#edition: rivages

[stuffed-x-arts]

[angelitam]

Partageons mon rendez-vous lectures #26-2024 & critiques

Voici mes critiques littéraires sur Livres à profusion. La mort sur ses épaules de Jordan Farmer La mort sur ses épaules de Jordan Farmer – Editions Rivages Noirs La jurée de Claire Jéhanno La jurée de Claire Jéhanno – Harper Collins Poche Le dernier Linley et Havers, dédicacé il y a un an, Une chose à cacher d’Elizabeth George Une chose à cacher d’Elizabeth George – Editions Presses de la…

[hivemuthur]

In Thy Name - Ch.3. - Suffocation Day pt. 2.

viktorxfemale!reader a teeny tiny bit of filth, but still very much sfw. She would suffocate otherwise :') gothic AU

Reader is a highly renown linguist hired by Viktor, a paranormal investigator, for a case he cannot crack himself.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST + SOURCES next chapter ->

word count: 5,3K

author's note: Playlist here! @rennethen and @mithrava thank you for beta-reading! And art, of course, by @cringemaster3! Translation of the poem at the bottom :v Also see how I'm keeping the chapters reasonable length? Very demure.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It is eerie in the library. The room is covered floor to ceiling with bookshelves, tomes leather-bound and heavy but besides the obvious titles on all areas that are of Viktor’s interest there are some unexpected—little notebooks of poems, paperback and thin, worn with time, seemingly reached for more than once.

The collection is not the largest you’ve ever seen, nor the grandest, yet something about it holds you in place as you scan the shelves. Dim autumn light filters through tall, narrow windows, casting long shadows over rows of dark-stained bookcases. The air is scented with old paper, ink, and the ghost of candle smoke. A fire burns low in the hearth, its embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat, lending the space an intimacy that makes you feel as though you’ve intruded upon something secret.

You step further in, your skirts whispering against the polished wood floors. The library shows signs of frequent presence—papers stacked in uneven piles upon the desk, a forgotten quill resting atop an open ledger, ink dried mid-sentence. Books lie splayed across various surfaces, their spines cracked, their pages lined with annotations in a precise, slanted hand. Even before your gaze lands on the titles, you sense that this is no idle collection of literary indulgence; everything here has been selected with purpose.

Your fingers trail lightly over the spines, murmuring their titles under your breath. Ars Magna Lucis et Umbrae by Athanasius Kircher, Le Monde Primitif by Antoine Court de Gébelin, volumes on astronomy—Ptolemy’s Almagest, Kepler’s Harmonices Mundi, and even a Latin copy of John Dee’s Monas Hieroglyphica. The works on mathematics are no less impressive—Euler, Descartes, and an entire section dedicated to the studies of non-Euclidean geometry.

You pull a book at random, its leather cover cool beneath your fingertips. The gilded letters on the spine read De Rerum Natura, an old treatise on natural philosophy. Viktor’s interests, it seems, stretch far and wide. It’s a scholar’s collection, but not a passive one; every book you examine bears traces of his thoughts—notations in the margins, underlined passages, pages marked with scraps of paper.

Among the tomes of science and philosophy, you notice something softer: a collection of poetry. Lyrical Ballads by Wordsworth and Coleridge, Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, a French edition of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du mal. You flip through the pages of one, your thumb pausing on a passage that has been marked in ink:

Quand, les yeux fermés, en un soir chaud d'automne, Je respire l'odeur de ton sein chaleureux, Je vois se dérouler des rivages heureux Qu'éblouissent les feux d'un soleil monotone.

Something in the act of his marking it makes you hesitate, feeling as though you’re glimpsing a side of him he does not often reveal. Something entirely different—curiosity perhaps—stirs your mind into wondering who is on Viktor’s mind when he reads it.

You let the book slide shut, exhaling slowly. There’s something about the house—its silence, its contradictions—that unsettles you. It’s full of missing pieces, of thoughts unfinished. Designed to keep strangers away but those who do step close enough, lure inside and trap.

Straightening, you turn towards the desk where your own work awaits. It’s time to bring your mind to the task at hand. You fix disobedient strands of hair back into your updo as you lay out the materials you gathered earlier. You examine Viktor’s translation carefully, the words from the wall written down with his precise hand.

Iměti tъ, kto vъ tьmě idetъ, ne prozъvati. Sъlovo jemu da ne dašь, i vъ noštь ne ględaj v oči jego. Vězdi on, kъto zovetъ i słyšetъ, ale ne imějęti glasa. Vъ tъmъ iměti, osъvobodi iměti.

The original Proto-Slavic text glares at you, and your eyes immediately settle on the key term: iměti. You know from your studies that iměti means “to imitate”—a verb denoting mimicry, the act of reproducing something rather than possessing it. The word feels significant, but in an unsettling way, as if it’s out of place.

Next, you focus on prozъvati—the word Viktor translated as “to call.” The more you study it, the more you find yourself caught by its peculiar form. It is a term that, in this context, goes beyond a mere vocal summoning. Prozъvati feels as if it is connected to something deeper, a way of reaching out that implies more than just speech—an invocation, perhaps, or a beckoning.

You shift your attention to ględaj. The Latin equivalent, spectare, would generally be "to look" or "to see," but this verb in Proto-Slavic carries more weight. It seems to imply a deeper form of observation, a searching gaze—not simply seeing something, but understanding it with a sense of obligation. It makes you wonder how Viktor’s translation, with its focus on avoiding meeting someone’s eyes, fits into the original context.

As your gaze drifts to sъlovo and zovetъ, you find yourself staring at the delicate balance of meaning these words might hold. Sъlovo is simple, translating directly to “word,” but there’s something about it in this particular structure that implies a weight to what is unsaid. And zovetъ—again translated as “calls” in Viktor’s version—seems to hold a different nuance. The form of the verb makes you think of summoning, but not of a voice or a language—more akin to an intangible force.

The final words, vъ tъmъ iměti, prickle your spine with pins. The phrase resists translation, slipping through your fingers as you try to grasp its meaning. The repetition of iměti is strange, its sense of imitation and mimicry now invoking something even darker. This isn’t just about one person calling another, or avoiding eyes. It’s as though the iměti is a way of bringing something into existence—or denying it.

In a fit of frustration, you lean back, rubbing your eyes. Your research has brought you closer to understanding the intent behind Viktor’s translation, but the true meaning remains elusive. The puzzle pieces don’t quite fit together.

What settles over you like cold stone is the realisation that, with what you have at hand, Viktor’s translation is, in fact, correct—and your expertise here is useless.

The usurper of he who walks in darkness must not be called. Give him no word, and in the night, do not meet his eyes. Everywhere he is, he hears when called, but he has no voice of his own. In the echo, rid the fake.

Nothing about it seems out of place—no lost sense, no hidden clue, nothing to suggest an error. You read both versions again and again, murmuring them under your breath, transposing them into Latin, Greek, and French. And yet, in every language, the meaning remains the same.

A sigh presses from the shallow part of your chest, constricted by the corset’s cruel embrace. You slump backwards in the chair, pressing your fingers to your temple. And the moment you close your eyes, something cold and dreadful unfurls within you.

You are in the library—yet you have no memory of getting here. No recollection of walking, of reaching for the door handle, of pushing open the heavy wooden wings. No moment where you crossed the threshold. You are simply... here.

The word rings between your ears like a church bell: imě. And then—nothing. Blackness, thick and suffocating, folding over you like the sea swallowing a drowning man—until, at last, it disperses into the gentle warmth of the library’s hearth.

Beyond the window, whatever feeble sun had struggled all day to pierce the clouds had long since surrendered. Now, it hovered low over the horizon, its light thin and waning, swallowed by the encroaching dusk. You glance at the clock, swallowing down the lump of disquiet that has settled in your throat. With a lip caught between your teeth, you gather your notes and march to Viktor’s study.

Your heart is a weight on your shoulder, your breath shallow as you raise a hand to knock. The sound barely has time to settle before his voice—muffled by the heavy wood—reaches you.

"Come in."

You step inside, and the warm glow of lamplight casts long shadows over the walls, stretching his silhouette behind the desk. He straightens at the sight of you, his expression soft with familiarity.

"There you are," he says, voice carrying the warmth of a fire just stoked. "It was getting late. Have you found something?"

“I—” You hesitate, pressing your notes to your chest. "Nothing. Your translation is perfect, by my standards."

"Oh," Viktor murmurs, something like a pleased hum threading through his voice. "I am flattered. Are you certain, though? Please, take a seat," he says, extending his hand to the chair facing him.

"Thank you, but I've been sitting all this time. I will gladly stretch my legs," you reply, pacing instead, your fingers tightening around the edges of your papers, your chest still tight with contraption. "I searched through whatever I could find in Greek, Latin, and French," you continue, exhaling sharply. "I have also skimmed through Slavic myths." You shake your head. "And this is so... vague. The possibilities are endless."

Viktor watches you with quiet patience, fingertips idly tapping against the desk. "Would you like to share at least one of them? I do have the time."

"Well, of course," you say, rolling your shoulders back. "Since this is undoubtedly an early form of a Slavic language, the first creature that comes to mind is Licho—or Likho, depending on the region. A one-eyed demon of misfortune, sometimes appearing as an old woman or a beggar to gain entry into homes. It offers false guidance, pretending to bring luck or wisdom, while in truth leading people to ruin. As per the usurper in your translation..."

Viktor hums, his gaze sharp with interest. "Interesting," he murmurs, though in truth, something in his chest stirs—no, it roars—his mind alight with the rare thrill of sharing thought with someone equally consumed by the subject at hand. To watch you pace, to see the way your hands carve meaning into the air, your face shifting with each thread of thought—half offered to him, half spoken into the ether—is, to him, a remarkable sight.

Were it a thought he dared to entertain, he might even say that, in this brief exchange, you had made him feel less alone.

"Also," you draw a breath through clenched teeth, shifting your weight, "Boginki. The False Mothers. Infamous for stealing babies and replacing them with changelings—sometimes pretending to be caretakers, or... well, mothers." You resume pacing, your voice gaining momentum. "There are plenty of such beings across different mythologies, but none fit exactly." You pause, glancing at him. "The do not meet his eyes fragment—why? What would happen if you did?"

Viktor folds his hands atop the parchment, contemplative. "Are you suggesting a creature that turns people to stone?"

"Something like that," you murmur. "Are you familiar with the origin of the Medusa myth?"

His brow lifts, curious. "Is there any other than the widely known?"

"It’s a mistranslation," you say, turning to face him fully. "Or rather—truth lost in layers of retelling. It’s speculated that what we now know as Medusa—who evolved from the Gorgons—was originally a male warrior with wild hair, appearing in Mesopotamian, Near Eastern, and Indo-European myth. The turning-into-stone element simply meant death, brought by the warrior or guardian, whoever he was." You halt at the edge of his desk, eyes steady on his. "It’s a long shot, isn’t it?"

You exhale, finally, and sink into the chair behind you.

Viktor leans forward, pulling the parchment closer, his eyes scanning the inked lines with renewed purpose. "It does not matter. This is exactly what I wanted from you—a fresh mind." He taps the page once. "What else are we missing?"

You lean in, reading the text upside down. Your voice drops to a murmur. "It could also be the Leshy."

Viktor glances up. "No voice of his own?"

"Precisely. Leshy is known to imitate human voices to lure people into the forest," you say, more softly now. "But in most depictions, he doesn’t speak. He only echoes."

"Fascinating," Viktor replies, leaning back. "None of this, however, gives us any clue about the breathing affliction."

"Sadly, it doesn’t," you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet. The long hours seated make it feel as though your chest can no longer hold a proper breath. You drift across the room, gaze trailing over the shelves. “There is also a thing called the Mara,” you say absently. “It’s believed she sits on people’s chests at night, stealing the breath from their lungs and filling their dreams with horror.”

You stop, hand brushing the back of a nearby chair, and release a long, weary breath. “But I really don’t know how to tie all of this together,” you murmur—defeated, yet still searching.

Around you, books and trinkets are arranged with the precision of a mind that values order—yet there are signs of frequent use: papers stacked in uneven piles, ink bottles left uncorked, a cup of tea long gone cold. Viktor watches you closely.

“It is barely your first day,” he says, voice low and thoughtful. “Nothing gets done in one day.”

You scoff under your breath, unsatisfied by the ease in his tone. One arm wrapped tightly around your midsection, the other gliding along the book spines, you scan the titles with mild distraction. Pressure begins to coil inside your ribs again, a subtle ache swelling with each shallow breath.

Then, amidst the neatly arranged oddities, your gaze catches on a deck of cards—its edges plain, the backs painted with modest, medieval designs.

Your fingers brush the stack as you speak. “Do you dabble in cartomancy as well, Mr. Velesny?”

“Occasionally. When I run out of options,” he replies, rising slowly. His steps are long as he comes toward you, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely above a murmur, warm against your shoulder. “And I thought we agreed—you should call me Viktor.”

“My apologies... Viktor,” you manage, though your voice is thin, breath trailing at the end. Your insides feel unbearably constricted, your corset biting down with every rise of your lungs. Is it the garment—or him? You can’t tell. “It’s an odd deck. I’ve never seen this type before.”

“It’s Minchiate,” he says, reaching around you to lift the deck, the closeness of him sending a fresh wave of heat to your face. “It includes additional cards. Offers deeper insight.”

He presents it to you on an open palm. “Shuffle it. Draw one.”

You hesitate, gathering the cards from his hand. “Are you certain?”

“Absolutely. Perhaps it will give us a clue—of all things.”

The weight of the deck is unexpected in your hands. The cards are slightly too large for your palms to shuffle gracefully, so you do it slowly. Once you deem it ready, you ask, “Alright then... how do I do this?”

“Cut the deck where it feels right. Pull the top card.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift the cards, the pressure in your chest intensifying. You cut the deck, drawing the top card with effort. “It says only... XI.”

“Hermit,” Viktor replies at once. “Interesting.”

“Is it telling me I’m a loner?” You attempt a smile, though your lips are dry and your vision is beginning to tunnel.

“No,” he says softly. “Traditionally, the Hermit is depicted blind, carrying a lantern. Look—” He turns to the bookshelf and pulls out a small booklet, flipping quickly through the pages. At last, he taps one with his finger. “Marseille, L’Hermite.” He tilts the book toward you, revealing a hunched old man printed in black and white, clutching a lantern, his face disturbingly grotesque. “He carries knowledge where there is none. Hope, even,” Viktor says, voice low, almost reverent.

Your voice breaks on the exhale. “Am I your hope, then?”

“You might as well be,” he says with a quiet smile, though his gaze is searching—watching the colour drain from your face.

Your breath catches—high and shallow. The bookcase in front of you feels like the only thing keeping you upright. A cold sweat breaks across your brow as black seeps into the edges of your sight. Your mouth opens, but no air reaches your lungs. Every gasp is swallowed by fabric and bone.

“It’s too tight,” Viktor murmurs, moving swiftly behind you. His voice drops into urgency. “Miss, you will faint if we don’t fix this now. Do I have your consent?”

It is by absolute necessity, he tells himself, as his fingers hover at the nape of your neck, brushing a few stray strands aside. You nod—unable to spare a breath for ‘yes’—and whatever air remains in your chest hitches when his fingertips ghost the skin just beneath your hairline.

“Dear God, why would you endure this torture?” Viktor mutters, hooking the cane over his forearm. And were he not so concerned just now, perhaps he might have caught the irony in his own words—his breath always shallow, each one measured, careful not to draw too much air into lungs that have never known ease.

His hands settle at the base of your spine, hovering just above the row of buttons that fasten the back of your bodice. You feel him hesitate—the brief pause of a man bracing himself—before his fingers begin their work.

"Who in their right mind designed this number of closures?" he mutters under his breath, his tone caught between irritation and disbelief.

His knuckles brush the fabric with each movement, slow and methodical. He works his way upward, button by button, the task made no easier by how closely they sit to one another. The silence between you is thick, broken by the soft clicks of fastenings getting undone and the occasional flutter of your breath as your lungs strain for air they still cannot fully claim.

At last, the final button slips free, and the bodice loosens at the edges, exposing the laces beneath. Viktor hesitates once more.

“This will be colder,” he murmurs, more to himself than you.

Then his fingers dip beneath the stiff outer fabric, brushing over the linen underdress that lies flush against your skin. There's no bare contact, yet the warmth of your body radiates through the thin barrier, sinking into his touch like heat into snow. His fingertips still, then resume—precise and steady, despite the way his pulse has begun to thunder at his throat.

He says nothing, but you feel him falter just slightly when the curve of his hand grazes the small of your back. Through the light linen, faint freckles are visible—soft constellations scattered across your skin. He memorises them without meaning to.

The laces loosen, one at a time, pulled free in patient sequence. The tension around your ribs begins to melt, and your shoulders drop with a trembling sigh.

When he finally begins to draw the laces back, this time more loosely, the process is slower. The cords resist the rhythm, and his hands must navigate the now-shifting fabric more carefully.

“You seem well-versed in unlacing, but not in lacing back, Viktor,” you murmur, a touch dryly, attempting to cut through the electric tension.

There’s a pause. Then—“Is that your concern now?” he replies, and when you let out a breathy chuckle, he adds, “Would it unsettle you if I said yes?”

Caught entirely off guard, you say nothing. Embarrassed—ashamed, even—you feel heat bleeding into your cheeks and scold yourself for attempting to tease a man who can clearly fight back. Noting your capitulation, Viktor only smiles to himself.

Finally, the knot is tied, the corset now sitting far less cruelly against your ribs—and at last, you can breathe. He pulls the bodice, which had slipped from your waist, back into place and begins the mundane task of fastening all the buttons.

To your utter loss, now that you’re finally able to feed your lungs with air, they refuse to cooperate—your breathing remains shallow, faltering. You startle especially when his hands reach the upper part of your back, where the only thing shielding your skin is the almost non-existent undershirt. It burns, nearly, and you are uncertain whether it’s your ears clogging with pressure or if it is, in fact, Viktor swallowing hard.

Once done, he straightens the fabric gently, then lifts his hand to smooth his palm down the length of your back—a final touch, calm and grounding.

“There. Is that better?”

You do not answer right away. You simply inhale. A true breath—full and deep, stale air spilling into your lungs without pain. It fills you so completely it feels like drowning in reverse.

“Yes,” you whisper, steadying yourself. “Thank you.”

Viktor’s hand lingers a moment longer before falling away. The silence between you shifts—not eased, but altered—recalibrated into something that hovers between tension and trust. Something very much alive. It emboldens you enough to say, “It would not unsettle me. To know that you are versed.”

You notice a smile ghosting across his lips as he lowers his gaze. Only now do you realise that perhaps he is just as flustered as you—only far better at hiding it. His cheeks are tinged with the faintest pink, and though his eyes remain half-lidded, their exact shade hidden beneath lowered lashes, you are certain his pupils are as wide as when he speaks of his revelations.

He clears his throat, a subtle but telling gesture, and places his cane back in hand with a practised movement. “The sky is clouded tonight,” he says, gesturing toward the darkened window with the tip of the handle. “But if you wish to breathe some rich air—to make up for the losses of today—I could show you the garden,” he offers, voice low, almost cautious.

You tilt your head. “Algernon mentioned night is not a good time?”

“Nonsense,” Viktor replies without hesitation. A rare sharpness edges his tone, though it fades as quickly as it came. “It’s gorgeous at night. Come.”

He doesn’t wait for your agreement. With quiet assurance, he turns and begins toward the study door, his gait measured, cane making the floorboards creak beneath his weight. You fall into step beside him, still gathering yourself, still remembering how to breathe.

The house is hushed at this hour. Every candle seems dimmed in deference to the dark, casting the corridors in a soft, amber gloom. The air grows cooler as you descend the staircase and take a turn down a hallway you haven’t yet seen—narrow, panelled in darker wood, with windows showing glimpses of the pale grounds beyond.

You pass an arched doorway and then another before he stops at a pair of tall, glass-paned doors, fogged by the moisture on the other side, framed by a narrow marble arch. He produces a key from his coat pocket and unlocks them with a soft click.

The scent reaches you first. Earth. Cold leaves. Damp moss. The faint sweetness of something still blooming despite the season.

He pushes the doors open with his shoulder and steps aside, one hand resting lightly on the frame as he motions for you to enter first.

A winter garden. Quiet and low-lit, enclosed beneath a vaulted glass roof that reflects the barest shimmer of moonlight breaking through the clouds. Ferns and climbing ivy stretch toward the light, while rows of hardy white blossoms open like stars against the deep green. The temperature inside is cool but not unpleasant—tempered by the plants, the enclosed warmth of stone and soil.

A narrow path winds through raised beds, and somewhere nearby, a slow trickle of water laps gently over stone.

Viktor follows you inside, the door clicking shut behind him. “I find this place... peaceful,” he says, his voice quiet, respectful of the stillness. “There are few things here that ask anything of me.”

You glance over at him, watching the way his hand brushes one of the broad leaves as you pass—a barely-there touch, reverent.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmur. Your voice feels more real here, less strained. “Have you... done this?”

“Yes. Once, I thought herbs and plants might bring the answer to something I was researching,” he replies, his voice gentler now, touched by memory. “They did not. But the garden remains.” He glances around the space, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Everything that blooms here chooses to. Nothing is forced.”

You walk a few more steps in tandem, the air fragrant with damp leaves and faint blossoms. Your lungs slowly begin to trust the freedom they’ve been given—each breath deeper than the last, no longer catching or shallow. You pause beside a low-growing bush with narrow, silver-edged leaves, letting your fingertips brush against them.

“What was the question you were trying to answer?” you ask softly, curiosity laced with awe as you glance at him.

He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Ah... that does not matter now.” A small shrug of one shoulder. “Even though it was not found, I am grateful for this place.”

There’s something in the way he says it—no bitterness, only acceptance. You watch him a moment longer, studying how different he seems here: his shoulders looser, the lines around his mouth softened, his eyes reflective instead of watchful.

“You really are full of skills,” you murmur, half to yourself, still stunned by the strangeness and serenity of the hidden garden.

“I am full of interests. Of curiosity,” he corrects with a quiet chuckle. “Here, my skills were not much use.”

Before you can ask more, a sudden rustle from a tall fern nearby makes you flinch. Something flutters past—quick and black—and lands on a bare branch overhead with a sharp flutter of wings. It lets out a single, high-pitched squeak.

“Viktor!”

Startled, you turn to him. “A... grackle?” you ask, blinking.

He smiles with unmistakable fondness. “Yes. Meet Rio.” He gestures toward the bird, who has now begun preening one wing. “He comes and goes as he pleases, through that window there.” He motions toward a narrow, open pane set into the far wall. “Be careful what you say around him. He’s gained a reputation for using people’s words against them.”

“Viktor. Sad,” the bird croaks in a mockingly low tone, tilting its head.

“See?” Viktor murmurs, almost amused. “He will paint me pathetic before you even get the chance to know me better.”

There’s a flicker of something like vulnerability in his expression, but it passes quickly. He slips his hand into the pocket of his coat and retrieves a small metal ring, thumbing through a few keys until he unhooks one. Carefully, he places it into your open palm.

“You may come here as much as you wish,” he says, his voice low, nearly blending with the rustling leaves. “I find this place good for the mind.”

You glance down at the key resting in your palm. The cool weight of it feels symbolic, as though you’ve been let in on something secret—something close to his heart. A small part of him, entrusted to you.

Lifting your eyes to his, you find his gaze steady, amber dimmed by the faint glimpses of moonlight through the glass. You offer a quiet, sincere, “Thank you.”

The silence that follows is not uncomfortable—it hums with something unspoken. His expression shifts just slightly, something flickering behind his eyes.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Viktor says, stepping back with a subtle shift in tone, practical again, though a note of softness lingers. “The Černoglav family asked for three days to prepare for our arrival.”

You nod, the name pulling your thoughts briefly back to your larger task.

“In the meantime,” he continues, “I’ve been called to another case. It might be entertaining—should you wish to accompany me.” His tone is hopeful, inviting.

“Oh?” you ask, curiosity tugging at your voice. “What supernatural aid are you bringing this time?”

He lifts his cane slightly, gesturing as though introducing the absurdity of the situation. “A family nearby is being haunted by the ghost of a vengeful horse.”

You blink, trying very hard to hold back a disbelieving smirk blooming on your face. “A vengeful... horse?”

“A stallion, precisely,” he clarifies, with deadpan seriousness. “Do not mock, Miss. They are terrified,” he adds, moving closer and pointing his fingers at you in a playful scold, cheeks hollowing with a ghost of a smile.

You press a knuckle to your lips, attempting not to laugh. “Have they tried feeding it some phantom sugar cubes?”

“That is our job,” he replies smoothly, though the corner of his eyes lift up, and a smile wrinkles his face. “What do you say?”

You pause for effect, then sigh with mock gravity. “Ah, maybe a bit of distraction will serve us well in all this. Why not.”

“Brilliant,” he says, already half-turned toward the door. “We leave tomorrow after breakfast.”

“I shall await impatiently,” you reply, taking a step to join him, when Rio’s squawk snaps both of your heads toward the source of the sound.

“Imě, imě, imě!” the bird repeats, flapping his wings menacingly on the branch before launching himself through the open window, disappearing into the night.

Viktor blinks, wide-eyed, then looks at you, equally surprised. “Forgive me, Miss, he does that sometimes. Has he startled you?” he asks, quickly recollecting himself and extending a hand for you to grasp.

The memory has already eclipsed in your mind, buried under a cairn of today’s events, when you are suddenly pulled back to both your dream and the eerie door on the first floor. You take his hand but study him carefully, and instead of answering, you ask, “What’s behind the door upstairs?”

“Oh.” Viktor’s brows draw together, taken off guard. “Nothing that should concern you. It’s something from my past, insignificant,” he attempts to dismiss you, but you do not falter.

“Are you certain it’s insignificant?” you press, squeezing his palm insistently.

“Why would you ask?” Viktor pushes back, his expression shifting to one of discomfort. His hand leaves yours, and seeing no answer, only an expectant stare, he takes a step back and straightens himself.

“If there is no justification for this, I do not feel inclined to share.” The cane twists to the floor as he turns his back to you and begins walking toward the door. “Do not raise that matter again, please,” he throws over his shoulder. “And be ready to leave in the morning, should you still wish to accompany me,” he says finally and disappears into the corridor, not giving you a chance to wish him goodnight.

Left alone in the dim garden, the air seems to shift around you, growing colder with each passing second. You hug your arms tightly around yourself, a shiver rolling down your body as the silence presses in. The question lingers in the space between your thoughts, but now there’s something more—something hidden in the shadows of the house. You wonder if the answer you’ve been seeking lies buried somewhere here, wrapped in layers of forgotten memories. The chill in your bones isn’t just from the night air; it’s a creeping unease, the sense that Viktor has closed himself off, and that something crucial remains locked away. Guilt tugs at you for startling him, for prying when perhaps you should have let it go. But the key in your hand—so small, so weighty—feels like a promise, something shared with you. You clutch it to your chest, as if it could offer some comfort, and sigh deeply. At least you can breathe again.

—

Les Fleurs du mal translation:

When, with my eyes closed, on a warm autumn evening, I breathe the scent of your warm breast, I see unfold happy shores That are dazzled by the fires of a monotonous sun.

[soisaidfine]

"someone who took you on a journey, right to the edge of the abyss, of the nightmare, of the unknown, and says: 'Look.'"

Ethel Cain: "I don't really care about reasons. I care about 'does it enrapture'"

ethel cain - make room in hell (demo)

Roberto Benigni: "Freud explains everything, and Fellini didn’t like those who are content with merely explaining. 'It’s like this, or like that…' He loved Jung a lot because he was like a farmer, a peasant, a magician. He was someone who took you on a journey… Jung takes you by the hand, right to the edge of the abyss, of the nightmare, of the unknown, and says: 'Look.'"

(Excerpt from Fellini: I Am a Big Liar, Damian Pettigrew, Arte)

N. T. Binh, to Michel Ciment: "I’d like to return to the way you explain the mix between the need for rationality and the taste for the imaginary in your work…"

Michel Ciment: "I can take an interest in filmmakers of rationality, but one that can be pushed to such an extreme that it tips into the irrational. Many great 19th-century realist writers (Balzac, Théophile Gautier, Maupassant, Mérimée, and others) explored that moment when extreme rationality collides with what seems incomprehensible and shifts into madness or the fantastic. (…)

All of this coexists within me: a taste for rationality and for the fantastic. (…) The notion of myth is intrinsic to humanity. This ties into my interest in Boorman: mythological thought. (…) And his entire cinema is Jungian—it’s a cinema of archetypes, of dreams, of the imagination, while still retaining a sense of realism. In psychoanalysis, the great rupture between Freud and Jung hinges on this very issue. David Cronenberg illustrated it remarkably in A Dangerous Method, with its brilliant Mankiewicz-like dialogues and intellectual debates between the two psychoanalysts. I had discussed it with Cronenberg.

In my view, with filmmakers of Jewish origin (like Kubrick, Polanski, or Cronenberg), rationality prevails. Even when they make fantastic films, they are always governed by a rational thought process. Whereas filmmakers with a Christian background tend to be Jungian, where imagination takes precedence. I think of Fellini, Malick, Boorman, David Lynch. It’s a radically different orientation, even though all of them engage with the fantastic."

(Le cinéma en partage, Editions Rivages)

Ethel Cain: "I don't really care about reasons. I care about 'does it feel good, does it feel true, does it invigorate, does it inspire, does it captivate, does it enrapture'… So sometimes, almost, reading… the explanations, for certain things, make me like it less."

[impeack]

fuck it, new gray oc just dropped

i gotta replace him as the 7th one cuz the crying blood one gotta be repurposed as fan 2kki oc tho their old image will remain up (gotta think of redesign someday)

he is based on a dessert menu from rivage sekai cafe

edit: added another one here than post a new one, this was so much effort put in, it have 46MB according to my medibang gallery (16MB when exported)

[maddiesbookshelves]

📚🗓 Mid-Year Freakout Tag 2024 🗓📚

Thank you @cleopatras-library for the tag ☺️

How many books have you read so far?

10 novels, 2 graphic novels and uh, like 10 or more manga? I don't track all of them

What genres have you read?

Fantasy, historical, romance and mystery. Sometimes several of those in the same book

Best book you’ve read so far in 2024?

Probably The Briar Book Of The Dead, by A. G. Slatter if we're talking about novels only. But the graphic novel Rivages Lointains by Anaïs Flogny is just so good, I'm obsessed with it. If you can, please read it, it's French but it's been translated into English and Italian

Best sequel you’ve read so far in 2023?

The only ones I've read were either manga or the full Dr. Greta Helsing trilogy by Vivian Shaw, which I've read back to back. So either that (book 3, Grave Importance), or the manga Requiem Of The Rose King, by Aya Kanno, that I reread and finally finished after YEARS (yes the ending ended ME)

New release you haven’t read yet, but want to

There are way too many, and I keep seeing more at work, I'm gonna die of frustration. Evocation by S. T. Gibson is eyeing me very strongly because of the internet. As is The Spare Man by Mary Robinette Kowal, from where it's sitting on my coworker's display (it only came out in February in France)

Most anticipated release for the second half of the year

I don't know honestly. The one book I was really waiting for this year was A Crane Among Wolves because I loved June Hur's previous books, and since I've read it now (it's very good btw), I'm not waiting for anything else

Update I learned something as I was writing this post: HEAVENLY TIRANT MIGHT STILL BE COMING OUT THIS YEAR???? DECEMBER 24????? MERRY FUCKING CHRISTMAS TO US???? HELLO?????? After Xiran told us the release date had been pushed back I thought for sure it would come out next year but apparently not so YEAH THAT'S MY MOST ANTICIPATED RELEASE OF THE YEAR, PERIOD

Biggest disappointment

It's a toss between How To Kill Your Family by Bella Mackie, and A Far Wilder Magic by Allison Saft, for reasons that are very different. If it wasn't for that ending, How To Kill Your Family wouldn't even be there but unfortunately. And A Far Wilder Magic just wasn't for me. I didn't expect it to be YA romantasy so I was sorely disappointed

Biggest surprise

Probably A Sign Of Affection by Suu Morishita? Don't get me wrong, I love shoujo (I know, I don't like romance novels but I love shoujo, it makes no sense, don't look at me) and I thought I would like it but I didn't expect to like it this much

Book that made you cry

I cry so often when I read/watch/listen to things that it all gets mixed up in my memories. I think I cried for Rivages Lointains, I definitely cried for Requiem Of The Rose King HAHA. I might have cried for Run Away With Me, Girl by Battan, I'm not sure. All of those are manga by the way, I don't remember if I cried reading a novel this year

Book that made you happy

The Bandit Queens made me happy because the ending was great (unlike How To Kill Your Family) which healed me a little

Most beautiful book cover of a book you’ve read so far this year

Aaaaaaa I don't know. The cover (and sprayed edges) for the French edition of A Far Wilder Magic are a big part of why I even bought it in the first place, but also A Crane Among Wolves...... And of course Aya Kanno's art is just so beautiful, all the covers for the Requiem Of The Rose King series are 👌

How are you doing with your year’s goal?

I had set a goal of 40 on goodreads/storygraph but I might have underestimated how work would impact my reading habits. But also, I'm not dead set on reaching that goal, I just want to read

What books do you need to read by the end of the year?

I'd love to read more of the books I already own because it's becoming a problem. Other than that, there's no urgent need

That was fun so if anyone wants to join in, please feel free!

[christophe76460]

✝️ Indigne !

Pierre, le futur apôtre, est un pêcheur professionnel. Avec ses compagnons, il nettoie les filets sur le rivage après avoir travaillé toute la nuit en vain. Jésus emprunte son bateau pour enseigner la foule puis lui dit : Avance en pleine eau, et jetez vos filets pour pêcher(1).

Pierre est sceptique, mais il obéit à la parole du Seigneur. Ces hommes sont alors témoins d’un miracle. Ils attrapent tant de poissons qu’ils en remplissent deux barques ! À cette vue, Pierre réalise qu’il est en présence de Dieu. Terrassé, il se jette aux pieds de Jésus et s’exclame : Seigneur, éloigne-toi de moi, parce que je suis un homme pécheur(2) .

Pierre, conscient que Jésus est le Dieu tout-puissant, ressent son indignité. Il reconnaît que son cœur est sali par le péché. Mais au lieu de l’abandonner, Jésus le rassure. Car il mourra bientôt sur la croix pour lui afin qu’il soit pardonné et purifié de tout mal.

Avez-vous un jour vécu la révélation de votre état de pécheur ? Si ce n’est pas le cas, demandez au Saint-Esprit de vous convaincre que vous péchez car la tristesse qui est bonne aux yeux de Dieu produit un changement d’attitude qui conduit au salut et qu’on ne regrette pas(3).

Repentez-vous et Dieu s’approchera de vous. Il vous amènera à vivre en sa présence dans la joie d’être à lui pour toujours.

Françoise Lanthier

1/ Luc 5, 4

2/ Luc 5, 8

3/ 2 Corinthiens 7, 10

__________________

Lecture proposée : Lettre de Jacques, chapitre 4, versets 8 à 10.

Vivre aujourd'hui, 13 décembre 2024

Copyright © 2024 Editions CAEF

[sporcafaccenda]

<<Paimpol, mai 2005. La première nuit des vacances de printemps, la gendarmerie ramasse deux cadavres de vieux - invités aux cérémonies commémoratives du 60ème anniversaire du 8 mai 1945. L'un noyé dans les marais de Beauport, l'autre en cinq morceaux éparpillés au cimetière de Ploubazlanec. Vengeance; mobile récent ou historique? Viviane Le Du, institutrice bilingue délurée mais sensible et Mickael Michel, gendarme aussi amoureux que dépassé, vont mener au culot une enquête d'amateurs. Ils constateront, au terme de plusieurs fausses pistes édifiantes, que les petites histoires, individuelles, familiales, sont souvent les invitées-surprises de la grande Histoire<<. Nombreux paragraphes, remarques et visions jubilatoires.

》》Des témoins l'ont vue parler avec la victime pendant le repas. Et Marcel nous a précisé qu'elle rodait aussi autour de l'hôtel "Beau Rivage" hier après-midi sous un prétexte apparemment inventé. Elle a peut-être joué le rôle de la rabatteuse pour isoler Meyer du reste de la fête. Dès que nous aurons fait le topo, vous prendrez Bertrand en passant à l'accueil et vous me la ramènerez séance tenante. Pas de ménagement si elle simule l'étonnement. On va la cuisiner, la "Breizh ma bro"! Et dans un français impeccable, je peux vous le dire! Il se pourrait bien qu'elle se la joue nouvelle égérie des milices collabos. Des néo-nazes aux affiches racistes "gwenn ha du" qu'on trouve sous les ponts de la quatre-voies, l'écart est maigre. Elle serait pas encartée à l'UDB en plus? Je me méfie de tous ces régionalistes qui miment, à coup d'identité culturelle, les grandes valeurs de notre beau pays. Entre les écoles bilingues et le terrorisme, il n'y a qu'un pas, croyez-moi!《《 Fañch Rebours " Les suppliciés du Goëlo" Breizh-Noir n.083, Editions Astoure, 2015

[partenaires-jaiunticket]

LE REVE DU JAGUAR

Par Miguel Bonnefoy

Aux Editions Rivages

Quand une mendiante muette de Maracaibo, au Venezuela, recueille un nouveau-né sur les marches d’une église, elle ne se doute pas du destin hors du commun qui attend l’orphelin. Élevé dans la misère, Antonio sera tour à tour vendeur de cigarettes, porteur sur les quais, domestique dans une maison close avant de devenir, grâce à son énergie bouillonnante, un des plus illustres chirurgiens de son pays. Une compagne d’exception l’inspirera. Ana Maria se distinguera comme la première femme médecin de la région. Ils donneront naissance à une fille qu’ils baptiseront du nom de leur propre nation : Venezuela. Liée par son prénom autant que par ses origines à l’Amérique du Sud, elle n’a d’yeux que pour Paris. Mais on ne quitte jamais vraiment les siens. C’est dans le carnet de Cristobal, dernier maillon de la descendance, que les mille histoires de cette étonnante lignée pourront, enfin, s’ancrer. Dans cette saga vibrante aux personnages inoubliables, Miguel Bonnefoy campe dans un style flamboyant le tableau, inspiré de ses ancêtres, d’une extraordinaire famille dont la destinée s’entrelace à celle du Venezuela.

[nouvellesdumaquis]

Annika and The Forest - A Queen In New York (EP)

Annika and The Forest dévoile sur toutes les plateformes digitales quatre titre rock hommage à New York, inspirés par Lou Reed, Patti Smith, Blondie, et tous les rockeurs de la ville légendaire... La musique accompagne la sortie du roman policier de Marine Béliard chez les éditions Rivages le 15 mai.

Annika and The Forest revient au rock avec le maxi A Queen In New York, quatre titres pour plonger dans le New York des années 80 en lisant le livre très noir de Marine Béliard qui sort le 15 mai aux Editions Rivages Noir.

Annika and The Forest à été invitée par la romancière Marine Béliard à créer et mettre en musique ce morceau phare du groupe de musique dont il est question dans le roman. Un titre dans un style rock avec guitare, guitare basse (Victor Paimblanc) et batterie (David Aknin), au texte exigeant et poétique, (Annika Grill), évoquant l’héroïne du livre, et s’inspirant de l’univers musical de la fin des années 70/80.

Découvrez la musique d'Annika and The Forest ici et le livre de Marine Béliard là

Voici la Lyrics Vidéo d'Oblivious à découvrir :

[lectures-du-vampire-aigri]

« Je m’appelle Mary Katherine Blackwood. J’ai dix-huit ans, et je vis avec ma sœur, Constance. J’ai souvent pensé qu’avec un peu de chance, j’aurais pu naître loup-garou, car à ma main droite comme à la gauche, l’index est aussi long que le majeur, mais j’ai dû me contenter de ce que j’avais. Je n’aime pas me laver, je n’aime pas les chiens, et je n’aime pas le bruit. J’aime bien ma sœur Constance, et Richard Plantagenêt, et l’amanite phalloïde, le champignon qu’on appelle le calice de la mort. Tous les autres membres de ma famille sont décédés. »

Dans ce livre, le lecteur est entraîné dans l'univers gothique et étrange de Merricat, sans savoir qu’il assiste en réalité à la naissance d’une légende urbaine. S’il est difficile de saisir la logique de cette famille, le charme reste présent grâce à l’écriture de Jackson et, unique, il continue de hanter même une fois le roman terminé.

• une question sur cette lecture ? • anecdote - La biographe de Shirley Jackson, Judy Oppenheimer, pose un parallèle entre l’agoraphobie, un des thèmes du roman, et la propre agoraphobie de Jackson. Elle voit également en Merricat et Constance une sorte de yin et de yang de l’auteure. • suggestion de lecture - La maison hantée

[mxvousaime]

🌸 Rivages, new riso zine made with @risosurmer 🌸 Available on my shop online, to warm your heart for better days 🌸 • 🌸 Rivages, nouveau zine imprimé en risographie avec @risosurmer 🌸 Disponible sur mon shop en ligne, pour nous réconforter vers des jours meilleurs 🌸 • • • #rivages #risosurmer #riso #risography #risograph #art #edition #print #illustration #drawing #graphicdesign #colors https://www.instagram.com/p/CBD3Wujhs4q/?igshid=1lgwf8munpgz

[angelitam]

La mort sur ses épaules de Jordan Farmer

La mort sur ses épaule de Jordan Farmer – Editions Rivages Noirs La mort sur ses épaules de Jordan Farmer, présentation Shane et Huddles convoient de la drogue, de nuit, en Virginie Occidentale. Ils se font arrêter par la police. Ferris est le frère de Huddles. Il a fait beaucoup de prison. Avis La mort sur ses épaules de Jordan Farmer Ce roman a été demandé avec ma Kube Majuscule car je n’avais…

[chansondefortunio]

My own personal issue personally with Les Contes d'Hoffmann in my personal opinion

This started off as me taking about how much I love Jessye Norman as Giulietta in this recording but not anymore anyways here's me being annoyed at the Keyes edition of Les Contes d'Hoffmann and other things also.

I had never experienced love until I begun listening to Oeser's edition of the tales of Hoffmann. I really stan Offenbach, but I have to say that, imo, the changes that Oeser presents for Giulietta's act are just superior. His version, simply put, takes the hideously cut up story that the Choudens provided us and music from Offenbach's failed opera Die Rheinnixen. With that, he adds two game changers: Hoffmann losing to Schlemiel in cards and Giulietta tricking Hoffmann.

There's more obvi but these are the changes that I think are the most important.

Giulietta's aria (linked above) proves her character to be more intelligent and clever than in the other two versions. I mean, in those ones the entire process of Giulietta getting Hoffmann is like:

she says "ily so u gotta leave" Hoffmann is like "no because I love u lalala o dieu de quelle ivresse" and she's like "chile ok give me ur reflection " and he's like "aight heart eyes cat emoji"

I have to give the Micheal Keyes edition (the one most accurate to og intentions) some credit, because Giulietta's couplets (below) in it do include a process of tempting Hoffmann. However, I find that the whole act flows weirdly and is quite convoluted.

eThe aforementioned couplets were composed by Offenbach on my birthday! It's really ironic that I don't like them.

Anyways, here are the lyrics for Giulietta's aria in Oesers edition. (english translation beneath)

Nº 20. Air

Giulietta [elle s'asseoit sur le divan, près du miroir]

Qui connaît donc la souffrance

dont mon âme est affligée!

Chacun fuit ce malheur immense

d'une existence enchainée!

Comme les vagues du rivage

rongent les madriers usés,

je ronge les barreaux de ma cage,

mais malgré tout mon courage,

l'espoir ne m'est pas donné...

Ah, si seulement de cet outrage,

je me libérais!

Ah! si une fois seulement

une fois quelqu'un me secourait! Ah!

Ah, si cet homme m'accordait grâce,

à moi, un être infame!

Bonheur de marcher sur ses traces,

moi, sienne de corps et âme!

-

Who then knows of the suffering

which my soul is afflicted by?

Everyone flees from the immense misfortune

of an enchained existence!

Like how the waves on a shore

eat away at worn planks,

I gnaw at the bars of my cage,

but despite all my courage,

I'm not given hope...

Ah, if only from this outrage,

I could be free!

Ah, if just once,

just once somebody could save me,

Ah, if this man could grant me mercy,

to me, an infamous being!

Happiness to follow in this footsteps,

me, to be his in body and soul.

-

full libretto: http://opera.stanford.edu/Offenbach/Hoffmann/acte4.html

In this aria Giulietta describes how, despite her best efforts to escape this cage, (whatever that means) only a man can save her. Woe is she, as no other man has been courageous enough.

For context, Hoffmann just faced his devastating loss to Schlemiel. You can expect that when Giulietta gives him the chance to redeem himself and earn her love, Hoffmann desperately agrees.

I'm gonna go off a little but, but I find that the major flaw in every production of Les Contes d'Hoffmann that I've seen is that the story feels fake. I think directors spend so much time trying to make the 3 main acts fantastical and cool and crazy that they forget that they are supposed to be based off of a reality. The stories don't connect, there are no signs of anything affecting anything else. The most I've seen is the metropolitan opera bringing the pink dolls back in the end of Giulietta's act.

They miss a crucial part of the story; how do these three women connect to one another? How do they come together to become Stella?

Some believe that these are three entirely separate women, but I won't indulge in that as I am not of that perspective :D

Like at the end of each of these acts, all the characters press reset and I feel like I get whiplash. Nothing that just happened even matters, because we're onto the next lady. There's the barest reference to previous events in the text, but the effects of those events are rarely ever shown. How could being objectified as Olympia affect Antonia's behaviour? What about Giulietta's? How does Spalanzani and the obsession with physics change Hoffmann's perspective on love throughout the opera? These are questions that should be asked when creating anything with a narrative; how does x interact with y?

With that, I come back to why I love this version of Les Contes d'Hoffmann. The superficial, shallow and misogynistic values of the society in Olympia's act taught Hoffmann that women are but an object at the will of men. In this aria, Giulietta weaponizes the ideologies that previously oppressed her against one of her main oppressors (edit: not in a violent way. but he does have a pattern of generally not treating her like a a complex human being). She proves herself to not only be a ruthless manipulator, but intrinsically linked to her past self. It gives the existence of Olympia's act a reason to be within the story.

Individually, sure, Olympia's act is effective as a satire of our society. But making it essentially inconsequential is robbing this opera of the nuance and complexity that it holds.

This little rant doesn't even begin to cover my interpretations of this story, because this recording that I base them on is three and a half hours long and the tales of Hoffmann is one of the most vague operas out there. However, I hope that it was useful to you in whatever way that may be!

Also mind that I haven't watched every single production of Les Contes d'Hoffmann, and that I do have ones that I love dearly despite the flaws I describe here.

Please let me know what you think! please! :D

(If you got here, thank you for reading this!)

[mileshyman]

…And the cover for the “luxury edition” of our graphic adaptation of James Ellroy’s “the Black Dahlia” (Casterman/Rivages). #graphicnovel #crimefiction #literaryadaptation #jamesellroy #matz #davidfincher #theblackdahlia #losangelesnoir #bookdesign #castermanbd #rivagesnoir #archaiacomics (at Ile-de-France, France) https://www.instagram.com/mileshyman/p/CYYX7jLMei1/?utm_medium=tumblr

[alanlicht]

Alan Licht’s Minimal Top Ten List #4

A few weeks ago, near the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic, my friend Mats Gustafsson sent out a mass email encouraging people to send him record lists to post on the “Discaholics” section of his website--top tens, favorite covers, anything. I immediately thought of the first 3 Minimal Top Ten lists I did (now found online here) back in 1995, 1997, and 2007 respectively, for the fanzine Halana (the first two) and Volcanic Tongue’s website (the third), and sent them to him. Those articles have sort of taken on a life of their own, and I still see them referenced as the albums get reissued and so on. Occasionally people ask me if I’d ever do another one, and looking at all three again made me think now is the hour. I started writing this in the midst of the lockdown, and the drastic reductions in people’s way of life—the restriction of any activity outside the home to the bare essentials, the relative stasis of life in quarantine, even the visual stasis of a Zoom meeting—make revisiting Minimal music, with its aesthetic of working within limitations and hallmarks of repetition and drones, somehow timely as well.

The original lists were never meant to represent “the best” Minimal albums: they were ones that were rare and in some cases surpass, in my opinion, more widely available releases by the same artist and/or better known examples of the genre. Some were records that hadn’t been classified as Minimalist but warranted consideration through that lens. Likewise, the lists aren’t meant to be ranked within themselves, or in comparison to each other; the first record on any of the lists isn’t necessarily vastly preferable to the last, and this fourth list is not the bottom of the barrel, by any stretch. In some cases the present list has records I’ve discovered since 2007; others are records I’ve known for quite a while but haven’t included before for one reason or another. I’ve also made an addendum to selected entries on the first three lists, which have become fairly dated in terms of what is currently available by many of the artists, and to account for some of the significant archival releases in the 25 years since I first compiled them.

Unlike the mid-90s, most if not all of these records can be heard and/or purchased online, whether they’re up on YouTube or available for sale on Discogs. So finding them will be easier than before (although I haven’t included links to any of the titles as a small tribute to the legwork involved in tracking records down in olden tymes), but hopefully the spirit of sharing knowledge and passions that drove my previous efforts, forged in the pre-internet fanzine world, hasn’t been rendered totally redundant by the 24/7 onslaught of virtual note-comparing in social media.

1. Simeon ten Holt Canto Ostinato (various recordings): This was the most significant discovery for me in the last decade, a piece with over one hundred modules to be played on any instrument but mostly realized over the years with two to four pianos. I first encountered a YouTube live video of four pianists tackling it over the course of 90 minutes or so, then bought a double CD on Brilliant Classics from 2005, also for four pianos, that runs about 2 and half hours. The original 3LP recording on Donemus, from 1984, lasts close to 3 hours. It’s addictively listenable, very hypnotic in that pulsed, Steve Reich “Piano Phase”/”Six Pianos” kind of way, with lots of recurring themes (which differentiates it from Terry Riley’s “In C,” its most obvious structural antecedent). Composed over the span of the 70s, as with Roberto Cacciapaglia’s Sei Note in Logica, it’s an  example of someone contemporaneously taking the ball from Reich or Riley and running with it. Every recording I’ve heard has been enjoyable, I’ve yet to pick a favorite.

2. David Borden Music for Amplified Keyboard Instruments (Red Music, 1981) 3. Mother Mallard’s Portable Masterpiece Co. Like a Duck to Water (Earthquack, 1976): These were some of my most cherished Minimal recordings when I was a teenager in the mid-80s, and are still not particularly well-known; they’re probably the biggest omission in the previous lists (at least from my perspective). Borden formed Mother Mallard, supposedly the first all-synthesizer ensemble, as a trio in the late 60s, although there’s electric piano on the records too. He went on to do music under his own name that hinged on the multi-keyboard Minimalism-meets-Renaissance classical concept he first explored with Mother Mallard, as exemplified by his 12-part series “The Continuing Story of Counterpoint” (a title inspired by both Philip Glass’ “Music in Twelve Parts” and the Beatles’ “The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill”). I first heard Parts 6 & 9 of “Continuing Story” (from Music for Amplified Keyboard Instruments) on Tim Page’s 1980s afternoon radio show on WNYC, and bought the Mother Mallard LPs (Like A Duck is the second, the first is self-titled) from New Music Distribution Service soon after. I mail-ordered the Borden album  from Wayside Music, which had cut-out copies, maybe a year later (c. 1986). I wasn’t much of a synth guy, but I loved the propulsive, rapid-fire counterpoint and fast-changing, lyrical melodies found on these records. “C-A-G-E Part 2,” which occupies side 2 of the Mother Mallard album and utilizes only those pitches, has to be a pinnacle of the Minimal genre. Interestingly, Borden claims to not really be able to “hear” harmony and composes each part of these (generally) three-part inventions individually, all the way through. The two-piano “Continuing Story of Counterpoint Part Two” on the 1985 album Anatidae is also beloved by me, and there was an archival Mother Mallard CD called Music by David Borden (Arbiter, 2003) that’s worth hearing.

4. Charles Curtis/Charles Curtis Trio: Ultra White Violet Light/Sleep (Beau Rivage, 1997): Full disclosure: Charles is a long-time friend, but this record seems forgotten and deserves another look, especially in light of the long-overdue 3CD survey of his performances of other composers’ material that Saltern released last year. This was a double album of four side-long tracks, conceived with the intent that two sides could be played simultaneously, in several different configurations; two of them are Charles solo on cello and sine tones, the others are with a trio and have spoken vocals and rock instrumentation, with cello and the sine tones also thrown into the mix. (I’ve never heard any of the sides combined, although now it would probably be easily achieved with digital mixing software.) The instrumental stuff is the closest you can come to hearing Charles’ beautiful arrangement of Terry Jennings’ legendary “Piece for Cello and Saxophone,” at least until his own recording of it sees the light of day; the same deeply felt cello playing against a sine tone drone. And it would be interesting to see what Slint fans thought of the trio material. Originally packaged in a nifty all-white uni-pak sleeve with a photo print pasted into the gatefold, it was reissued with a different cover on the now-defunct Squealer label on LP and CD but has disappeared since then. Stellar.

5. Arthur Russell Instrumentals 1974 Vol. 2 (Another Side/Crepuscule, 1984) 6. Peter Zummo Zummo with an X (Loris, 1985):  Arthur Russell has posthumously developed a somewhat surprising indie rock audience, mostly for his unique songs and singing as well as his outré disco tracks. But he was also a modern classical composer, with serious Minimal cred—he’s on Jon Gibson’s Songs & Melodies 1973-1977 (see addendum), and played with Henry Flynt and Christer Hennix at one point; his indelible album of vocal and cello sparseness, World of Echo, was partially recorded at Phill Niblock’s loft and of course his Tower of Meaning LP was released on Glass’s Chatham Square label. He’s the one guy in the 70s and 80s (or after, for that matter) who connected the dots between Ali Akbar Khan, the Modern Lovers, Minimalism, and disco as different forms of trance music (taken together, both sides of his disco 12” “In the Light of the Miracle,” which total nearly a half-hour, could arguably be considered one of his Minimalist compositions). Recorded in 1977 & 1978, Instrumentals is an important signpost of the incipient Pop Minimalism impulse, and the first track is a pre-punk precursor to Rhys Chatham and Glenn Branca’s appropriations of the rock band format to pursue Minimal pathways (Chatham is one of the performers in that first piece). The rest, culled from a concert at the Kitchen, features long held tones from horns and strings and is quite graceful, if slightly undercut by Arthur’s own slightly jarring, apparently random edits. [Audika’s 2006 reissue, as part of the double CD First Thought Best Thought, includes a 1975 concert that was slated to be Instrumentals Vol. 1, which shows an even more specific pop/rock/Minimal intersection]. Zummo was a long-term collaborator of Russell’s and his album, which Arthur plays on, is a must for Russell aficionados. The first side is made up of short, plain pieces that repeat various simple intervals and are fairly hard-core Minimalism, but “Song IV,” which occupies all of side two, is like an extended, jammy take on Russell’s disco 12” “Treehouse” and has Bill Ruyle on bongos, who also played on Instrumentals as well as with Steve Reich and Jon Gibson. A recently unearthed concert at Roulette from 1985 is a further, and especially intriguing, example of Russell’s blending of Minimalism and song form. (That same year Arthur played on Elodie Lauten’s The Death of Don Juan--another record I first encountered via Tim Page’s radio show--which I included on Top Ten #3; Lauten as well as Zummo played on the Russell Roulette concert, as their website alleges).

7. Horacio Vaggione La Maquina de Cantar (Cramps, 1978): Another one-off from the late 70s, and yet more evidence of how Minimalism had really caught on as a trend among European composers of the time. Vaggione had a previous duo album with Eduardo Polonio under the name It called Viaje that was noisier electronics, and he went on to do computer music that was likewise more traditionally abstract. But on this sole effort for the Italian label Cramps, as part of their legendary Nova Musicha series, he went for full-on tonality. The title track is like the synth part of “Who Are You” extended for more than fifteen minutes and made a bit squishier; but side 2, “Ending”--already mentioned in the entry on David Rosenboom’s Brainwave Music in Top Ten #3--is my favorite. Kind of a bridge between Minimalism and prog, and a little reminiscent of David Borden’s multiple-synth counterpoint pieces, for the first ten minutes he lingers on one vaguely foreboding arpeggiated chord, then introduces a fanfare melody that repeats and builds in harmonies and countermelodies for the remainder of the piece. Great stuff, as Johnny Carson used to say.

8. Costin Miereanu Derives (Poly-Art, 1984): Miereanu is French composer coming out of musique concrete. Unlike some of the albums on these lists, both sides/pieces on Derives are superb, comprised of long drones with flurries of skittering electronic activity popping up here and there. Also notable is the presence of engineers Philip Besomes and Jean-Louis Rizet, responsible for Pôle, the great mid-70s prog double album that formed the basis of Graham Lambkin’s meta-meisterwork Amateur Doubles. I discovered this record via the old Continuo blog; Miereanu has lots of albums out, most of which I haven’t heard, but his 1975 debut Luna Cinese, another Cramps Nova Musicha item, is also estimable, although less Minimal.

9. Mikel Rouse Broken Consort Jade Tiger (Les Disques du Crepuscule, 1984): Rouse was a major New Music name in the 80s, as was Microscopic Septet saxist Philip Johnston, who plays here. Dominated by Reichian repeated fills that accentuate the odd time signatures as opposed to an underlying pulse, this will sound very familiar to anyone acquainted with Nik Bärtsch’s Ronin albums on ECM, which use the same general idea but brand it “zen funk” and cater more to the progressive jazz crowd rather than New Music fans, if we can be that anachronistic in our terminology. Jade Tiger also contrasts nicely with Wim Mertens’ more neo-Romantic contemporaneous excursions on Crepuscule. Rouse later performed the admirable (and daunting) task of cataloging Arthur Russell’s extensive tape archive for the preparation of Another Thought (Point Music, 1994)

10. Michael Nyman Decay Music (Obscure, 1976): Known for his soundtracks to Peter Greenaway films, and his still-peerless 1974 book Experimental Music: Cage and Beyond (where I, Jim O’Rourke, and doubtless many other intrepid teenage library goers learned of the Minimalists, Fluxus, AMM, and lots of other eternal avant heroes), Nyman is sometimes credited with coining the term “Minimal music” as well, in an early 70s article in The Spectator. Decay Music was produced by Brian Eno for his short-lived but wonderful Obscure label. The first side, “1-100,” was also composed for a Greenaway film, and has one hundred chords played one after another on piano, each advancing to the next once the sound has decayed from the previous chord (hence the album title). For all its delicacy and silences, you’re actually hearing three renditions superimposed on one another, which occasionally makes for some charming chordal collisions (reminiscent of the cheerfully clumsy, subversive “variations” of Pachelbel’s “Canon in D major” on Eno’s own Discreet Music, the most celebrated Obscure release). This is process music at its most fragile and incandescent. In hindsight it may have also been an unconscious influence on the structure of my piece “A New York Minute,” which lines up a month’s worth of weather reports from news radio, edited so that one day’s forecast follows its prediction from the previous day. I’ve never found the album’s other piece, “Bell Set No. 1,” to be quite as compelling, and Nyman’s other soundtrack work doesn’t hold much interest for me, but I’ve often returned to this album.

11. J Dilla Donuts (Stones Throw, 2006): One more for the road. Rightfully acclaimed as a masterpiece of instrumental hip hop, I have to confess I only discovered Donuts while reading Questlove’s 2013 book Mo’ Meta Blues, where he compared it to Terry Riley. The brevity of the tracks (31of ‘em in 44 minutes) and the lack of single-mindedness make categorizing Donuts as a Minimal album a bit of a stretch, but Questlove’s namecheck makes a whole lot of sense if you play “Don’t Cry” back to back with Riley’s proto-Plunderphonic “You’re Nogood,” and “Glazed” is the only hip hop track to ever remind me of Philip Glass. Plus the infinite-loop sequencing of the opening “Outro” and concluding “Intro” make this a statement of Eternal Music that outstrips La Monte Young and leaves any locked groove release in the proverbial dust. There isn’t the space here to really explore how extended mixes, all night disco DJ sets, etc. could be encountered in alignment with Minimalism, although I would steer the curious towards Pete Rock’s Petestrumentals (BBE, 2001), Larry Levan’s Live at the Paradise Garage (Strut, 2000), and, at the risk of being immodest, my own “The Old Victrola” from Plays Well (Crank Automotive, 2001). On a (somewhat) related note I’d also point out Rupie Edwards��� Ire Feelings Chapter and Version (Trojan, 1990) which collects 16 of the producer/performer’s 70s dub reggae tracks, all built from the exact same same rhythm track--mesmerizing, even by dub’s trippy standards. 

Addendum:

Tony Conrad: “Maybe someday Tony’s blistering late 80s piece ‘Early Minimalism’ will be released, or his fabulous harmonium soundtrack to Piero Heliczer’s early 60s film The New Jerusalem.” That was the last line of my entry on Tony’s Outside the Dream Syndicate in the first Top Ten list in 1995, and sure enough, Table of the Elements issued “Early Minimalism” as a monumental CD box set in 1997 and released that soundtrack as Joan of Arc in 2006 (it’s the same film; I saw it screened c. 1990 under the name The New Jerusalem but it’s more commonly known as Joan of Arc).  Tony releases proliferated in the last twenty years of his life, which was heartening to see; I’d particularly single out Ten Years Alive on the Infinite Plain (Superior Viaduct, 2017), which rescues a 1972 live recording of what is essentially a prototype for Outside played by Tony, Rhys Chatham, and Laurie Spiegel (Rhys has mentioned his initial disgruntlement upon hearing Outside, as it was the same piece that he had played with Tony, i.e. “Ten Years Alive,” but he found himself and Laurie replaced by Faust!) and an obscure compilation track, “DAGADAG for La Monte” (on Avanto 2006, Avanto, 2006), where he plays the pitches d, a, and g on violin, loops them over and over , and continually re-harmonizes them electronically--really one of his best pieces.

Terry Riley: The archival Riley CDs that Cortical Foundation issued in the 90s and early 00s don’t seem to be in print, but I feel they eclipse Reed Streams (reissued by Cortical as part of that series) and are crucial for fans of his early work, especially the live Poppy Nogood’s Phantom Band All Night Flight Vol. 1, an important variant on the studio take, and You’re Nogood (see Dilla entry above). These days I would also recommend Descending Moonshine Dervishes (Kuckuck, 1982/recorded 1975) over  Persian Surgery Dervishes (Shandar, 1975), which I mentioned in the original entry on Reed Streams in the first Top Ten; a lot of the harmonic material in Descending can also be heard in Terry’s dream-team 1975 meeting with Don Cherry in Köln, which has been bootlegged several times in the last few years. Finally, Steffen Schleiermacher recorded the elusive “Keyboard Study #1” (as well as “#2,” which had already seen release in a version by Germ on the BYG label and as “Untitled Organ” on Reed Streams), albeit on a programmed electronic keyboard, on the CD Keyboard Studies (MDG, 2002). As you might expect it’s a little synthetic-sounding, but it also has a weird kinetic edge (imagine the “Baba O’Riley” intro being played on a Conlon Nancarrow player piano) that’s lacking in later acoustic piano renditions recorded by Gregor Schwellenbach and Fabrizio Ottaviucci. But any of these versions is rewarding for those interested in Riley’s early output.

Henry Flynt, Charlemagne Palestine: A few of the artists on that first Top Ten list went from being sorely under-documented to having a plethora of material on the market, and Henry and Charlemagne are at the top of the heap. I stand by You Are My Everlovin, finally reissued on CD by Recorded in 2001, as Henry’s peak achievement, but I’m also partial to “Glissando,” a tense, feverish raga drone from 1979 that Recorded put out on the Glissando No. 1 CD in 2011. Charlemagne’s Four Manifestations On Six Elements double album still holds up well, as does an album of material initially recorded for it, Arpeggiated Bösendorfer and Falsetto Voice (Algha Marghen, 2017). The Strumming Music LP on Shandar is a definitive performance, and best heard as an unbroken piece on the New Tone CD reissue from 1995. Godbear (CD on Barooni, vinyl on Black Truffle), originally recorded for Glenn Branca’s Neutral label (which had also scheduled a Phill Niblock release before going belly-up), has 1987 takes of “Strumming Music” and two other massive pieces that date from the late 70s, “Timbral Assault” and “The Lower Depths”; Algha Marghen released a vintage full-length concert of the latter as a triple CD.

Steve Reich: Not a particularly rare record, but his “Variations on Winds, Strings and Keyboards,” a 1979 piece for orchestra on a 1984 LP issued by Phillips (paired with an orchestral arrangement of John Adams’ “Shaker Loops”), is often overlooked among the works from his “golden era” and I’d frankly rate it as his best orchestral piece.

Phill Niblock, Eliane Radigue: As with Henry and Charlemagne, after a slow start as “recording artists” loads of CDs by these two have appeared over the last twenty years. Phill and Eliane’s music was never best served by the vinyl format anyway—you won’t find a lackluster release by either composer, go to it.

Jon Gibson: I called “Cycles,” from Gibson’s Two Solo Pieces, “one of the ultimate organ drones on record” in the first Top Ten list, and it remains so, but Phill Niblock’s”Unmounted/Muted Noun” from 2019′s Music for Organ ought to sit right beside it. Meanwhile, Superior Viaduct’s recent Gibson double album Songs & Melodies 1973-1977 collects some great pieces from the same era as Two Solo Pieces, with players including Arthur Russell, Peter Zummo, Barbara Benary, and Julius Eastman. 

John Stevens: In Top Ten #2 I mentioned John Stevens’ presence on the first side of John Lennon & Yoko Ono’s Life With the Lions; the Stevens-led Spontaneous Music Orchestra’s For You To Share (1973) documents his performance pieces “Sustained Piece” and “If You Want to See A Vision,” where musicians and vocalists sustain tones until they run out of breath and then begin again, which result in a highly meditative and organic drone/sound environment. In my early 00′s Digger Choir performances at Issue Project Room  we did “Sustained Piece,” and Stevens’ work was a big influence on conceptualizing those concerts, where the only performers were the audience themselves. The CD reissue on Emanem from 1998 added “Peace Music,” an unreleased studio half-hour studio cut with a similar Gagaku--meets--free/modal jazz vibe. I also mentioned “Sustained Piece” in my liner notes to Natural Information Society’s Mandatory Reality too, if that helps as a point of reference.

Anthony Moore: Back in ’97 I wondered “How and why Polydor was convinced to release these albums [Pieces from the Cloudland Ballroom and Scenes from the Blue Bag] is beyond me (anyone know the story)?” That mystery was ultimately solved by Benjamin Piekut in his fascinating-even-if-you-never-listen-to-these-guys book Henry Cow: The World is A Problem (Duke University Press, 2019)—it turns out it was all Deutsche Gramophone’s idea!

Terry Jennings, Maryanne Amacher, Julius Eastman--“Three Great Minimalists With No Commercially Available Recordings” (sidebar from Minimal Top Ten list #2): Happily this no longer applies to these three, although Terry and Maryanne are still under-represented. One archival recording of Jennings and Charlotte Moorman playing a short version of “Piece for Cello and Saxophone” appeared on Moorman’s 2006 Cello Anthology CD box set on Alga Marghen, and he’s on “Terry’s Cha Cha” on that 2004 John Cale New York in the 60s Table of the Elements box too. John Tilbury recorded five of his piano pieces on Lost Daylight (Another Timbre, 2010) and Charles Curtis’ version of “Song” appears on the aforementioned Performances and Recordings 1998-2018 triple CD.

Whether or not Maryanne should really be considered a Minimalist (or a sound artist, for that matter) is, I guess, debatable, but I primarily see her as the unqualified genius of the generation of composers who emerged in the post-Cage era, and the classifications ultimately don’t matter—remember she was on those Swarm of Drones/ Throne of Drones/ Storm of Drones ambient techno comps in the 90s, and I’d call her music Gothic Industrial if it would get more people to check it out (and that might be fun to try, come to think of it). She made a belated debut with the release of the Sound Characters CD on Tzadik in 1998, an event I found significant enough to warrant pitching an interview with her to the WIRE, who agreed—it was my first piece for them. Her music was/is best experienced live (the Amacher concert I saw at the Performing Garage in 1993 is still, almost three decades later, the greatest concert I’ve ever witnessed) but that Tzadik CD is reasonably representative, and there was a sequel CD on Tzadik in 2008. More recently Blank Forms issued a live recording of her two-piano piece “Petra” (a concert I also attended, realizing when I got there that it was in the same Chelsea church where Connie Burg, Melissa Weaver and I recorded with Keiji Haino for the Gerry Miles with Keiji Haino CD).  While it’s somewhat anomalous in Amacher’s canon, making a piece for acoustic instruments available for home consumption would doubtless have been more palatable to the composer herself, who rightly felt that CDs and LPs didn’t do justice to the extraordinary psychoacoustic phenomena intrinsic to her electronic music. “Petra” is more reminiscent of Morton Feldman than anything else, with a few passages that could be deemed “minimal.” Some joker posted a 26-minute, ancient lo-fi “bootleg” (their term) recording of her “Living Sound, Patent Pending” piece from her Music for Sound-Joined Rooms installation/performance series on SoundCloud, which is a little like looking at a Xerox of a Xerox of a photo of the Taj Mahal; but you can still visit the Taj Mahal more easily than hearing this or any of Maryanne’s work in concert or in situ, so sadly, it’s better than nothing (and longer than the 7 minute edit of the piece on the Ohm: Early Gurus of Electronic Music CD from 2000).

A few years after Top Ten #2 I was on the phone with an acquaintance at New World Records, who told me he was listening to a Julius Eastman tape that they were releasing as part of a 3CD set. Say what?!?!? Unjust Malaise appeared shortly thereafter and was a revelation. Arnold Dreyblatt had sent me a live tape some time before then of an Eastman piece labeled “Gangrila”—that turned out to be “Gay Guerrilla,” and is surely one of my five favorite pieces of music in existence (the tape Arnold sent was from the 1980 Kitchen European tour and I consider it to be a more moving performance than the Chicago concert that appears on the CD, although it’s an inferior recording). The other multiple piano pieces on Unjust Malaise more than lived up to the descriptions of Eastman performances that I’d read. The somewhat berserk piano concert I mentioned in that entry seems similar to another live tape issued as The Zurich Concert (New World, 2017), and “Femenine,” a piece performed by the S.E.M. Ensemble, came out on Frozen Reeds in 2016. Eastman’s rediscovery is among the most vital and gratifying developments of recent music history--kudos must be given to Mary Jane Leach, herself a Minimalist composer, for diligently and doggedly tracking down Eastman’s recordings and archival materials and bringing them to the light of day.

The Lost Jockey—I was unaware of any releases by this group besides their Crepuscule LP until I stumbled onto a self-titled cassette from 1983 on YouTube. Like the album, the highlight is a piece by Orlando Gaugh--an all-time great Philip Glass rip-off, “Buzz Buzz Buzz Went the Honeybee,” which has the amusing added bonus of having the singers intoning the rather bizarre title phrase as opposed to Glassian solfège. Also like the album, he rest of the cassette is so-so Pop Minimalism.

Earth: Dylan Carlson keeps on keepin’ on, and while I can’t say I’ve kept up with him every step of the way, usually when I check in I’m glad I did. However I’d like to take this opportunity to humbly disavow the snarky comments about Sunn 0))) I made in this entry in Top Ten list #3. Those were a reflection of my general aversion to hype, which was surrounding them at the time, and of seeing two shows that in retrospect were unrepresentative (I was thunderstruck by a later show I saw in Mexico City in 2009). Stephen O’Malley has proven to be as genuinely curious, dedicated and passionate about drone and other experimental music as they come, and the reissue of the mind-blowing Sacred Flute Music from New Guinea on his Ideologic Organ label is a good reminder of how rooted Minimalism is in ethnic music, and how almost interchangeable certain examples of both can be. 

And while we’re in revisionist mode, let’s go full circle all the way back to the very first sentence of the introduction to the first Minimal Top Ten: “I know what you’re thinking: ECM Records, New Age, Eno ambients, NPR, Tangerine Dream. Well forget all that shit.” Hey, that stuff’s not so bad! I was probably directing that more at the experimental-phobic indie rock folks I encountered at the time, and expressing a lingering resentment towards the genre-confusion of the 80s (i.e. having dig through a bunch of Kitaro records in the New Age bins in hopes of finding Reich, Riley, or Glass; even Loren Mazzacane got tagged New Age once in a while back then, believe it or not), which probably hindered my own discovery of Minimalism. What can I say, I’m over it!

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