to this theme, the protagonists fail. the demon is born, with unclear implications for the general area though certainly bad ones. they failed because they are human and selfish and short-sighted, and also because the entire institutional structure that should be doing better than that let the problem fester.

there's a clear element of contagion to how demonic influence spreads; if you're in contact with the possessed at all, you're supposed to abandon everything you own and burn your clothes (this being part of the reason why it's a terrible idea to move the possessed). if one were to subscribe to the school of thought where every horror monster is a metaphor for a societal problem, this obviously suggests the covid pandemic as The Social Issue We Are Exploring Today

...but I don't, and I think that's a limited reading. i think it's about something broader than that, about individual human weaknesses and how they lead to collective failures. or at least that's what I get out of it.

[bonefall]

Adding my own two cents onto the bipolar conversation. My dad was misdiagnosed with bipolar II when he's actually audhd. My partner is audhd and has bipolar I. I can tell you that audhd with/without bipolar looks really really different.

Manic episodes are horrible. And I'm focusing on mania specifically because I find that most people can understand depression, but mania is harder for people to conceptualize. The consequences of short sightedly made manic decisions can be life altering, life ruining even. In a manic episode, someone will feel invincible and euphoric, or alternatively, agitated and rageful, and will often make choices they wouldn't otherwise have made. My partner has described it as feeling like everything is going too fast and she can't keep up.

Tldr bipolar sucks and the severity of what the manic part of it does to a person is often really undersold. There's a really good chance you just got your audhd clocked wrong.

Thanks for sharing, yeah that definitely doesn't describe me. I have never had anything I could consider an "episode," especially not anything like that.

I'm guessing it was just a misclock that will clear up with time, but it is good to hear that this isn't uncommon. I'm almost positive it's just audhd.

Of course I'll bring it back up with the professional first lmao but thanks!

[stvlti]

the last of the (false) prophets | a Dune fanmix

I've made the general Dune Part II mixtape and I've made the ironic FeydPaul mixtape, it's time for a Paul-centric playlist. This one is also made in the context of Part II because that film has bewitched me mind, body and soul 😔

► TRACKS

01. Eat the Acid - Kesha /// 02. Brutus - Emma Blackery /// 03. THE REV3NGE - Joey Bada$$ /// 04. Burning - Yeah Yeah Yeahs /// 05. Found Heaven - Conan Gray /// 06. Only in My Dreams - The Marías /// 07. Jesus Lived In A Motel Room - HYUKOH /// 08. Shine On You Crazy Diamond (Parts I–V) - Pink Floyd /// 09. Writer In The Dark - Lorde /// to be continued...

► META

I think the song choices are pretty self explanatory, so I'm not gonna write a big long song-by-song breakdown this time. I do have some notes on the choice of cover artwork and the pov of this playlist though.

If it isn't apparent by now, Paul isn't my fave character in Dune canon – Feyd-Rautha is. So why am I making a playlist dedicated to a character I don't even love?

In my years of consuming and creating art for my fandoms, I don't think I've ever come across a morally grey character that's half as complex and intriguing as Paul. Sure, I'm familiar with corruption arcs and self-styled messianic figures (Light Yagami from Death Note comes to mind). I've written for and continue to love characters who underwent cataclysmic deaths and resurrections, and came back wrong (see: Jason Todd from DC/Batman). And sure, Paul's character arc can similarly be boiled down to these familiar story beats of resurrection and corruption, but he's no angel at the start of his journey. He's aware of the trajectory of his story in ways these other characters aren't by virtue of being a seer of prescient visions. To walk clear-sightedly into his own ruination is such a fascinating thing to me.

The other major difference between the playlist cover and the Fool's tarot card design is how much smaller Paul's figure is in the composition of the whole image. The desert background easily dwarves his figure, which is something I've always loved about the IMAX poster. Despite all his visions of futures where he ascends to the mantle of a messianic leader, he is still just, at this moment in the canon timeline, a child. Small, and all alone in his journey. Not even his mother Lady Jessica would come to understand the weight of the transformation he will undergo.

Those familiar with the Major Arcana suit of the tarot cards will know the significance of The Fool: he is at the start of his journey, appearing to walk leftwards off a cliff with an optimistic smile because he's as yet unburdened by higher knowledge of lurking dangers. Like The Fool, I have Paul facing leftwards on this cover (flipped horizontally from the original Dune 2021 IMAX poster), because he too is embarking on a transformative journey when he enters the Arrakis deserts. The difference is, of course, that he becomes aware of his terrible destiny as a messianic figurehead for a holy war as soon as he sets off for this journey. And so it isn't with carefree optimism but the knowledge of his ruin hanging heavily on his shoulders that he takes his first steps into the desert.

Many of the songs on this playlist were ones that didn't make the cut for my general Dune playlist. But as I went along I realised it's grown into a love letter for Paul's character from the perspective of a sympathetic reader. "Found Heaven" and "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" only make sense as monologues addressed to Paul.

Your heart is breaking as you leave that door

You never meant to start this holy war

But you're trapped, pack your bags

Don't look back

Don't be scared, little child

You're no demon

Rewatching Dune Part I really brought it home for me just how much of a child Paul still is when he enters the Fremen's deserts. He is frightened out of his mind by the knowledge that he will come to be the figurehead for whom millions will wage a holy war to the devastation of entire planets and deaths of billions, and it's a burden for him to bear alone. Did anyone ever stop to tell him not to fear?

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun ...

Now there's a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky ...

You were caught on the crossfire of childhood and stardom,

Blown on the steel breeze ...

Come on you raver, you seer of visions,

Come on you painter, you piper, you prisoner, and shine!

If I'm not mistaken, "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" was written for Pink Floyd's own Syd Barrett, a genius lyricist whose declining mental health forced him to quit the scene too soon. Obvious parallels to Paul's madness aside, I like the metaphor this adds to Paul as not only a prophet but a painter / artist – which he is to an extent. He is an architect shaping the world into a future only he sees. The tragedy is of course that visionary artists often go where their lovers can't follow.

Now she's gonna play and sing and lock you in her heart

Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark

I am my mother's child, I'll love you 'til my breathing stops

I'll love you 'til you call the cops on me

But in our darkest hours, I stumbled on a secret power

I'll find a way to be without you, babe

[velvetcloxds]

PATHETIC | J.H.

pairing: dilf!jim hopper x fem!reader

word count: 2k

warning: age gap (reader is 21), parental emotional abuse, narcissistic father, so much talk about emotional abuse, emotional trauma, angst

summary: you were a hollow figure willed by the strings of his abuse to dance to his horrid song but in jim you found solace, found home, and how desperately you wished you could stay

You were glued to the sidewalk, eyes dazed yet focused on every move, every sudden gesture as you looked through the open curtain of your kitchen- the sight was familiar, the sense of bitter anger flooding your body just the same- but something felt different. Watching him go off on her, watching her flinch at the very gestures and movements you were so desperately monitoring, it was like a scene so unfathomably committed to memory but it was worse than ever, it stung more than you thought possible, it suffocated you to the point of wishing the air would just leave you all together- because you didn’t see it coming, you let your guard down, allowed yourself to trust him despite every nerve in your body begging you not to and it led you right where it always did, that bloody sidewalk.

You cleared your throat, shoving your keys back into the pocket of the jacket you’d very short-sightedly stolen before sneaking out of Jim’s place and with once last glance you turned to walk away. The walk to the station was longer than you remembered it to be, each step leaving you with about a hundred more until you stumbled through the doors, smiling softly at Florence as you walked past her to his office, you didn’t have to wait, no one would ask you to, but Jim wouldn’t allow it either. He was on the phone when you slipped into his office, taking a moment while closing the door to rid yourself of any lasting emotion from what you’d seen, from what you were going to tell him, but even still, you knew it would make no difference- he could read you like a book, he knew which pages you tended to turn back to.

“Didn’t expect to see you tonight,” he hummed, words met with a soft rustle as he placed the phone back onto the table, trying to tidy up the desk a little, something he’d have done before you came if he knew. His face fell once you turned around to see him, one hand still on the handle as you leaned back against the door. “Oh, baby,” he sighed, seeing you wearing what you’d warn last night, a tiredness he hadn’t seen in months consuming your features, your body, like a poison filtering through your blood, killing you slowly right before his eyes. “Want me to send someone?” he asked, standing up even before a reply to come towards you, still giving you a moment to give him the word. It was a small nod that set him off, one arm gently guiding you from the door, not daring to let you go, let his touch wander from your body as he held onto your waist, thumb moving instinctively

“It’s bad, Jim,” you nearly whispered, a soft command to have them hurry, have them stop him. You didn’t think he noticed the soft cooing sound he offered in reply, hand slipping into yours when you shifted your body to the wall, watching him call for someone, hearing them agree to his stern yet respectful demands.

You didn't register much more, slipping into thought to begin looking for the pieces, for the signs. Foolish, you thought, naïve- how'd you miss them? You always missed them. Jim's fingers were grounding you, fighting to keep you here but it was senseless- so were the officers going to your house, he'd be gone by the time they got there, the real him, the monster. He had a moment, he'd say, she just made him so angry, he was tired, he works the hardest, you know, doesn't get to feel things. Feel what? What feelings could he have other than hate? Hate for her, for you, for everyone but himself it seemed because he was never the monster in his eyes, everyone else was.

Were you wrong? Bitter perhaps. The truly mad one, making it up, conjuring lies. Emotional abuse they call it- madness, would you. What a coward, all that power over the lot of you and he couldn’t even land a punch. Bad thought. Horrible. Absolutely shameful, to want for such a morbid fate. Don't think it again. Don't. It’s not something you ought to think about ever, ponder, not something you should ever allow yourself to feel but what if you did? Would it be so terrible to admit that at least it would be real then? And there it was, you let it simmer too long, it was starting to sound logical because you can't doubt the existence of a bruise, at least the pain would have cause, grounds, it would be over and done with- he hit you, fair enough. He shouted? Got upset? Played with your mind? Destroyed you? Took every thought and idea and word that left your mouth and convinced you that you were losing your senses, mad with hatred despite everything he’s done? Words, just words, nothing but consonants and vowels and bullshit spewed into poetic manipulation. Pathetic.

What a carousel to be stuck on. Turning. Always turning, so they say you can't get off but for heaven’s sake when did you get on? Six years old staring blankly at the wooden door at the end of the hall, lights are off but you're sitting across the blue bathroom holding onto something- a stuffed animal perhaps. No, there wasn't enough money for those, the dog maybe? Yes, the dog- he doesn't like them shouting either. Not them, just him, always just him. It was always turning, she got on, brought you with, and now you're stuck too. But she had a chance, so many, at any point she could get off, but she stayed- familiar with the pain, calls it by name, looks it in the face- she stays and so do you because how could you leave her in the cycle that she brought you into? Her choice took away yours. So, it’s always been turning, naïve as you were you forgot the bad days, looking forward to the good days because he loved you then- couldn’t hurt you then. It was an act then too, now it seems so clear, so obvious, he couldn’t truly fathom the concept of love not even for his daughter, not even as a child- silly girl, stupid little thing hoping for something he couldn’t offer you. Pathetic.

There's good in there, she'd say, remember the good. You tried, more than you should've, you tried but the good months became scarcer, bad months became scarier. You couldn't trust him, couldn't find good in the pain, the disappointment- he'd destroy you and pick a piece from the wreckage to save for later, so you marked off the crime scene- no one in, no one out. It was your pain and you'd drown in it, but he couldn't make it more if you didn't let him but what a fool you were- every now and then his case would become stronger, act become better and you thought you were immune, thought the virus couldn't sicken you but you'd always end up right there, at the pavement, in the hallway across the blue bathroom, in this office. You let him make it more. Pathetic.

How could words, critical thoughts run through and analyzed, how could any of it ever begin to explain how much it hurt without hurting at all? You wanted a father, someone to love you, protect you, and no matter how much the reality presented itself something in you kept holding on. Maybe the other shoe wouldn’t drop, maybe the act would stick, maybe he really was learning to love you, care for you because no matter how much you knew it wasn’t real it damn sure felt real. He felt real. But he wasn’t, never was, doesn’t matter how old you got or how much you worked through what they labeled as trauma, he was still the monster, and he would always be the monster. You just wished your heart would stop letting you believe otherwise. Because it would always be one step forward and three steps back, you’d always be treading on eggshells, on edge, waiting for him to snap and it was unfathomable, how you could try so hard to be everything he demanded of you and still it would never, not even slightly, not even a close, be enough for him to change. The carousel never stops turning, you can’t get off, but you can hold on a little tighter, fight a little harder, you’d always suffer but you’d survive a little longer. Pathetic.

"Sweetheart," home, for all it stemmed from that voice was home, more than that house could ever be. "Come back to me," Jim begged, you complied, pushing the pain back into its hole but your body still ached.

"Sorry," you spoke too soon, habit more than feeling, you didn't want to upset him too, you'd let her out too long- the real you, the wounded you, broken girl too weak to be okay, too strong to let it kill her no matter how much easier it would be, instead you always ran. But the arms you ran to were so warm, so safe, so suffocating that it almost willed your body to let go of the hurt you've allowed your veins to feed life to. Almost, never truly because you feared it would always be apart of you, hidden in the crevasses of your mind, shadowed in your actions, your movements, you were a hollow figure willed by the strings of his abuse to dance to his horrid song until his grave welcomed him home.

"Shh," it was gentle, the little coo, the soft objection, he didn't want you to apologize for something you couldn't control. You leaned into him, his arm first, quick kiss to his bicep, one more to his shoulder and then you breathed him in. Oh, heaven. Home.

"Jim," you breathed, you couldn't love him more if you tried, couldn't need him more even if you didn't want to. Another coo, deeper, like breathing, and then he kissed the top of your head. He was reeling you in and you melted, trying to be consumed by him as he moved you into his embrace, hands enclosing around your head, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"You here?" he double-checked, needed you to know it was real, you weren't overreacting, mind wasn't playing tricks on you- he was real, the monster and so was your saviour, your Jim. "Baby?" you nodded, swallowed too loudly, gripped his wrists too tightly- just had to be sure.

"I'm here," you whispered, brittle sound if you'd ever heard it, one to be embarrassed of but you couldn't bother, you breathed him in again, intoxicated, so easily you let his love rob you of your fear, at least for a delicate, fleeting moment. Fingers snuck underneath his arms, took hold of his shoulders, strong, so strong for you even if it was breaking him to watch you like this, burdened by your pain as if he didn't have enough of his own. In and out, body against yours and you feel him completely, this couldn't be a figment of your imagination, not even the greatest of minds could create such a man. He was real, your mind was broken, ruined, weighted heavily with lies and scripts and shadowed memories but Jim Hopper was real, and he was good, and he allowed you to take him down with you into the darkness where you dwelled. "I'm here," you repeated, and he sighed contently, kiss on your nose, fingers brushing hair away, he wanted to see you, you let him.

"Stay," he demanded lightly, he could see your eyes begging you to slip back, slip away to all you'd tried so hard to leave behind.

"I'll try," you promised- lied. Pathetic.

[byneddiedingo]

Cate Blanchett and Rooney Mara in Carol (Todd Haynes, 2015)

Cast: Cate Blanchett, Rooney Mara, Kyle Chandler, Sarah Paulson, Jake Lacy, John Magaro, Cory Michael Smith, Kevin Crowley, Nik Pajic. Screenplay: Phyllis Nagy, based on a novel by Patricia Highsmith. Cinematography: Edward Lachman. Production design: Judy Becker. Film editing: Affonso Gonçalves. Music: Carter Burwell.

With her Mamie Eisenhower bangs and heart-shaped face, Rooney Mara in Carol becomes the reincarnation of such '50s icons as Audrey Hepburn, Jean Simmons, and Maggie McNamara -- particularly the McNamara of The Moon Is Blue (Otto Preminger, 1953), that once-scandalous play and movie about a young woman who defies convention by talking openly about sex while retaining her virginity. It's just coincidence that Carol is set at the end of 1952 and into 1953, the year of the release of The Moon Is Blue, but the juxtaposition of McNamara's Patty O'Neill and Mara's Therese Belivet seems to me appropriate because the 1950s have become such a touchstone for examining our attitudes toward sex. Director Todd Haynes and screenwriter Phyllis Nagy, adapting a novel by Patricia Highsmith, have done an exemplary job in Carol of not tilting the emphasis toward Grease-style caricature or Mad Men-style satire of the era, or exploiting the same-sex relationship in the film for sensationalism or statement-making. Carol is a story about people in relationships, clear-sightedly viewed in a way that Therese herself would endorse. After asking her boyfriend Richard (Jake Lacy) if he's ever been in love with a boy and receiving a shocked reply that he's only "heard of people like that," Therese replies, "I don't mean people like that. I just mean two people who fall in love with each other." It's this matter-of-factness that the film tries to maintain throughout its story of Therese and Carol (Cate Blanchett), the well-to-do wife in a failing marriage. That the film is set in the 1950s, when cracks were showing in the conventional attitudes toward both marriage and homosexuality, gives piquancy to their relationship, but it doesn't limit it. The story could be (and probably is) playing itself out today in various combinations of sexual identity. The film works in large part because of the steadiness of Haynes at the helm, with two extraordinary actresses at the center and beautiful support from Sarah Paulson as Abby, Carol's ex-lover, and Kyle Chandler (one of those largely unsung actors like the late Bill Paxton who make almost everything they appear in better) as Carol's husband, the hard-edged Harge Aird. The sonic texture of the 1950s is splendidly provided by Carter Burwell's score and a selection of classic popular music by artists like Woody Herman, Georgia Gibbs, Les Paul and Mary Ford, Perry Como, Eddie Fisher, Patti Page, Jo Stafford, and Billie Holiday.

[kikenhanna17world]

“If the urge to write should ever leave me, I want that day to be my last.”

- Nobel Prize laureate Naguib Mahfouz.

Mahfouz began writing when he was seventeen and was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature when he was 76. For much of his life he worked as a civil servant, and wrote when he returned home from work in the evenings. Mahfouz often used his hometown of Cairo as the backdrop for his stories. His prize motivation stated that he "through works rich in nuance - now clear-sightedly realistic, now evocatively ambiguous - has formed an Arabian narrative art that applies to all mankind."

[loving-n0t-heyting]

The rationalist reappropriation of “akrasia” is interesting bc if you asked most philosophers likely to write papers with it in the title for putative examples they would give like, clear-sightedly murdering your young nephew against your conscience to inherit his portion of the will but if you asked the median rat for one they would tell you like, spending all day browsing tvtropes and forgetting to shower

[angryoverhere]

On Mixed Emotions

I’ve seen a few tweets and posts about the difference between the mentality of those on the losing sides is that liberals in 2016 were fearful of what would happen to others, while 2020 conservatives are afraid and angry about no longer being able to victimize others. I think that this is an accurate description but incomplete. As someone currently celebrating, even as I recognize the long and hard road ahead, I have two strong emotions running through me now.

First, fuck those people, the ones who let themselves be ruled by fear and who believe that doing better is less important than doing better than other people by causing poverty and pain. Fuck their lack of empathy. Fuck their cruelty. Fuck their fear. Fuck their indifference. Fuck their racism, their sexism, their homophobia. Fuck all the ways they want to separate us into us and them, and use that division to hurt.

But also, I sincerely want to better the systemic issues that contributed to their anger and their fear and their small mindedness. I want them to have job security, health insurance, education, and a world that’s not falling apart from climate change, just the same as I want these things for everyone who has been denied these fundamental opportunities. 

To be clear, this is not an All Lives Matter stance. Black Lives Matter, and we need to address the biggest and longest running issues where they are first and most strongly. This also isn’t forgiveness, as I believe that working toward a better future requires legal justice for the malicious, illegal actions of the past four years. This is also not a call to give more to those who already hoarded have too much.

Instead, this is an awareness that people aren’t born horrible. They learn these beliefs from what surrounds them, and that the hate of many grows in the soil of unmet needs. Creating a better world means it needs to be better for everyone. Even as my anger burns bright, I remember that the injustices they’ve promoted short-sightedly contribute to their thrashes of wounded pain. COVID is rampant across the country, having moved from disproportionately impacting minorities to also including big square states who thought themselves immune. Climate change affects everyone who can’t afford their own island. The focus on individualism in the US means that people find themselves alone and afraid, even as they attempt to mask these emotions in a toxic cocktail of hate.

So, as we look to the work ahead, I continue to think about how we can make this not an opportunity to victimize those whose beliefs may offer me a justification to do it, but how our work can improve our society and remove the pain that supports this hate in the first place.

[diarrheaworldstarhiphop]

Another insincere defense: Americans should not die in a fight between foreign peoples. Of course not! But the Kurds—by far the region’s most formidable fighters—don’t need us to die for them. In fact, they died for us in the fight against ISIS. If we were to give them good weapons, they could take care of themselves. Why not do that?

One of the more thoughtful arguments against this, however, so touches the heart of the matter as to be self-indicting: Yes, the Kurds are our friends. But they are not our allies. Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s Turkey is an enemy. But Turkey is an ally, part of NATO, and hosts an important U.S. air base.

The truth of that, however, raises the substantive question: how do the benefits we get from this or any alliance stack up against the costs of forbearing an ally who works against our interest?

The question applies not just to our alliance with Turkey today but, more importantly, to NATO as a whole. The closer we look at NATO, the more difficult it is to judge that it has ever been of net value to America. That, in turn, leads us to a deeper appreciation of how American statesmen from George Washington to Theodore Roosevelt—the men on Mount Rushmore—regarded alliances.

It is difficult to overstate the extent to which NATO allies, principally British Labor Prime Minister Ernest Bevin, contributed to U.S. Secretary of State Dean Acheson’s successful campaign to turn President Harry Truman against his own instinct to let General Douglas MacArthur win the Korean War.

Acheson framed the choice: if we wage real war in Korea, we lose NATO. Substantially because Truman sided with NATO (as defined by Bevin and Acheson), he fired MacArthur and began the chain of no-win wars that has yet to end.

The need for America to make concessions to the Soviet Union for the sake of NATO was a standard argument from U.S. liberals from the late 1950s onward. This despite the fact that Europe’s major statesmen at the time, France’s Charles de Gaulle and Germany’s Konrad Adenauer, advocated no concessions. This so disgusted de Gaulle that he withdrew France from the unified command and Germany put itself under the French nuclear umbrella.

Following the Americans’ lead and given that the U.S. nuclear guarantee discouraged Europeans from taking care of their own defense, European politics turned sharply leftward.

During the Vietnam War and after, the alleged need not to alienate “the Europeans” arguably became the American Left’s principal argument in foreign policy. Those of us involved in the U.S. foreign policy process during the 1970s and ’80s remember vividly and somewhat bitterly having to battle the accusations that Ronald Reagan’s opposition to Kissinger’s détente was ruining NATO, U.S. foreign policy’s crowning jewel. Insistence on U.S. missile defense would alienate the left wing of German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt’s Social Democratic Party. NATO solidarity should trump U.S defense!

In sum, America’s experience with NATO is consistent with what is arguably the norm: alliances end up being less than the sum of their parts because each ally finds in the others’ existence excuses for doing less than it would do if it were alone.

Today, we are asked to believe that not alienating Turkey is very important, just as not alienating Qatar is very important. Why? Because we have bases in both countries. Those bases do serve a useful purpose. But compared to what and at what cost? These specific questions are even sharper than ones about NATO in general because Turkey and Qatar are not equivocal allies. They are, in fact, enemies.

The American people’s chief interest—arguably the only interest—in the Middle East is preventing the export of terrorism. Although Turkey is by no means the cause of the ISIS abomination that beheaded Americans, Erdoğan’s Turkey was the sine qua non of the Islamic State’s existence as a territorial entity.

Erdoğan, and Erdoğan alone, made it possible for ISIS to sell oil and receive supplies, as well as foreign fighters, from abroad. This was policy, oriented in a pro-Sunni, pro-Muslim Brotherhood direction, in concert with Qatar, as well as a foredoomed war against a Kurdish minority that is on its demographic way to majority status.

These remain Erdoğan’s predilections, pursued short-sightedly, incompetently as well as brutally. All the more reason for the U.S. government to expect the worst from him, to give him no help whatever while pointing straight at our own interest, which includes limiting the resources at Erdoğan’s command. Arming the Kurds as we leave would do that.

U.S. accommodation of Turkey (and of its financier, Qatar), and the excuses for it, are so mistaken because they value the existing diplomatic relations and the military bases that result from them over the purposes that these relationships and bases are supposed to pursue. Valuing means over ends is a bad idea.

America’s pre-Progressive Era statesmen were not against alliances. They were clear that alliances should be limited to concrete circumstances and limited to those circumstances’ times. They should never become ends in themselves. They stressed that real concurrences of interest and actions are worth far more than formal commitments.

Current policy, and especially the best arguments for it, compound the error of preferring enemies to friends by reversing the natural relationship between ends and means. Recall Casey Stengel: Can’t anybody here play this game?

[jovialyouthmusic]

Charlotte’s Choice

A Royal Romance AU Fanfic

28 Running for Home 

Everyone returns to the Palace in preparation for the Coronation. Drake encounters Anton at the stables

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28 Running for Home

Charlotte woke in her own bed, alone. Not long now. She thought Soon I can be seen in public, make love properly, soon I can wake up next to him. Just a few days – just a few days… So why did she feel a cold knot of fear in her stomach? Why didn’t she feel safe yet? She would be queen too, be responsible for her country, but with her father so ill, effectively she was already in all but name. She looked at the clock by the bedside – it was late, but she knew from past experience what The Beaumont brothers’ parties were like, so she decided to go and take a look at the aftermath.

She dressed in slacks and a smart blouse and light jacket, knowing she would be seen not just by her friends, but by other guests, in various states of disarray. In the corridor outside one of Bastien’s men stood, ramrod straight, and saluted her as she emerged.

‘Lewis, isn’t it?’ Charlotte asked ‘Is there much activity yet?’

‘Yes ma’am, the guests who retired after dinner have been up and eaten, and some have already gone. As for the rest…’ he paused and rolled his eyes.

‘I’d like to take a walk and see for myself’

‘Of course ma’am, but I will have to accompany you’ She nodded in assent and they set off together, Lewis walking slightly behind her. The corridor to hers and the King’s suite was empty save for the guards at each door, but once they went further, things got more disorganised. Staff were starting to clear up, but there were discarded pieces of clothing, half empty glasses and bottles strewn sparsely around, and paintings on the wall hung askew. She took a route down the corridor that led to Maxwell’s suite where she had been the night before, but the door was closed and she didn’t like to knock in case the party there had gone on longer and they were all asleep on the floor.

The dining room was being cleared, the flowers in disarray, and Charlotte seemed to remember the llama snacking on them the night before. She walked through to the ballroom where the rock band were packing up their instruments, looking a little the worse for wear. One of them was sitting at the grand piano playing a bluesy piece. Another band member recognised her, and nudged his friend. He wore ripped jeans and t shirt topped with a well worn silver studded leather jacket.

‘Princess Charlotte!’ he said, coming forward to shake her hand ‘Awesome party, if you ever want us to gig at the Palace, ask Max – he’s the dude!’ Charlotte shook hands and smiled

‘I will bear that in mind, thankyou’ she said graciously, trying to imagine the sight of a Rock band playing in the Palace Ballroom. Actually, she thought – why not? Her Father had been a traditionalist, why should she carry everything on the way he liked – she could change it if she wanted. She smiled at the thought, imagining Max playing air guitar and headbanging in the Ballroom.

She carried on outside. The garden was not as neat and ordered as it had been – the knot garden had definite gaps in the hedges where someone – or something – perhaps the emu – had trampled them down. The rose garden was not bare, but there were not many blooms left. Empty champagne bottles littered the lawn, and again there were a few items of clothing draped over the bushes. As she walked past, Tariq appeared from behind a bush, looking dishevelled and wearing only a shirt and boxer shorts. He peered at her short sightedly, and made an awkward bow when he realised who she was.

‘Your highness, forgive me for my shameful appearance…’ he began, but she waved her hand

‘That’s perfectly fine Tariq’ she replied ‘What happens at Ramsford, stays at Ramsford’ and he blushed and hurried away toward the Manor, weaving slightly. She continued to wander around the Manor with Lewis, occasionally bumping into guests – some carrying suitcases and leaving, some only just weaving their way back to their rooms from who knows where – the garden perhaps, or someone else’s bedroom. Making her way back to the King’s suite, she rounded a corner and almost walked straight into Anton. She stepped back, her hand flying to her chest in shock, and Anton bowed deeply.

‘Charlotte, how lovely to see you. I notice that you didn’t take part in the regrettable festivities last night. I was shocked at some of the goings on’ She smiled back at him

‘Of course not, it wouldn’t be seemly, as we discussed yesterday. I retired early’ His eyes narrowed

‘I noticed that the other suitors and Lady Olivia were not in evidence either’

‘How interesting’ she said blithely, knowing that he was implying that she had spent the evening with them. ‘I expect they may have done the same as I.’ Which, she thought, was not a lie, but he could not know that for sure. Anton stepped closer and took her hand, and scrutinised her wrist.

‘I see you aren’t wearing my gift’ he observed ‘I hope you didn’t lose it’

‘It’s quite safe with the rest of my jewellery’ Charlotte assured him ‘I thought it was too risky to wear it here’

‘Very wise of you, Charlotte’ he smiled, still holding her hand. She desperately wanted to take it back but was wary of upsetting him. At that moment, she heard a door opening further along the corridor. She tried to hide the relief and joy she felt when she saw Drake leaving his room, and Anton looked round, his expression changing to one of mild annoyance. He made a show of kissing her hand and at last she took it back. Drake approached and she could see the effort it took him not to push Anton away from her as his fists clenched by his sides, but he kept control of his expression.

‘Lord Severus’ he made a little bow, which Anton returned

‘Duke Walker. I trust you are well this morning. No hangover, I hope’ he said with a slight sneer.

‘No thankyou’ I’m quite clear headed’ Drake assured him. ‘It looks like you’re leaving’ he said pointedly, indicating the luggage standing in the corridor, and Anton nodded. His aide appeared from his room and picked up the suitcases.

‘How very observant of you, Walker’ he replied ‘My car is waiting’ he bowed to them both. ‘I look forward to our next meeting, your Highness’ and he left, his aide following him.

Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief when he disappeared from sight, and Drake put his hand to her elbow for support as she relaxed a little. She swayed toward him but stopped herself from any further physical contact in case they were seen.

‘Have you eaten yet?’ he asked, and when she shook her head, he offered to go down to the kitchen and see what was available.

‘I should go and check on father’ she replied. ‘Have something sent to my room and I’ll see you there.’ Charlotte went to the end of the corridor and nodded to the guard at her father’s door, who opened it for her. She was gratified to see him dressed and standing looking out at the gardens. He turned to her and smiled.

‘Charlotte my dear, how was the party? I trust all is well with you?’ Charlotte happily went to his side to kiss him on the cheek and hold his arm.

‘Good morning Father, you look stronger. The party was fun, but you needn’t be afraid of any scandal, I enjoyed myself with my friends behind closed doors.’ He patted her hand.

‘Well done my dear, you will make an excellent monarch. Dignity and decorum is everything, you need to command respect from your citizens. Now we return to the Palace to prepare for the Coronation and your announcement. Are you quite ready?’

‘As ready as I’ll ever be, father.’ He nodded

‘I won’t keep you any longer my dear, I will be leaving shortly with Bastien. He has done well this season, he makes an excellent head of the Guard. I believe he owes a lot to Mr Walker’s father’ Charlotte found tears springing to her eyes as she remembered the time when she lost her mother, and Drake his father. Constantine’s expression softened.

‘Your mother would be proud of you my dear, you have grown into a remarkable young woman. Goodness knows how, I have been an old fool. I fear much of your accomplishments have not been due to my influence’

‘Don’t say that Father, you did your best’ He patted her arm again

‘Perhaps, but nonetheless I am proud of you. Now I must call Bastien and get on my way. I’m well rested and should manage my Royal duties for the next few days if I’m careful. Go and see your friends, make the most of your time together before you follow on’ Charlotte kissed him on the cheek again and went across the corridor to her room, closely followed by a member of staff with a trolley laden with food.

Her room was empty, but when the staff member had left, Drake appeared from the ensuite bathroom. They embraced briefly, Drake putting his arms around her and kissing the top of her head, then going to the trolley to lift the serving cover to reveal scrambled egg, bacon and mushrooms. There was toast and a big pot of coffee too, and they filled their plates to sit at the table by the window that overlooked the gardens, eating in companionable silence with the window slightly open. Charlotte couldn’t help looking forward to being able to do just that every day – just be together, just feel normal about it.

‘Are you coming straight to the Palace, or are you staying with Maxwell for a while?’ she asked. ‘I’ll have to go in an hour or so’ He reached across the table and held her hand, grazing her knuckles with his thumb and looked into her eyes.

‘I’ll follow you as soon as I can’ he said ‘I think Hana will be the first to go, so I’ll hitch a ride with her.’ He tilted his head to the side as he watched her expression change. ‘I wish I could travel with you, but we still have to…’

‘Be careful, I know’ she replied with a sigh. ‘Father seems much better now’  Drake looked at her questioningly

‘He’s not been at all well – do you know what’s the matter? It’s not like him to miss the festivities here – if only the beginning’ Charlotte’s stomach lurched – she had forgotten that only she, Bastien, the Doctor and a few trusted aides knew about the King’s health.

‘I – I can’t say, Drake’ she said simply, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions as she hated keeping secrets from him. He looked at her sharply and seemed to understand. He nodded.

‘Okay, but if you need to talk…’ She smiled, breathing a sigh of relief.

‘You’re the first I’d tell’ Again his expression told her that he understood, that she didn’t need to say anything else for now. She looked across at the bed, realising it was the fist time they had been alone in her bedroom, but there was no time… ‘I should get my bags ready’ she said sadly. Drake had seen her glance to the bed, and it lit a fire in him. There was a knock at the door

‘Security – the car is ready when you are, Princess’ came Lewis’s voice.

‘Thankyou’ she called back ‘I’ll be a little while yet’ Drake smiled at her ruefully.

‘Looks like our time’s up – for now’ he said

Three hours later Charlotte’s limo and escort rolled up to the front of the Palace. Press had gathered at the gates in hope of catching a glimpse, so she rolled the window down and gave them a wave. She was greeted by the Palace staff and retired to her room. On the way, all who met her smiled and welcomed her back. Contractors bustled around getting the Palace ready for the Coronation. She noticed there was another security firm augmenting Bastien’s staff, and trusted that they had been properly vetted, remembering some papers from a few nights ago – a recommendation coming from Neville Delacoeur for the firm.

She busied herself unpacking, asking for a light lunch to be sent to her room and then dismissing any staff so she could be alone. There was a note on her dressing table from the King informing her that she would have paperwork to go over in the afternoon with him. She had dozed on the journey over, and decided a ride would be in order, as Phoenix and Sultan should probably be back in the Palace stables after the trip to Ramsford. She wondered if Drake had arrived yet. Her fingers hovered over the screen of her smartphone, but she decided against messaging him, instead texting Hana.

Hey – how’s the journey?

Fine thankyou, Drake says hello. We’re having fun chatting.

Charlotte felt a pang of jealousy, wishing it were she who sat next to him, chatting amiably. She shook her head to clear it.

Great. When will you be here? Thinking of going for a ride

About an hour. Drake says meet you at the gardener’s hut in two. He seems very insistent.

Charlotte smiled, butterflies dancing in the pit of her stomach. She sighed

Tell him maybe, can’t promise

He says he understands. See you at dinner?

Sure. Later!

She erased the message from the phone. Charlotte could not wait two hours for Drake – she needed to get out in the fresh air, clear her head. She dressed for riding and stepped out into the corridor. One of Bastien’s men stood on guard.

‘Princess’ he said ‘I’ve been instructed to keep you in sight – you’re planning on going to the stables?’ She nodded.

‘Yes, I thought I’d get out for an hour or so.’

‘I’ll arrange for someone to accompany you – my riding skills aren’t what they should be’ he smiled.

‘That won’t be necessary’ she said, but the guard looked grave

‘I have specific instructions, you must have a member of security with you at all times, and a guard outside your room. All visitors are to be vetted. King’s orders’ Charlotte’s heart sank.

She knew this was protocol leading up to her examination in two days’ time. If her father was sticking to that, he had to be able to protect her chastity by ensuring she was not alone with any of the suitors. There was no real reason for it any more apart from ensuring the blood line of the Monarchy. It was just ancient tradition that had been outdated by paternity and genetic testing, and he had not seen fit to revoke it. It was not as if any of the suitors would ask for proof of chastity any longer in this day and age, but it would not be possible to meet Drake alone, not without some subterfuge. She planned on it being the first point of business when she was Queen to revoke it.

Charlotte waited while a chaperone was chosen, meanwhile texting Olivia who was also on her way to the Palace with Brad.

Am on lockdown, security with me at all times, see you at dinner

Sure darling, sorry to hear. Will keep you company after, defend your virtue

Charlotte smiled, glad that Olivia had her back – as did Hana. The next couple of days were going to be very testing.

Drake arrived later that afternoon and took his bags straight back to his room, tucked away on one of the upper floors of the Palace overlooking the stables. He showered and made his way there, only to find Charlotte already returning from her ride with a guard accompanying her.

‘Duke Walker!’ she cried out in a tone that made it plain they were not alone ‘I hope you had a good journey. Are you going riding? It’s a fine day. Sadly I have some papers to see to, otherwise Jones and I would welcome your company’ she rolled her eyes at the guardsman so only Drake could see. He bowed, his heart sinking.

‘Not at all, I thought I’d come down and check on Sultan. I can groom Pheonix for you if you wish’

‘That would be kind of you, Walker’ He hated it when she acted this way, but when he looked in her eyes he knew she did too. Her tone softened ‘I hope to see you at dinner tonight’ She smiled warmly, her face turned from her guard.

‘Thankyou Princess, I do too’ he answered sincerely. After she had gone, he groomed Phoenix then saddled up Sultan and went for a good hard ride, relishing the speed and power of the stallion, which had been shipped over from his grandfather’s ranch, now belonging to his mother. He realised when Charlotte announced him as Consort he would have to get in contact with her. He didn’t even know where his sister was, and that saddened him. He chose to ride slowly back, and was grooming Sultan when he became aware of someone else’s presence

‘Walker, that is a magnificent beast you have there – I presume it belongs to the royal stables’ Anton strode across to the stall looking at Sultan appraisingly. Drake gritted his teeth. He would love to tell Anton just what he thought of him, but for Lucy’s sake he had to be civil to the man.

‘No actually, Sultan belongs to me. My mother has a ranch in the States, he’s from there.’

‘Ah, your mother’ he said smoothly ‘I was so pleased that dreadful smear on her character was cleared up’ His smile was totally insincere. Drake couldn’t help but notice how well turned out Severus was in immaculate riding gear while he was in jeans and an old riding jacket that had belonged to his father.

‘So am I’ drake replied tersely, and went back to the long slow strokes of the brush over the stallions flanks.

‘How much?’ Anton asked

‘I – what?’ asked Drake, puzzled.

‘How much for your horse?’ he asked ‘He would make an excellent addition to my stables. I presume he’s in good breeding order’ Drake heard a buzzing in his ears, feeling his anger levels rising. He set his jaw.

‘He’s not for sale’ he said shortly

‘Really? I can offer you a good price’

‘Money isn’t the issue’ Drake asserted, thin lipped. Anton laughed.

‘My dear Duke, at some point, money is always the issue, especially when you don’t have enough. At certain levels of society it is essential to have enough, and if you want to elevate yourself you are going to need funds sooner or later’

Drake tried to think of Charlotte – her smile, her soft touch, anything to combat the rising levels of fury that threatened to overcome him. Then he remembered the last time they had been together – her wrist was bare of the expensive bracelet that Anton had given her, but around her neck he had seen the glint of the simple silver chain he had given her with the cartridge on it. He knew that Charlotte did not hold Anton’s values and never would. The thought grounded him and his fury dwindled. He took a deep breath and turned to his adversary.

‘You’re wrong Lord Severus’ he smiled ‘Money can’t buy you everything. Now you must excuse me, I have to go and change for dinner’

[goonlalagoon]

Russet fur

Read on Ao3

In my defence, no-one ever told me why I wasn't supposed to go visit grandma. Sure, there were the usual 'path through the woods' risks, but that wasn't a real reason, not when we'd all played in the woods for years. They didn't even give me a bogus explanation, just forbade it.

At a certain age, being forbidden something outright with no reason becomes a motivation all on its own. I knew grandma was sickly - she always had been - and it was quite a regular occurrence for one of my parents or older siblings to toddle off with a basket of goodies to bring her some comfort.

Very regular. Monthly, in fact, though I'd never really noticed that. Partly because I was a bit unobservant, and partly because it wasn't like that was the only time someone went to visit her.

So one day I woke up early, so early that it was actually still nighttime, and couldn't sleep. I was feeling rebellious - I was a teenager, alright? - but in that I want to prove I'm responsible way, rather than shout and tear things up way. And getting a sneaky cookie from the kitchen to tide me over until breakfast, a good few hours away yet, I saw the basket all ready for mother's trip to grandma's later that day.

Well, I decided to save mum the walk.

It was a pleasant night, and I wasn't scared of anything in the local woods. I should have been, but I wasn't. And I loved grandma, but never really got to see her without the rest of the family around, and it struck me that if I went along myself, I'd kill several birds with one stone. I'd be helping out, and being all grown up, which was sure to impress my parents.

I'd also be away from home all morning, which would make a change. And I'd get grandma to myself for a while.

So off I went, full of good intentions and with laughable naivete. I did think to leave a note, and I even threw on my thickest cloak, a beautiful red woollen thing that had been a birthday gift from grandma herself.

It did occur to me when I was about twenty minutes into the woods that I maybe should have waited until dawn, at least, but I shook the thought off. My cloak was warm, and there was a full moon in the clear skies. Besides, it was an easy enough path.

Even so, I jumped when an owl swooped silently through my line of sight, heart pounding. I didn't believe in ghosts, but for a moment, I'd been spooked. I had to force myself to keep going, reminding myself shakily that of course there were going to be night time creatures about. A wolf howled, somewhere in the distance, and despite telling myself that I wasn't scared at all, I picked up the pace a little.

Foolishly, it wasn't until I arrived at the clearing grandma lived in and saw that there were no candles burning that it occurred to me that she wouldn't be awake. Of course. Because she wouldn't be expecting her middle grandkid to turn up in the early hours of the morning to say hi.

I realised at this point that perhaps I hadn't been so grown up and helpful as all that, but it was too late. I was there, and I sure wasn't going to turn tail and walk home again - by the time I made it back, it would be a reasonable time to set out, not to mention it would be plain embarrassing having to explain to my parents, and my siblings would mock me for the rest of time.

I also wasn't going to sit around until a sensible time, because even with a cloak it was cold out and I'd freeze. A wolf howled again, sounding worryingly closer than before, and that cemented the deal. I was going inside, now. The front door was so warped that poor grandma would think I was breaking in if I tried to open it quietly, so I went round the corner of the cottage, already loosening my cloak ready to hang it up once I was in her cozy kitchen.

The wolf was sniffing around the back door.

Its head snapped up as I walked into view, and my heart froze as I stopped dead.

Okay, not literally, but you know what I mean.

It wasn't a normal wolf, too large, it's fur a russet streaked with silver, and it's eyes…oh gods, its eyes were human. That freaked me out the most. Regular wolf? Scary, but…normal. Deadly, sure, but at least it was…just an animal. This?

This was some kind of monster.

I didn't run. Perhaps that was another foolish decision, but I figured there was no point. A wolf could outrun me. This thing wouldn't even have to break into a trot to cross the clearing to me in record time.

The basket dropped from fingers numb with fear, and the silent tension snapped. The wolf leapt, and I stumbled back, fumbling mindlessly with my cloak. Somehow I got the material between me and the wolf, as though that would stop those teeth, screaming my lungs out. "GRANDMA!"

Quite what I thought my dear old granny was going to do, I've never been certain, but hey. It's not the kind of situation that lends itself to reasoned responses.

What actually happened was that I went down with a wolf landing on me, and landed with my grandma lying on my stomach. She blinked short-sightedly at me, then down at the cloak. "Oh, bother. Look, I've put some terrible rips in it."

So…yeah. That's how I found out my grandma has this unfortunate tendency of turning into a wolf every month when the full moon rises…and also that if you go into the woods with a werewolf's clothes and call to them, they'll turn back into a human.

My parents did at least let me go to grandma's alone after that -

- but only once I'd been grounded for a month.

[legendarylitstudent-blog]

Alexandra Roman

Lit 2120

01/14/19

Naguib Mahfouz was an Egyptian writer. This Nobel Prize at writing 1988 was granted to Naguib Mahfouz “ who, through jobs rich at significance – today clear-sightedly practical, immediately evocatively uncertain – has shaped the Arabian narrative art that applies to all mankind ” He was the first Arabic writer to be so honored. Naguib Mahfouz, one of the powerhouse authors of Arabic literature, is considered as one of the early modern authors of Arabic writing to investigate ideas of existentialism." Half a Day" was a short story and one of his final works. He chronicled the political issues, social and cultural changes in half a day there's social realism to a more modern experimental mode of writing. Of an allegorical tale in which the narrator begins the day as a young boy going to school for the very first time, but then leaves as an old man whose life has passed in what seemed to be like "half a day". A dream that never came true. It was a dream of sorts, where you could see your own life unfold before you. This is a story about how we cannot live without our dreams because it is impossible to live without them. The characters are all children, who have been raised with their

[brexitbenefits]

UK-Swiss Trade Deal set to be Finalized by end of the Year

The UK has agreed to finalize a Swiss financial services trade deal by the end of the year. Nearly half of Swiss financial services imports already come from Britain. This is a good move for the UK as businesses and individuals will be able to continue to invest in offshore Swiss Bank accounts. The deal will ensure that both nations will be able to trade in each others stock exchange.

Rishi Sunak, Chancellor of the Exchequer confirmed, ““The UK’s financial sector is integral to the success of the British economy, creating jobs, driving regional growth, and contributing taxes that pay for essential public services. Leaving the EU means we are now free to chart our own course, driven by our clear values as a financial centre: a safe and transparent place to do business, innovative markets that drive change for the better, and openness to the whole world. Today's agreement is about our vision of the world economy as open, global and free - a vision shared by Switzerland, with our long history of trade and finance”.

The City UK also stated “The UK and Switzerland are natural partners for financial and related professional services trade. As the first and third largest net exporters of these services globally, both countries are committed to developing high-quality global standards and maintaining open and efficient markets. These discussions present an opportunity to set a new gold standard for global services trade between two sovereign nations.”

No economy seems to be immune from the coronavirus catastrophe, with Switzerland taking a massive hit. The problem is people short-sightedly look at the current global economic turmoil, without realizing that the economic downturn is temporary, and most governments around the world will find away to navigate through the crisis, and considering the Swiss economy has been robust in the past, who is to say it won’t rebound again? Doom and gloom stories fill both the tabloids, and mainstream media alike, but it is because they are focused on the short term consequences of the here and now, instead a of analyzing the opportunities, and disadvantages in 10 years from now. All current models on Brexit focus on current exports to the EU. This is a faulty model because the countries the UK will export and import from will dramatically change after Brexit.

[alcalavicci]

(Disclaimer: Treat 1950s articles like they’re RPF/fanfiction)

Photoplay- December 1959

Millie Perkins engaged to Dean Stockwell: SHE NO LONGER HAS TO PRETEND

By Jane Ardmore

Millie Perkins is an ordinary enough name. Millie Perkins was an ordinary enough girl until January of 1958, when - against odds of 10,233 to 1 - she won the role of Anne Frank. She'd only tried for the part when 20th Century-Fox insisted she at least TRY. She hadn't wanted to be an actress, and she didn't care if she won or not. But she had won, and in February she'd gone to Hollywood.

With only one suitcase, she'd stepped off the train. A thin girl in a rumpled blouse and skirt, with dark knee-socks, she'd peered nervously and near-sightedly around her. There were so many people hurrying around the station; so many strangers - and they all seemed to know exactly where they were going. She wondered if she'd ever know just where she was going. What am I doing here? she asked herself. She didn't know what it all meant - what it would mean. And, of course, she had no idea that here was where she would find herself as a person, that here was where she'd finally find love . . .

Later that day, as she ran across the studio lot to have her first stills taken she felt even more bewildered. "Bring six changes," the voice on the telephone had said, and Millie'd laughed nervously to herself. Since she'd just arrived on the Coast that morning, she didn't HAVE six changes. So she was going, dressed just as she'd been on the train that morning - in her white blouse, her favorite ribbed wool socks, and a loose-fitting green corduroy jacket.

It was a clear gray day with a gentle wind and a hint of rain, that made her think wistfully of home in Fairlawn, New Jersey. In a day like this, she would lean out of her bedroom window and see the birch and maple trees, the Chinese fruit trees, and watch the breeze ruffling the branches. There was always so much going on at home, she thought nostalgically, and she was always a part of it. She remembered how her sisters - Janet, Christine, Anne Marie, and Cathy - were always cooking and sewing, how someone was always at the phone or the piano. She remembered, with affection, all the excitement when Papa, who was a first mate with Bull Lines, came home from sea - all of them rushing to welcome him.

But the sky was higher here, there was no scent of fruit, and she was running between great square cream-colored concrete barns she'd been told were sound stages. Hollywood! And she was alone for the first time in her life.

"Hi, Millie! Been to wardrobe already? You look pretty good in those Anne Frank clothes!" It was George Stevens Jr., the associate producer, a nice-looking fellow with a friendly smile, who'd hailed her and was now falling into step beside her.

She smiled impishly at him. "These aren't Anne's clothes, they're mine. They're the kind I always wore in New York."

He looked at her in surprise. "But you were a top model, Millie!"

"That doesn't mean I wore fancy clothes. The photographers were only interested in my face." It was only an accident she'd been a model anyway, she remembered. A friend of Christine's had taken some pictures of her one night, and sent them to a modeling agency. And from then on, she'd been one of New York's busiest models. "I didn't like modeling too much," she went on, beginning to feel very much at home with George. "It was too hectic. I need some quiet" - she tried to explain - "I like to know who I am."

"And you've come to Hollywood!"

The exclamation hung in the air.

"I must stop in make-up," she said softly, running away from George Stevens Jr., who belonged here and wasn't a bit afraid.

She edged into the room so quietly, no one heard her.

"Hello, Mr. Nye," she blurted out, climbing quickly into the high leather chair as if she were about to have a tooth pulled. Ben Nye, the make-up man, studied her for a moment. Dark hair pulled back and tucked out of the way, enormous gray-green eyes, thick black lashes, and a small, pink mouth.

She eyed herself uncertainly in the mirror. IF HE TRIES TO MAKE ME LOOK GLAMOROUS, I'LL JUST LOOK SILLY, she thought in dismay.

But she was relieved at the appearance of director George Stevens in the mirror beside her. A big man with a quiet voice; he made her feel at ease. "She looks just fine, Ben," Mr. Stevens said. "We picked Millie, in the first place, because she looks like a fourteen-year-old girl." Then, turning to her, he said, "Leave your hair down for the cocktail party, Millie. When we start rehearsing, we can try it both ways."

The cocktail party! She didn't know how she'd get through it. She stood there next to Mr. Stevens. He had invited all the press to meet her. And what on earth could she ever say to them?

The press began asking questions. She found the first question easy. "No, I'm not at all sure I want to stay in Hollywood. In fact, I'm not at all sure I want to be an actress." Everyone laughed. This disturbed her. She wondered whether she should have said it.

March: I'll never be able to act, Millie thought despairingly. She virtually lived on the set these days.

"You have expressive hands, Millie, wonderful hands," Joseph Schildkraut told her one morning. The great Schildkraut! she thought. And for the next few days she was so self-conscious of her hands, that she didn't use them at all but held both arms awkwardly straight at her sides.

Ed Wynn helped. He'd take her and Diane Baker and Dick Beymer aside and tell them stories, funny stories, while Nina Foch talked of such mysterious new things as calisthenics, relaxation, and control. "Control, technique," she would say in her beautiful voice, "is what frees the little angel in each actor to express freely." But Millie would only feel all the more lost and bewildered and answer: "But I'm not an actress."

"Every girl is an actress," Director Stevens would tell her. "She's just got to loosen up and perform."

So she'd try. But after long, hard hours of rehearsal, she'd cry exasperated, "I can't even get across the room without bumping into a chair. I'm just a CATASTROPHE."

"You're not fat enough to be a catastrophe," Stevens would answer genially.

But still the feeling persisted. She felt like a scared little girl when she started the scene with Dick Beymer - the one in which she was to ask him if he'd ever been kissed. But she was surprised. The scene wasn't so hard. She could understand the part . . after all she was a teenager herself and she'd dreamed about romance just as every girl did. She relaxed a little more, too, when she found Dick Beymer was almost as scared as she was.

The day George Stevens took the crew in to watch the rushes, she'd been in agony, wishing that she could do each scene over again! She'd sat unhappily through the discussion of the scenes. Then she'd walked away from the projection room fast, eager to get home and get away from it all.

"Hi, Garbo," George Jr. called out, slowing down his car and opening the door. "Come on, I'll take you home."

She slid into the front seat, fighting back tears.

"You're coming along, you know," he said sincerely. "Really beginning to unfold."

She looked at him gratefully. He'd been such a good friend to her. He makes me forget all my problems, she thought.

April: I'm so lonesome and homesick, Millie thought achingly. It was a Wednesday evening in early April, and she'd curled up in a big chair with "The Sea Around Us." Her hair was in curlers and she still had cream on her face and her dinner was cooking in the kitchen. But she couldn't put Anne Frank out of her mind.

It's the old problem again, she said to herself. She knew that she wasn't a good actress yet. Director Stevens had been patient. He was saving the big scenes, she knew that, waiting for her to grow to them. But would she be able to? There was one scene she'd dreaded most of all - one with Ed Wynn - where, because of her hate and resentment toward him, she had to fight and cry. Hardest of all, it was to cry. She had tried it so often, but the tears wouldn't come. Should she try it again?

She got up and got the script from her bedroom. A letter from her father fell out from between the pages. Slowly, she picked it up and sat down again, re-reading the words for the dozenth time.

"Millie, if you can't eat a great deal, at least sleep," Papa'd written worriedly. These were the first letters she'd ever received just for herself from Papa. Always before, he'd written to Mama, with a line or so to each child. But now he was writing to her as if she were all grown-up.

He'd tell her how the stevedores were so interested in her career, bringing him the news items they'd find in the papers, and that he'd seen her picture in a magazine in the Honduras. And always news of the family that she was so hungry for. News about Janet and the four children in Georgia and about Christine's marriage and about how delighted Anne Marie was about expecting a baby. He'd write that Cathy wondered how it felt to be a movie star. And he'd tell her that Jimmie was going around pretending that he wasn't a bit impressed that his sister Millie was acting in a movie - even though he was secretly so proud of her.

Suddenly the doorbell rang, interrupting her thoughts.

"Who in the world knows where I live?" she said half-aloud. Then seeing her face in the mirror, she realized she still had the curlers in her hair and the cream on her face. She couldn't answer the door looking like this. But the bell rang again. She had no time to fix up.

"Millie, we want your autograph," they chorused - a dozen teenagers, bubbling with good spirits.

"How about a picture, Millie?" one ponytailed, blonde girl asked her, holding up a camera.

"Looking like this?" she gasped, pointing to the curlers. They laughed, too, at this. She wrote her name in each book, and with choruses of goodbyes, they left her.

Closing the door, she leaned against it. They'd asked her for her autograph. They thought she was somebody. They believed in her. She couldn't let them down now.

Settling down in the chair again, with the script-book in front of her, she thought, They'll never know how much they've helped me. Then, through eyes misted with tears, she started to read again, the beginning words of the scene.

And the next day, she played the scene almost easily. George Stevens told her she was fine, so did Joseph Schildkraut, and Nina Foch said, "Why don't you come home to my apartment for dinner? I feel like spending the evening with a few people I especially like."

Millie started to shake her head. The only times she REALLY wanted to go out, was when nobody asked her, and she was all by herself at home. But then she caught a look of disappointment in Nina's face, and she said, "I'd love to."

It was a very small, spur-of-the-moment supper party, but still Millie felt a little awkward, a little shy. She ate, and a moment later she couldn't have told herself what she'd eaten. Then, after dinner, a boy she'd noticed across the room, came over to her and smiled. "Hello," he said, "I'm Dean Stockwell."

"I'm Millie Perkins."

"I know." His voice was very soft, very low.

Why, I think he's shy, she thought, looking at him and wondering why. Because, certainly, he was very handsome. She had recognized him – he was a "little person," as she called someone without pretensions, someone simple and open and direct - and almost as quiet as she herself was. I LIKE him, she decided, I really do.

But then the party was over and the night was over and she was back at work on the set, working as hard as she knew how to get Anne just right - to BE Anne. She almost forgot about the quiet, dark boy she'd met the night before.

But he hadn't forgotten her. She was washing her hair under the faucet, when she thought she heard the phone ring. Why does the phone ALWAYS ring at times like this? she wondered, as she lifted her head to listen. It was the phone, all right.

Wrapping a towel around her hair - with the shampoo still in it – she walked over and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" she said.

"Hello! Isn't it a lovely day? I thought you mightn't be home at first, when you didn't answer right off. This is Dean Stockwell."

"Oh." She didn't know what to say, and so neither one of them said anything for some moments.

Then: "Would you like to go for a drive?"

"A drive? Why - why, I think I'd like that," she said. "But you'd better not come for an hour or so. I can't be ready till then." And she added quickly, "I've just washed my hair, you see," so that he wouldn't think she was one of those girls who primped and everything.

And so they drove off into the Hollywood hills, looking for signs of spring. It was a lovely afternoon. It was the first time Millie had really been happy in Hollywood, and after she was home alone again, she wondered why she'd been so happy.

Maybe it's because he's so quiet, so nice. Or maybe it's because music seems to be one of the biggest things in his life; music and books and nature. Then looking at herself in the mirror, she smiled. Maybe it's because he's like me, she admitted, and she smiled even more.

[celebratorypenguin]

Fic: The Places Where You Bend

Rating: R for language, sexual situations, and aggressive behavior McLennon

Summary: It’s 1967, all hell is breaking loose, and Paul doesn’t know if he can do this anymore.

The Places Where You Bend

***

October, 1967

***

No power outage, no technician strike, nothing short of an earthquake, could bring the recording studios of EMI to quite as complete a standstill as one John Lennon in full strop.

John stood beneath his microphone, glasses askew, tie long-gone, shirt unbuttoned to the navel. His right hand held a crumpled lyric sheet; his left was holding the neck of his guitar far too loosely for safety. "Take the damn pop filter off," he yelled in the direction of the control room. "I want the consonants to explode!"

George Martin's voice came over the intercom, the weary schoolmaster explaining a rule to a truculent little boy. "We've been over this, John. The input capacity simply can't contain it, and you'll get clipping--"

"Which is what I want in the first place," interjected John.

"You'll get clipping, and distortion, which I know you also want, but you have to trust me to find a different way that won't wreck the control board."

"I don't need a different fucking way, I need for you to make THIS way work!" From his vantage point at the piano, Paul could see John's entire body quivering, tightly-wound. "Or else we need a different studio!"

"Johnny, stop, please," Paul murmured. He wanted to be anywhere on the planet except where he was, especially when John was in Full Bastard Mode.

"You don't know what the hell I want, Paul, not with your moon-June-spoon-loon-Hello-Goodbye granny shit, so stay out of it!"

"John," Ringo said quietly. He was halfway hidden by the screen around his drum kit, making his eyes, large and round with distress, even more piercing than usual.

"Oh, what is it YOU want?" John demanded, turning on Ringo. "Your opinion, from the very back of the room, is exactly what we don't need right now."

"John!" Louder, more forceful, this time from George, who looked up from his guitar with his brow angrily furrowed. "Stop it."

"Don't," John began, completely balling up the lyric sheet as he pointed a thin finger at George, "don't you dare start in on me. This is my song and I know how it's supposed to sound, and it's THEIR job to make it sound like that."

"So contradicting the only people in the room who know how this equipment works is your great idea?" George tossed his head and blew a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. "You're going to scream at them and insult them until you get your way?"

"Fuck you!" shouted John as he waved the Epiphone toward George. It grazed the leg of a nearby stool and flew out of his hand, landing on the floor with a sickening crack.

George was up in a flash, rushing to the guitar as if it were a child in peril. "Oh, fuck," George mumbled, his lean fingers running over the body of the instrument. "Fuck, John."

John stood still. His face, which had been an angry red, drained to a sickly greenish-white. Ringo stood up. "I think he's gonna--" He didn't have time to finish his warning before John ran to the trash can and started retching over it.

"Down," Paul said softly, coming up behind John and pressing on his shoulder so that he ended up kneeling in front of the trash can. Paul crouched behind him with one hand holding John's glasses in place and the other rubbing slow circles on his back as John gagged and spat up a clear, sickly-sour-smelling fluid.

George choked a little as the stench wafted over to him but continued examining John's guitar. Ringo covered his face with his jacket and leaned against the wall behind his drum kit.

"Is he going to be all right?" George Martin's disembodied voice held more concern and affection than anyone would have expected, given John's outburst.

"Yeah," Paul answered, not taking his eyes off of John.

"What brought all this on?" asked Ringo, who was pointedly looking away from where John was vomiting.

"He had a really bad trip last night and hasn't put anything in himself besides coffee and ciggies." Paul sighed, remembering how John had nearly bitten his head off for suggesting that a sandwich might not be the worst idea in the world.

Finished at last, John rocked back on his heels and wiped his mouth with his sleeve while Paul held his body upright. "I'm in the fucking room, you know."

"It'd have been hard to miss," George said drily, "between the tantrum and trying to use your guitar as a cricket bat. You've bent the tailpiece good and proper, and the neck needs to be reset. I don't see anything seriously broken on the body itself. This time," he added. "Try it again, and you'll need a whole new guitar."

John blinked short-sightedly and sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered. Paul prodded him in the ribs and inclined his head toward the control room. "Sorry," John repeated. "I've had a shit day and now it's a shit night. We'd better knock off for now, all right?"

"Yes, I think that's best," George Martin assented. "Paul, will you lock up, and then see that John gets home in one piece?"

That had always been Brian's job, making sure someone was on John-sitting duty. But Brian was dead, the boys were adrift, and the day-to-day tasks had fallen on George Martin's shoulders.

Paul dragged John to his feet. "We'll just go to mine. It's closer." He peered into John's pale, sweaty face. "If you puke in my car, though, I'm tossing you out into the road. Preferably in front of a bus."

"Here, hold up a sec." Ringo loped over to them. He fished in his pocket for a moment before coming up with some wrapped pieces of candy. "Sherbet Lemons. Zak gets carsick and these are the only things that help," he said, offering the sweets to John.

"Ta, Ritchie," was all John said as he unwrapped a candy and popped it in his mouth, but Ringo seemed satisfied. He gave John a playful punch in the arm.

"Go sleep it off, wouldya? You're impossible when you're coming off the stuff."

John's lips were set in a tight line. He nodded at George, who was packing John's guitar gently in its case. "I'll see to this," George said gruffly as he followed Ringo. As the door closed, they could hear him mutter, "Never thought I'd live to feel sorry for our Paul."

"Fuck," John groaned. "Let's get out of here."

"No." Paul folded his arms and stared John down. "Not until you tell me what the hell's going on with you. Snapping at the engineers? Slinging your guitar at George? Picking a fight with RINGO, of all people?"

"Yeah. Like you said, last night was a rough trip." John covered his eyes with his hand.

"Don't fucking hide from me, John!" Paul snapped, grabbing John's wrist and wrenching his arm downward. "If you want to put your two cents' in on my music the way you always have, that's fine, but you're not gonna call it names in front of George Martin and you're sure as FUCK not gonna do it in front of Ringo and George, is that clear?"

"Since when do you get to give ME orders?" spat John.

"Since no one else has the nerve to say two words to you! Since no one does anything but run around like chickens with their heads cut off since the day Brian--"

"Don't you bring Brian into this!" John stood toe-to-toe with Paul and twisted his arm free from Paul's grasp. Red finger-marks stood out against the light skin. "This has nothing to do with him!"

"It has everything to do with him!" Paul's voice was strident, even in the muted acoustics of the studio. "You were always his little golden boy and he was twisted around your little finger--"

"And you resented him for not falling for the McCharmly allure!"

"--from the moment he whisked you off to Spain!"

Paul heard himself screaming those last words, his heart hammering as he spat verbal venom out of frustration and grief and, yes, even jealousy. He knew John was aware of every single emotion coursing through him, so he wasn't surprised at all when John spoke again in a teasing sing-song.

"I tried whisking you off to Spain, but we didn't make it there." John leaned forward, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against Paul's. His eyes sparkled with mischief. "You've been jealous? All these years?"

"Piss off, Lennon," growled Paul, acutely aware that he was becoming aroused.

"Jesus, I can't believe you! Do you know why I went with him?"

"I can fucking GUESS!" Paul shoved John in the chest, backing him up to the piano. Touching John always sparked something deep and dangerous inside of him. "So you could get everything you wanted, the hell with the rest of us."

John stumbled slightly and half-sat on the keyboard. Paul ground against him, too hard to be pleasurable for either of them. "I was trying to make sure we stayed Brian's top priorities," John said quickly, his sour breath puffing against Paul's face. "He fancied me. He liked rough trade, Paul, you knew that about him from the get-go. And I'm as rough as they come." He looked away. "You always knew that, too. You had bruises for a week after...after the night Brian died."

Fresh anger coursed through Paul at the memory of that night. John's hands, heavy and insistent on his thighs, had left purple marks that hurt almost enough to dull the pain and shock of the awful news.

Paul ground against John again, wanting to relieve the pressure in his groin, and if that meant jamming John's ass further into the sharp edge of the keyboard, so be it.

"That's right, Paul, you can take out your frustrations on me. You could treat me the way Brian liked to be treated, slap me around the way you think I deserve." John suggested. At Paul's horrified glance, he added, "You know damn well that I don't mind a bit of rough. Now and again. As long as the marks don't show."

Paul really, really did not want to know about that.

"And right now," continued John, "you're angry enough to do it."

"Maybe I am precisely that angry." Paul tried to sound convincing but his mind's eye was showing a Technicolor film of John splayed naked across the piano, begging to be fucked, and that ruined any chance of his voice conveying any toughness.

John pulled out another piece of candy from his pocket and tried to unwrap it. His fingers shook enough that he fumbled ineffectually with the paper. "Fuck. You open it."

"Why the hell should I?"

"Because I'm bloody well going to kiss you and my mouth smells like a sewer."

"You just think you're gonna kiss me," Paul panted, his hips moving rhythmically against John's. "I don't wanna kiss a bastard like you."

"Sure, you do, you're just too scared to admit it."

Paul lunged forward. Surprised, John dropped the candy and stepped on it with his heel when he overbalanced and began falling backward. His ass landed squarely on the keyboard and created a loud tone cluster. Paul's head snapped up, his eyes widening as his brain shook and cleared itself like an Etch-a-Sketch.

"You wanker, you're figuring out what notes my bum just played," John teased.

Paul flushed, caught in the act, and he started to laugh. His anger dissipated but there was a knife's edge of hysteria in his voice. He clutched John's shirt as the laughter became harsher, threatening to become sobs.

Straightening up, John let Paul lean into him. "Hey, it's all right, it's all right," he soothed. When Paul looked into John's eyes, he saw so much regret and embarrassment in them that he wondered if hearts really could shatter.

"I don't know how much longer," Paul began, then he had to stop and clear his throat. "I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this thing, trying to keep the band together, trying to keep YOU together. It's too damn hard." His knees didn't hold him up very well at this angle and he slid down to the piano bench, tugging John's sleeve until they were side by side.

"We've made a right dog's breakfast of our lives," John declared as he slipped his fingers between Paul's.

"That, we have."

"Whatever the opposite of 'toppermost of the poppermost' might be, we're in it up to our asses."

Paul let out a little sniff of a laugh. "I've tried and tried to figure it all out, but I'm not even sure what the question is, anymore."

"I often wonder that, myself," admitted John. "I wonder how we could go from aspiring musicians in Liverpool to rich, pokers-up-the-butt assholes flinging guitars at each other. How in the name of bleedin' Jesus did we get to this point, Paul?"

Unable to speak, Paul just shrugged. John turned to him and took both his hands. "It wasn't an easy question, you know. I deserve an answer. We all do."

Paul looked at the floor, at his knees, anywhere but John's penetrating brown eyes. He could feel the center of his world, the John-and-Paul of it, collapsing in on itself. "I don't know how. All I know is that I'm scared, John, I'm fucking terrified!"

John lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and peeked over the gold rims until Paul met his gaze. "It's only me, Macca," he said with a rueful half-smile.

Paul took a steadying breath. "But which 'you' are you tonight?" John, who was shading his eyes with one hand, did not answer. "John, are you falling asleep?"

"Not hardly," John said, turning slightly toward Paul. His eyes were red and wet with unshed tears. "The lights in here are too fucking bright, is all."

Sighing, Paul put his hand over John's heart, concerned by its unsteady, quick thrumming. "Just how bad was that trip last night, anyway?"

"Bad enough. I still feel like shit tonight. And then to get into those stupid fights..." He shook his head. "Maybe I'm just hopelessly fucked up." He started to put his glasses back on properly, then gave up and let them stay halfway up his nose. "Maybe you should just punch my hard fucking head into the concrete."

With a heavy heart and trembling fingers, Paul reached for John's wrist, gently this time, and placed a soft kiss at the pulse. He rolled John's sleeve up above the elbow and traced the veins at the crook. First he used his fingers, then he leaned over and licked in the same spot.

"Paul." Paul shuddered at the sheer carnality of his name when John exhaled it with such fondness. "What're you doing?"

"I don't care about your hard head," Paul whispered. "I like these places better. The places where you bend, where your skin is soft." His breath caught painfully in his throat. "Where you can still let me in."

John nodded, then kissed Paul on the forehead and let his lips linger there as he whispered, "Take me home, Paulie. We can let each other in."

They helped each other up and prepared to leave the studio, John taking the offensive trash can out into the hallway while Paul fiddled with the lock on the door. He thought about taking his guitar and bass home but decided against it. He wanted to give John his full attention tonight, give him all his love and devotion.

Because nowadays, Paul told himself as he turned out the lights, you never knew if there'd be another chance.

*** END ***

[bookbrews-blog]

Review: Chang-Rae Lee’s On Such a Full Sea

Never fear - no spoilers here!

In the hands of a lesser writer, On Such a Full Sea (the title is cribbed from Shakespeare) would be your enjoyable-yet-forgettable sci fi quest-slash-road story: Teenage Fan’s boyfriend, Reg, vanishes from B-Mor, formerly Baltimore, a structured community barely clinging to a middle-class existence as its residents serve the needs of the ultra-wealthy Charter villagers; Fan leaves B-Mor in search of Reg, taking her into both the dangerous “counties” outside control of the directorate and the opulent, yet horrific, Charter villages. Along the way, Fan meets a host of characters who may not bring her closer to Reg but nevertheless bring us closer to understanding this society - and to seeing our own reflected in it. 

Lee employs the ingeniously novel device of a communal, almost Greek chorus-style narrator to relate Fan’s adventures. Simultaneously, the communal narrator connects Fan’s story to the civil unrest Reg’s disappearance, and Fan’s determined rescue attempt, create in B-Mor. Interspersed with Fan’s story is the unfolding of the history of B-Mor, a colony of New China; while Lee does not detour into the particulars of how China came to colonize the United States, it is clear that by the time the New China colonists (referred to in B-Mor as “the originals”) arrived on North American shores, the United States had largely ceased to exist. Outside structured communities like B-Mor and D-Troy (Detroit) or the superbly affluent Charter villages, there are no roads, no utilities, no police forces or governments; hence, we can easily understand why citizens of B-Mor or the Charter villagers would be willing to do almost anything to remain in their communities, supplied and secured - if also controlled - by the shadowy directorate, and we can marvel all the more at Fan’s decision to leave behind this security to find her Reg. 

In fact, I would say the novel is not so much “about” Fan or even Reg. Rather, through its communal narrator, the novel is able to be “about” a society in which only money can buy security. There is no social safety net in the Charters, as Fan learns when she meets Quig, a former Charter veterinarian now scraping out an odd and dangerous living in the counties; if a Charter loses their fortune, they are forced to make their own way in what essentially amounts to a wilderness. B-Mors, meanwhile, are on no less tenuous footing, although at first glance their society might seem less individualistic and competitive - for what becomes fascinatingly obvious is how this Communist-style society has been programmed to function according to the economic needs of the directorate, which obviously exists for the benefit of the wealthy Charters, so that any questioning of the status quo is dangerous. While Reg’s disappearance and Fan’s departure creates unsettling waves in B-Mor, Lee is also careful to contextualize the B-Mor residents’ responses within their growing frustration with tightened restrictions of access to healthcare; fewer opportunities for their children’s education; and higher prices for goods middle-class families feel they should be able to enjoy. It is not difficult to see our own allegedly “free” democratic society reflected in B-Mor: The B-Mors’ dependence on the system to sustain them, and their willingness to sacrifice liberty for (economic) security, surely speaks to much of middle-class America these days, where we might be momentarily outraged by the government’s treatment of our own citizens (like Fan and Reg) but ultimately, if the lights stay on and the water runs clean and the stores keep food on the shelves, we quickly go back to our usual lives once the furor passes. 

What made Lee’s novel so beautiful to me, besides his delightful prose and intricate characterizations, was its insight into our allegedly-free democratic society. By the end, I found myself asking not so much whether our world could ever be like Fan’s but instead whether we have any chance of not becoming that, if we continue to think so short-sightedly about our individual needs and comforts without considering what role we might be playing in a greater evil by remaining silent and secure. 

Book: On Such a Full Sea

Author: Chang-Rae Lee

Publisher: Riverhead Press

Pages: 352, hardcover

Genre: Sci fi/speculative fiction