#i am being forced to read it for an honor literature course

[realsafari]

whoever the FUCK reviewed FUCKING LOLITA as “the only convincing love story of our century…” needs to be TORTURED,

BLOOD EAGLED,

AND HUNG IN THE TOWN SQUARE TO ROT.

[critrolesideblog]

Caleb Widogast pushed his hair out of his face for the ei--nineteenth time in about as many minutes. Caleb and Essek were reading for pleasure this evening, with the aid of Comprehend Languages: Caleb the collected poems of Erdan Niemi, a famous Drow bard, and Essek, Die Waldhexe und andere Zemnische Volksmärchen. They were seated at opposite ends of one of the sofas in the tower salon, their legs in the middle not quite touching. But some time into Essek's reading, the repeated scrape of sweater against paper edge and rustle of hand in hair became too much for him to ignore.

It was a long time coming really. Essek recalled that it had been Veth who had braided back Caleb's hair for him, when they were in Aeor last. Since there was no Veth to braid it this time around, Caleb had fallen into the habit of roughly tying it back in a ponytail or bun, with varying degrees of success, depending on the amount of effort he put into it, which, lately, was middling, and tonight, none at all. There were times when the mess was charming: when Caleb shuffled into the dining room in the morning, stray locks framing his face; when he ran his hand through his hair in excitement at a new discovery; when some friendly wind caused wayward strands to brush just so against his lips. At the moment, though... Essek took a large sip of his wine and set the glass gently back on the table. "Caleb?"

"Hmm?"

Despite the response, Essek knew better than to continue right away. Caleb's head tilted up toward him slowly, but his eyes lingered on the page a moment longer. When blue finally met lilac, Essek took a  deep breath breath. "May I... braid your hair for you?"

Caleb blinked once, twice, three times, before his eyebrow and lips quirked up with a humor that was a little too insightful. "Well, if it’s bothering you..."

Essek gave a huff of laughter at being caught, before pressing his hands together in front of his lips, arranging his features into a semblance of solemnity. "It is driving me insane." Caleb laughed, as Essek hoped he would.

"I apologize if I have driven you to distraction," he replied, in a voice that sounded not remotely contrite. Essek averted his eyes and took another small sip of wine to provide an alibi for the warmth in his cheeks. "Please, by all means." Caleb pulled free the tie holding his hair in place, and with a small shake of his head, the copper strands fell down around his face and shoulders.

Essek gathered his composure, clearing his throat slightly. "Excellent -- ah, Liesl?" He said quickly, turning to the tortoiseshell cat relaxing in front of the fireplace. She opened one amber eye in response.

Liesl was Essek's right-hand cat. She had been standoffish at first, it was true, but it seemed Essek's years in politics were not wasted in the ruins of Aeor. "Liesl, would you please have Jaakko fetch me some additional hair ties and a comb?" Liesl, without raising her head from her paws, turned her gaze to the cat in question, all black and slender, whose interpretation of cleaning apparently included batting a piece of crumpled paper around the legs of a desk with incredible enthusiasm. At some unseen signal, he turned his attention to Liesl, and after a series of tail twitches, trotted off into  a nearby cat door. She turned her gaze back to Essek. "Thank you, Liesl. That will be all." She chirped at him in response and returned to her nap.

Caleb's eyes were back on his book now, but Essek did not recall anything in Niemi's works amusing enough to justify the grin on Caleb's face, which Essek now had an excuse to give due consideration. He did not think the braids that Verin favored in their youth would suite him particularly well, and they were a bit elaborate for a night in, besides. Perhaps just a variation on the Gwardanian-style braid Veth employed.

Jaakko returned in no time, the items required laid out neatly on a tray held aloft by his long tail, and, with one last small sip of wine, Essek rose from the sofa and moved to stand behind Caleb. He took a deep breath as he picked up the amber comb from the tray. There was no cause, he told himself sternly, for his heart to be racing as it was, which was, of course, a lie. He raised the comb above the copper strands. "I am going to begin now?"

"Ja, danke."

Whether the thanks was for the impending braid or the warning, Essek was not sure, but he drew the edge of the comb gently back along the scalp, carefully delineating a section of hair at the top of Caleb's head. He tied the sides and back out of the way, and if his face warmed at the brush of fingertips on neck, there was no one able to see it. He gathered up the hair closest to Caleb's face and divided it in thirds, before weaving the right third over the center and then left over center. He repeated the process, carefully gathering more strands in on the sides as he went. He was about halfway through with the braid, when Caleb leaned to the left without warning, nearly pulling the locks from his grasp.

"Pysy paikallasi!" Essek hissed, decades-old habit causing the words to spill from his lips in Undercommon, but it did not matter. Comprehend Languages was still in effect. "Mitä sinä teet?"

"I want some wine," Caleb explained, extending his arm to the side to demonstrate that the glass was just out reach.

"Did Veth allow you to move around when she braided your hair?"

"She never complained."

"Then she spoiled you terribly."

"Will you hand me the wine?"

"No," he replied sternly, gathering the strands into one hand, careful not to mix them up, and then leaning over and passing the goblet to its owner.

"You are a riot, Herr Thelyss," Caleb said dryly, but Essek caught a glimpse of a grin as he straightened.

"I am glad you think so. I have been thinking of taking my comedy show on the road when we are done here."

"You should ask Veth if she has any material you can use. Will there be a Mighty Nein discount on tickets?"

"Please, if anything, I should charge you all extra for the honor of heckling me."

Caleb gave a mock gasp. "The Nein? Heckle you? We would never."

"Ha! Tell me another one!"

Caleb's shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

Essek stopped gathering new hair into the top braid, braiding the remaining length of the locks together, and tying them off. He then shifted to the left and began the process again with a section starting at Caleb's left temple. From this vantage point, he could spy the gilded edges and precise black script of the book in Caleb hands (and what hands they were! Capable, as he knew, of both great destruction and healing. And, perhaps, from this vantage, he could also glimpse the stately sweep of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose, the strength of his jaw, but who was to say.).

"How are you enjoying the poetry so far?" He asked, affixing his eyes firmly to the task in front of him. He had not known whether Caleb enjoyed poetry, when he gifted it to him. He had doubted, though, that Caleb had much opportunity to avail himself of Kryn literature during his time in Rosohna, and Caleb had seemed delighted, even touched, by the gift. He did not seem to be making quick progress through the text, however.

"Very much so," Caleb replied after taking a sip of wine. "I imagine I am sometimes missing some nuance or cultural context -- Comprehend Languages is a bit of a blunt instrument -- but I am enjoying it even more than I thought I would. You almost made it sound dry in your description, when you gave it to me."

"Ah, no, not dry. Only, all young Drow are forced to read his works as part of our schooling, and it colors our enjoyment of it somewhat."

"I see."

"Do you have a favorite passage so far?"

Caleb did not respond right away. "Yes..." He admitted, at last, and added, "It is from the Courtship of Lael."

Essek nearly lost his grip on the braid as he fumbled the strands mid-crossing. He had forgotten the Courtship was so early in the text. "Oh?" He asked, hoping it came across as polite interest.

"Would you like to hear it?" Caleb's voice had a softer, deeper hue than usual.

"If you like."

There was quiet for a moment.

Caleb did not turn to the page -- he did not need to. He merely cleared his throat lightly, and began:

"My lover's skin is a field of stars. What bliss to wander among the heavens! Let me approach as a pilgrim from the dark. Let me worship on my knees before the holy light. Let no beacon go without a prayer from my lips."

Every opalescent freckle on Essek's skin was now a flame. He swallowed hard. "That--that was, ah ... evocative."

"Ja, I thought so too." Caleb chuckled.

Essek tied off the left braid and moved around to the opposite side. They passed the time in quiet, as Essek's dexterous hands, having found their rhythm, made quick work on the braid on the right. And if he had a new awareness of the freckles that made fiery constellations along the slope of Caleb's neck, he gave no indication.

"You know it is a good thing you are braiding my hair up, with us going deeper into the Genesis Ward tomorrow." Caleb said at last, as Essek gathered the braids and the loose strands left over in the back up into a neat ponytail, tying it off with Caleb's original tie. There was more than a little mischief in his voice. "I should hate for Devexian to see me for the first time in months with my hair a mess."

"You are a riot, Caleb Widogast," Essek drawled.

"I'm glad you think so."

.

.

.

----

Notes: Pysy paikallasi! Mitä sinä teet? -  Stay still! What are you doing?

[blackboxoffice]

‘The Underground Railroad’ attempts to upend viewers’ notions of what it meant to be enslaved

by William Nash, Professor of American Studies and English and American Literatures, Middlebury

Above: Making the series changed Barry Jenkins’ views on how his ancestors should be described and depicted. Atsushi Nishijima/Amazon Studios

Speaking on NPR’s Fresh Air, Barry Jenkins, the director of “The Underground Railroad,” noted that “before making this show … I would have said I’m the descendant of enslaved Africans.”

“I think now that answer has evolved,” he continued. “I am the descendant of blacksmiths and midwives and herbalists and spiritualists.”

As a scholar interested in how modern representations of enslavement shape our understanding of the past, I am struck by the ways Jenkins seeks to change the way viewers think about – and talk about – Black American history.

In doing so, he takes the baton from scholars, activists and artists who have, for decades, attempted to shake up Americans’ understanding of slavery. Much of this work has centered on reimagining slaves not as objects who were acted upon, but as individuals who maintained identities and agency – however limited – despite their status as property.

Pushing the boundaries of language

In the past three decades there has been a movement among academics to find suitable terms to replace “slave” and “slavery.”

In the 1990s, a group of scholars asserted that “slave” was too limited a term – to label someone a “slave,” the argument went, emphasized the “thinghood” of all those held in slavery, rendering personal attributes apart from being owned invisible.

Attempting to emphasize that humanity, other scholars substituted “enslavement” for “slavery,” “enslaver” for “slave owner,” and “enslaved person” for “slave.” Following the principles of “people-first language”– such as using “incarcerated people” as opposed to “inmates” – the terminology asserts that the person in question is more than just the state of oppression imposed onto him or her.

Not everyone embraced this suggestion. In 2015, renowned slavery and Reconstruction historian Eric Foner wrote, “Slave is a familiar word and if it was good enough for Frederick Douglass and other abolitionists it is good enough for me.”

Despite such resistance, more and more academics recognized the limitations of the older, impersonal terminology and started to embrace “enslaved” and its variants.

The new language reached another pinnacle with the publication of The New York Times’ 1619 Project. In the opening essay, project editor Nikole Hannah-Jones eschews “slave” and “slavery,” using variants of “enslavement” throughout. However controversial the series may be, it is setting the terms of current discussions about enslavement.

“Enslaved person” – at least among people open to the idea that a fresh look at American chattel slavery necessitated new language – became the new normal.

What, then, to make of Barry Jenkins’ saying he wants to push past this terminology?

In that same NPR interview, Jenkins notes that “right now [Americans] are referring to [Black slaves] as enslaved, which I think is very honorable and worthy, but it takes the onus off of who they were and places it on what was done to them. And I want to get to what they did.”

I think that Jenkins is onto something important here. Whichever side you take in the ongoing terminology debate, both “slave” and “enslaved person” erase both personality and agency from the individuals being described. And this is the conundrum: The state of enslavement was, by definition, dehumanizing.

Above: Caesar, played by Aaron Pierre, and Cora, played by Thuso Mbedu, escape from the plantation where they were held as slaves in ‘The Underground Railroad.’ Kyle Kaplan/Amazon Studios

For artists, writers and thinkers it’s difficult to reflect on the dehumanization of masses of people without diminishing some of the characteristics that make them unique. And once you step onto that path, it’s a short journey to reducing the identity of the collective group – including their ancestors – to one that’s defined by their worst experiences.

Seeing slaves on screen

In some ways, because of the nature of their medium, filmmakers have fared better than their fellow artists at balancing the challenges of portraying the horrific experiences of enslaved people as a whole and elevating the particular experiences of enslaved individuals.

So where does Jenkins fit in the lineage of cinematic depictions of enslavement?

From the start, comparisons to “Roots” – the first miniseries about American chattel slavery – abound.

“Roots,” which appeared in 1977, was the first miniseries on American television to explore the experiences of slavery on multiple generations of one Black family. It also created powerful opportunities for interracial empathy. As critic Matt Zoller Seitz notes, for “many white viewers, the miniseries amounted to the first prolonged instance of not merely being asked to identify with cultural experiences that were alien to them, but to actually feel them.”

Some Americans might remember those eight consecutive nights in January 1977 when “Roots” first aired. It was a collective experience that started and shaped national conversations about slavery and American history.

By contrast, “The Underground Railroad” appears in an age replete with representations of enslavement. WGN’s underappreciated series “Underground,” the 2016 remake of “Roots,” 2020’s “The Good Lord Bird,” “Django Unchained,” “12 Years a Slave” and “Harriet” are just a handful of recent innovative portrayals of slavery.

The best of these series push viewers toward new ways of seeing enslavement and those who resisted it. “The Good Lord Bird,” for example, used humor to dismantle ossified perceptions of John Brown, the militant 19th-century abolitionist, and opened up new conversations about when using violence to resist oppression is justifiable.

A delicate dance between beauty and suffering

Looking at “The Underground Railroad,” I can see how and why Jenkins’ vision is so important in this moment.

In Jenkins’ films “Moonlight” and “If Beale Street Could Talk,” the director made a name for himself as an artist who can push past narrow, constraining visions of Black identity as one marked solely by suffering. His films are not free from pain, of course. But pain is not their dominant note. His Black worlds are places where beauty abounds, where the characters in the stories he tells experience vibrancy as well as desolation.

Jenkins brings that sensibility to “The Underground Railroad” as well.

Critics have commented on how Jenkins uses the landscape to achieve this beauty. I was struck by how the sun-soaked fields of an Indiana farm create a perfectly fitting backdrop for the rejuvenating love Cora finds there with Royal.

In “The Underground Railroad,” slavery – for all its horrors – exists in an environment nonetheless imbued with beauty. The curtain of Cora’s vacant cabin flapping in the breeze and framed by the rough timbers of the slave quarters evokes the paintings of Jacob Lawrence.

Above: Barry Jenkins’ Black worlds are places where beauty abounds. Atsushi Nishijima/Amazon Studios

In other scenes, Jenkins juxtaposes radically different landscapes and actions to emphasize the complexity of these characters’ experiences. For example, Cora works as an actor at a museum, where she plays an “African savage” for visitors; in one scene, she changes out of the costume and into an elegant yellow dress. Walking the clean, orderly streets of Griffin, South Carolina, she transforms into a picture of middle-class propriety.

Scenes portraying the manners and reading lessons offered by the faculty of the Tuskegee-style institute where Cora and other fugitives find shelter demonstrate the allure of these middle-class values. On first glance, it all appears promising. Only later, when Cora’s pushed by her mentor to undergo forced sterilization, does it become apparent that she’s landed in a horror show.

These vignettes are but a few examples of the thoroughgoing power of Jenkins’ aesthetic. Every episode yields moments of beauty. And yet at the flip of a switch, serenity can devolve into savagery.

Living with the recognition that calm can instantly and unexpectedly become carnage is part of the human condition. Jenkins reminds viewers that for Black Americans – both then and now – this prospective peril can be particularly pronounced.

[twistedtranslations]

Trey Clover - Wait Riddle!

You can unlock this story by getting Trey’s SR Ceremony outfit

Translation under the cut

Heartslabyul Dorm - Tea Garden

Trey: And that concludes the plans for the schedule of the welcome party for the new students. As the vice dorm leader, that’s all. And now, before we start the preparations, a word from the Heartslabyul dorm leader Riddle.

Riddle: Heartslabyul students! Form a line!

Heartslabyul students: Yes, dorm leader!

Riddle: I see. Everyone is perfectly coordinated, just like the trump soldiers. I am glad. In any case... after tonight’s entrance ceremony, all new students will go to their dormitory. If it happens to be that the welcome party is not ready, I intend to have everyone’s heads.

Heartslabyul students: Yes, dorm leader!

*footsteps*

Trey: Everyone ran away at once. As expected of you. That “encouragement” definitely made them pull themselves together.

Riddle: Trey, this is not the time to be dawdling. We still have to rehearse for the entrance ceremony. If the students cannot do their work perfectly, we will absolutely not have enough time.

Trey: Yes. That’s why I’m recommending to set up a schedule to assign everyone a role in preparing the welcome party.

Riddle: How about the rose bushes in the garden?

Trey: According to the 469th law of the Queen of Hearts “When one invites new friends to a party, the decoration should alternate between red and white rosebushes.” ... Right? It will be fine. The students in charge are currently changing the colors.

Riddle. I am glad. Then next is the food. You are in charge of the cooking.

Heartslabyul student: Excuse me for interrupting! Clover, we can’t find the table clothes for the welcome party...

Riddle: You have quite the nerve to come over and ask our busy vice dorm leader a question. Have you not drilled my manual in your head? The way to set the tables is described on page 107.

Heartslabyul student: I-I’m sorry! I did intend to read it more or less...

Riddle: More or less...? People like you... I should have your head...

Trey: Oh well, Riddle. The clothes should have been washed yesterday. You should check with the one in charge of the second years.

Heartslabyul students: Y...Yes, thank you!

*footsteps*

Riddle: How kind of you to not reprimand obvious negligent behaviour.

Trey: Not everyone is as perfect as you are. Besides, it would be very troublesome if work slowed down because our workforce shrank, right?

Riddle: ... I see. I understand what many reasons you may bring, but being correct in Heartslabyul is a different matter. The Queen of Hearts, who honors discipline, would definitely not have forgiven him.

Trey: Perhaps yeah. The next time, I shall just imitate you and the Queen of Hearts. In any case, let’s get back to the topic at hand. We were talking about the food for the welcome party.

Riddle: Yes. You have made a menu, right?

Trey: Yes. The hors d’oeuvre is turnip and marinated salmon. For soup I made cheese and minestrone.. The main course is an arrangement of ground meat pies.

Riddle: It’s perfect. Then let us continue checking everything. Especially today, we do not have time to spare. Good grief, if that Floyd hadn’t been interfering yesterday, I could have finished more work...

Trey: Now that you say it, that guy has been having fun walking behind you lately. The fact that I haven’t seen him today is probably because Octavinelle is also busy with the entrance ceremony. 

Riddle: It can’t be! That guy has no interest in things like that. I even protested against Jade. To definitely not have him come over to Heartslabyul.

Trey: I see. Well, let’s move ahead with the preparation.

Riddle: Don’t say that, I’m honestly troubled! ... Ah, I just get irritated thinking about Floyd.

Trey: Whoops, is it already this late? Leave the rest to me so you can focus on the entrance ceremony.

Riddle: I understand. This will be my first entrance ceremony as the dorm leader. I will definitely fulfill my responsibility.

Trey: Good grief...

Mirror chamber

Riddle: What was up with that entrance ceremony! Not only did some freshmen escape during the ceremony, a monster invaded and... nothing went according to my perfect plan! Listen, you new students. I invite you to create more trouble. But that head will be mine! 

Heartslabyul freshmen: Y-Yes!

Heartslabyul freshman A: ... Hey, isn’t our dorm leader really scary?

Heartslabyul freshman B: Right... We should take care not to anger him...

Trey: Riddle is on the verge of bursting...

Jamil: Trey.

Trey: Ah, you are Jamil from Scarabia. Is there something?

Jamil: It seems like the blood is considerably rising to your dorm leader’s head...

Trey: Yeah. One more problem and there’ll be quite an explosion.

Jamil: Riddle is a very strict and serious dorm leader. With you being at his side, you must certainly be careful, no?

Trey: Haha, supporting the dorm leader is part of the job as vice dorm leader.

Jamil: Our dorm leader... Kalim is way too noisy, and that’s what I am worried about...

Trey: I see. You have become Scarabia’s vice dorm leader, haven’t you? Congratulations on your inauguration.

Jamil: You are being overly polite... Thank you very much. As a fellow vice dorm leader, I would love to study under you.

Trey: Riddle and Kalim have completely distinct personalities even if they are both dorm leaders, I don’t think I’ll be of much use.

Jamil: The mental exhaustion never ceases... we differ little when it comes to that.

Trey: Hahaha. I just hope that the welcome party after this ends safely.

Cater: Hey, Treeeey!

Jamil: I shall excuse myself.

Trey: Okay. ... Cater, why are you in such a hurry?

Cater: Something terrible actually happened at our dorm...!

Chapter 2

Mirror chamber

Trey: What?! The rose bushes for the garden party have all been colored red? But the garden’s roses must be alternatingly painted red and white for the welcome party. You told them so, didn’t you, Cater?

Cater: Of course I did. But it seems the second years in charge of the painting made a mistake.

Trey: How troublesome. The new dorm students will immediately go back to the dorm after the entrance ceremony finishes.

Cater: Yes... we don’t have time to fix the colors. And if Riddle found out that the colors were wrong...

Trey: He’d behead the whole dorm, no doubt.

Cater: W-W-Wait, imagining that is way too scary! Trey, don’t you have a plan!?

Trey: ... I see, let’s do this. I’ll hold Riddle up, so you have time to return to the dorm. In that time, you should quickly paint half of the roses white. Cater, with your unique magic, you can easily create avatars of yourself, right?

Cater: Guh... Trey, are you serious? That’s super exhausting?!

Trey: Nevertheless, it seems like you will take on this very troublesome role for the sake of all the students. Thank you Cater.

Cater: Ugh, why do I feel like you’re forcing me against my will. You’re an inhuman and wicked vice demon leader!

Trey: Yes yes, I’ll listen to your complaints afterwards as much as you want. Hurry if you don’t want to be beheaded by Riddle!

Cater: Okay, I get it. It’s not like any other plans come to mind either... Well, I’m going, but definitely hold Riddle back!

Trey: Okay, leave it to me. ... Is what I said... But how will I hold Riddle back?

-

Trey: Riddle, excuse me. There’s something I want to verify about the welcome party’s menu, can you spare me some time?

Riddle: Why do you want to revise it? Haven’t we already confirmed our menu?

Trey: According to the laws of the Queen of Hearts, we decided that the main dish should be ground meat pie but... I thought we still had to decide if the meat had to be cow, pig or chicken. It might become troublesome if it was strictly fixed.

Riddle: I see... that is a blind spot. For you to pay such careful attention, that’s wonderful. Now that you say it, in the literature I’ve read, there were descriptions of rabbit meat pie being used. It seems the type of meat should not be fixed.

Trey: I expected nothing less of you, to be able to memorize those details of the laws of the Queen.

Riddle: Okay, then let us go to the venue.

Trey: !! Wait Riddle! I still want you to confirm something about the type of black tea we’ll use after dinner. This time I have prepared some leaves from the Scalding Sands, but there’s no rule that we are restricted to produce from the Country of Roses right?

Riddle: Heh, you are such a worrywart. There is no law that strict. Ah, but coffee is forbidden, so you should definitely not serve that! The Queen of Hearts does look forward immensely to drinking black tea at the Unbirthday parties. That’s why it’s decided by law that black tea should be served on any occasion besides a birthday party. Now, let us go to the venue.

Trey: !! Wait Riddle! How many sugar cubes do we have to put in the tea? 

Riddle: It does not matter. Heap it for all I care.

Trey: Understood. Next, about the planning of the colors of the candle we put on each table...

Riddle: ... Hey, Trey. I know you really want to conform to the rules, but aren’t you being a bit too anxious today?

Trey: Ah...you might be right. My bad, I might’ve been straining myself a bit. As the vice dorm leader of Heartslabyul, we have done many things together, but it’s still our first welcome party, isn’t it? I wanted to support you perfectly, and make it a day to remember.

Riddle: Trey... to think you were working hard with those feelings in your mind. It’s fine. I shall entertain your questions until you are satisfied. 

Trey: Ah. Thank you, Riddle. I should be able to save time with this. Hurry up and change the colors, Cater.

Trey: ... I see. So the design of the tableware I prepared should be no problem.

Cater: Riddle! Trey! The preparations for the welcome party are done~

Riddle: Thank you for your effort, Cater. Trey, are you finished?

Trey: Yes. You really helped me out, Riddle.

Riddle: Okay. Then let us go to the dorm. First years! I shall guide you now to Heartslabyul’s dorm. Follow me at once without delay!

Heartslabyul freshmen: Yes!!

Cater: Riddle is really enthusiastic.

Trey: You’re right... By the way, Cater. Did you manage to change the colors of the roses successfully?

Cater: Of course. My avatars have perfectly changed the colors to alternating between red and white.

Trey: I’m glad. Now we can finish the day with no one being beheaded.

Cater: You also did a good job at holding that impatient Riddle back until I came and got you. We really are today’s MVP’s, aren’t we?

Trey: Perhaps. It’s not like anyone would award us, though. Let’s go to the dorm. We managed to finish without incidents, let’s not ruin it by arriving late.

Cater: Right~ Well, for the sake of a super fun party... Let’s a go to the Heartslabyul dorm!

Heartslabyul Dorm - Lounge

Trey: Sigh... The clean up of the party is finally done... All the students have returned to their room. I still have 15 minutes left till the lights go out. I’ll have one more cup of tea. 

*beep*

Trey: Hm? A notification of an uploaded picture on MagiCam? That Cater is still uploading pictures of today to his MagiCam. He’s probably tired as well... #Today’sCay #Entranceceremony #Dignityofthethirdyears #Theceremonyoutfitsofnightravenarerare #NRC

Trey: ... Haha, he really went all out.

Trey: Oh well, Riddle didn’t get angry, and no explosions happened, and the welcome party went well. It’s been a long day. Being a vice dorm leader isn’t easy...

[dwellordream]

“Pandarus has suffered much, at the hands not only of the general reader but of the critic too. He has been called hard names not a few, none of which really fit him, and his own name has undergone one of the worst degradations in the history of word meanings. Whatever he became in subsequent English literature and in popular tradition, in Chaucer he is neither a pander nor a parasite nor a dotard nor a "battered man of the world." He is a man of the world, but he is neither battered nor old. He is perhaps not even middle-aged.

He is Criseyde's uncle, it is true, but one need not be old, or even middle-aged, to be an uncle. And though his age is nowhere specifically mentioned, the impression one gets from a careful reading is that he is of much the same age as Troilus, Deiphobus, and Hector. He is great friends with Deiphobus as well as with Troilus— Save Troilus, no man he lovede so. And he is himself still a lover, ardent though unsuccessful in the service of his lady. He touches upon the subject lightly and jokes about it with Criseyde, but he is a bit wistful and pathetic, too—as when he refers to himself as one who has never in all his service of love felt A frendly chere or loking of an ye.The fires of youth are by no means dead in him.

So far from being a parasite, Pandarus is a Trojan aristocrat, a member of the Trojan parliament, a counselor to the king, who on at least one occasion is closeted with the king all day. That he is one who commands a large following is shown by his offering himself and all his kin to back any attempt Troilus may be willing to make to carry off Criseyde from Troy by force. His relations with Troilus are not those of a sycophant but of a friend, and his capacity for friendship is one of his great virtues. Indeed, this friend- ship between the two men is one of the real beauties of the poem. It is a friendship bluff, hearty, disinterested, whole-souled, and true to death. When in Book I Pandarus is pleading with Troilus to tell him the secret of his love, he asks, "Wostow nought wel that it am I, Pandare?" And we are reminded of Montaigne's description of his friendship with Etienne de la Boetie, "If a man should importune me to give a reason why I lov'd him; I find it could no otherwise be exprest, than by making answer, because it was he, because it was I."

Pandarus is not a pander, because, for one thing, he is not in the business. What he does, he does for neither covetousness nor gain but for the love and salvation of his friend. And so great is his love for Troilus that on one occasion, before he learns that it is Criseyde with whom Troilus is in love, he vows that "Were it for my suster, al thy sorwe,/By my wil, she sholde al be thyn tomorwe." This suggestion, however, was not such an offense against morality in ancient Greece, or even in fourteenth-century England, as it is today. Instances of men offering their own sisters to a comrade are not unknown in early literature. Moreover, this readiness to go to such an extreme is not typical of Pandarus. His words here must be taken, I believe, as a rhetorical exaggeration, thrown off in the heat of his eloquence, in his eagerness to discover Troilus's secret and ease his pain.

Pandarus is not without conscience, and in one passage—in a conversation with Troilus warning him of the necessity of secrecy in order to guard the fair name of Criseyde—he shows that he understands with perfect clearness what he has done and how it would appear to the world were it known: "For thee have I bigonne a gamen pleye/Which that I never doon shal eft for other,/Although he were a thousand fold my brother./That is to seye, for thee am I bicomen, Bitwixen game and ernest, swich a mene As maken wommen unto men to comen."

He bemoans the fact that Criseyde is his dear niece, and he her uncle—and her traitor too. "Were it known," he says, "that I had put this fantasy in her head to do all thy desire and be wholly thine, the world would cry out upon it and say that I had done the worst treachery, that was ever done in the world." So he doubly cautions Troilus to secrecy, to avoid all vaunting, and all will be well. And this faith in the sufficiency of secrecy runs through his conversations with Criseyde and is present indeed in Criseyde's mind itself as she weighs the pros and cons of an affair with Troilus.

It is, of course, simply an illustration of one of the "laws" of Courtly Love. He protests to Criseyde that in urging her to have pity on Troilus he is not forgetting her honor and that he would rather all three of them should be hanged than that he should be Troilus's bawd or that Troilus should injure her honor. What is "her honor" here ? Is Pandarus simply disguising to her his real intent? Or is love, illicit love, consistent with honor, provided it be kept secret? Obviously the latter, in the thought of Pandarus, Troilus, and Criseyde, all three. Pandarus seems to be double-faced —pretending to Criseyde that all he asks is that she make Troilus a little more cheer, while he and Troilus are thinking of her complete surrender. But if our view of Criseyde as a mature woman of the world rather than as an innocent is correct—if she is wise, as Chaucer says she is—there is in reality no double-dealing here at all, for Criseyde understands that "saving her honor" is not a matter of stopping this side of physical surrender but of maintaining perfect secrecy.

…There is nothing low about Pandarus, and it cannot be justly maintained that his offices bring any harm at all to his fair niece. He is not the author of her ruin—not even indirectly, for his maneuvering and plotting aim simply to bring to a consummation what promises to be a noble, pure, and perfect love. He believes in the sincerity and discretion of Troilus, and is convinced that with secrecy all will go well and Criseyde's honor as well as her name be safe. Thus Pandarus's motives in playing the role he does are mixed. He is serving his friend and prince. He is serving his niece, in a way that by his philosophy and the philosophy of Romantic Love her youth, beauty, and charm demand. And he is serving himself, for, as a lover himself, he takes delight in helping two other lovers to the realization of complete happiness.

Still more, perhaps, Pandarus undertakes his difficult and delicate task because it is one that suits him down to the ground. It is a task such as he came into the world to perform, one that appeals to his native love of intrigue, his genius for management and maneuvering. He is a born strategist and diplomatist. Consider his subtle handling of Troilus in Book I, or of Criseyde in Book II when he goes to tell her of Troilus's love and again to take her Troilus's first letter. He is in his glory in arranging the first meeting of the lovers in the house of Deiphobus, Troilus's brother. All his resources of plotting, stage management, and plausible speech are here called into play. His invention is exhaustless. At dinner there he tells them all a cock-and-bull story of the supposed wrongs a certain Poliphete is plotting against Criseyde. He rong hem out a proces lyk a belle, Upon hir fo, that highte Poliphete,/So heynous, that men mighte on it spete.

Such is his readiness, his mastery of detail, his circumstantial eloquence that he not only persuades them of the truth of the story but engages their support of Criseyde's cause. So convincing is he that they are ready to spit upon Poliphete and his evil designs. Again, consider his busy ingenuity and contrivance in getting the two lovers to bed for the first time —on that night of rain and wind at his house after the sup- per. He anticipates everything, overlooks nothing. His gusto is enormous, and when he has finally brought them together, he remarks with sly humor ". . . for ought I can espyen, This light nor I ne serven here of nought;/Light is not good for syke folkes yen." Pandarus finds zest in his very sweating. Once he rushes off to his niece's house and finds her just risen from meat. As he sits down he exclaims, "O veray god, so have I ronne! Lo, nece myn, see ye nought how I swete?" And he expects his niece to share his gusto in his admirable sweating. Does it not prove his zeal in her behalf?

His energy is boundless, of body no less than of mind. He is full of gayety and animal spirits, as lively as a cricket. His conversation is endless and always interesting, varied, and humorous, well sprinkled with saws, "olde ensamples," and shrewd wisdom. Only once is he speechless—when Troilus tells him of the finding of the brooch on Diomed's coat of mail. But this is only momentarily, for "at the laste thus he spak and seyde." His omniscience is second only to God's —"But god and Pandare wiste al what this mente." His resourcefulness, his agility of mind and tongue, know no hindrance; he shifts and tacks and turns with every wind and tide. He is full of news, of diverting small talk, and at times of sage advice. And Chaucer's reproduction of his conversation has all the vitality, naturalness, and sparkle of life. It is one of the greatest triumphs in the handling of dialogue in all literature.”

- Percy Van Dyke Shelly, “Troilus and Criseyde.” in The Living Chaucer

[aces-to-apples]

Written for Day 5: Fluff of Codywan Week 2020 @codywanweek

Here on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Category: Multi Relationship: CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi Characters: CC-2224 | Cody, CT-7567 | Rex, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker Additional Tags: Background Padmé Amidala/CT-7567 | Rex/Anakin Skywalker, Implied/Referenced Future Rexsoka, GFY

For best results please look at this Rex and this Cody before reading.

“tribute”

Another one of the local little chompers marched towards the dais with all the solemnity and determination of a verd’ika plucking their first set of whites off the assembly line. Cody met Rex’s eye and they both very carefully avoided grinning at the sight. Not only could it be bad for their relationship with said locals, it wouldn’t do to let their Jedi think they were, in fact, having a good time up there.

When the kid came to a halt a ‘respectful’ distance away, Cody nodded for them to approach and bent his head to receive the kid’s blessing and subsequent gift. He watched Rex do the same.

The celebration had been going for hours, by that point, and they’d amassed a pile of shiny little wearable trinkets to give any sovereign of Naboo a run for their credits and enough blessings to make them holier than most deities. It’d been a relief, at the start of the night, to hear that—aside from the ceremonial outfits they’d been bullied into wearing—he and Rex were free to redistribute the gifts as they saw fit. Something about sharing luck, or good vibes, or what have you.

Said ceremonial outfits, on the other hand, they were obliged to keep and maintain with honor.

Obi-Wan had smoothed over any offense they’d given with their lacklustre reaction to the news but Rex’s general had been less than subtle in his delight at their new possessions. Tano, at least, had just told them they looked nice and kept her own mocking to a bare minimum.

And it wasn’t that they were grateful, Cody had reflected at the start of the celebration, when he and Rex had stepped out under the light of the moons to deafening cheers, but. It wasn’t quite their style, no matter how well the two of them pulled off the intricate, and admittedly beautiful, get-ups.

Rex, by dint of his Torrent paintjob, had been immediately deemed the locals’ Goddess of War come again and draped accordingly in layers of blue fabric. Some of it was dark and blaster-resistant and some of it pale and so sheer as to be almost nonexistent. Bands of silver, often studded with precious blue stones, were wrapped around his wrists, forearms, biceps, and throat, and a silver cap affixed with yet more jewels and a pale blue veil had been placed on his head with much reverence.

After a great deal of muttered debate, they determined that Cody must be their war deity’s twin, the Goddess of Beauty. Not an insult by any means…

The traditional garb he’d been presented with, by contrast, was deep red with a long flowing cape and headdress of heavy twisted fabric. It came with its own set of jewelry, as well, shining gold and polished red stones, bulky and eye-catching around his wrists and throat and slim and delicate around his forearms and biceps. Something about the placement was culturally significant, but hells if Cody was going to ask what.

They’d already lost the battle against: 1) staying for several days to rest and recuperate, 2) accepting the titles of living incarnations of their local deities and all the celebration that entailed, and 3) keeping both the get-ups and the gifts for themselves.

No way was Cody going to invite more conversation about their cultural practices. He could win against droids and bounty-hunters and half-baked Sith, but apparently, he couldn’t convince a bunch of over-awed, Mid Rim locals that he and Rex weren’t tools of War and Beauty.

Tools of the Republic, sure, but nothing divine.

The leader of the city they’d liberated had just smiled gently and reassured them that belief on their part was not necessary, only acceptance of their gratitude. Which came with lots of shiny metal, sparkly rocks, and a pair of gowns that they had to either accept or throw into a sacrificial fire and publicly reject.

Obi-Wan had stepped in at that point.

He’d assured everyone that they had no interest in disrespecting their culture and asked for a debrief about the ceremony.

Wear the outfits, sit on the thrones, and let people fawn over them at least a little bit, had basically been the long and short of it. But, hey, they were comfortably cushioned, well-fed, and kept hydrated throughout the whole thing, so it could have been worse. Sharp-toothed little ankle-biters shyly kissing their foreheads and handing them shiny bits and bobs before scampering off weren’t much of a hardship.

“How’re you fellas doing?” Skywalker asked, strolling up to the dais with a grin that had yet to falter all night. “Getting into the spirit of the thing? Really feeling the divinity flow through you?”

Plenty vode had wandered over to check on them over the course of the night, mostly to heckle, but the Jedi had visited just as frequently. And for similar reasons, too.

The way Rex’s general had been eyeing him all night, Cody was almost worried for Rex’s safety. He’d heard plenty of complaints from Obi-Wan about Skywalker’s willingness to eat damn near anything; who was to say that he hadn’t acquired a taste for Mandalorian-adjacent flesh and wouldn’t gobble poor Rex up in just a few bites.

He was pretty sure Commander Tano was having some kind of intermittent crisis over at their table as well.

It was his responsibility, as both Marshal Commander and ori’vod, to bring his concerns to his superior officer and then ruthlessly mock all three of them. After Skywalker eventually got tired of making Rex blush and wandered away whistling a jaunty tune to a very raunchy cantina song, that was.

“So does that ‘angel’ of his know the two of you have started sharing blankets since your last stop-over on Coruscant or should I start planning your funeral now?” Cody said archly, watching his vod’ika visibly consider punching him. “I’ll be sure to wear this and lie about how smart and good-looking you are, like a proper vod.”

Rex pressed a hand over his eyes and groaned. “Angel knows,” he admitted, darting an unsubtle glance at his general’s shebs. “What I am afraid of, though, is that next time we stop over on Coruscant she’s gonna have a whole new wardrobe just like this one and it will just happen to be in my size.”

“Well, hey, get a full-coverage veil and you’re probably good to step out with them,” Cody said with false sympathy, gleefully imagining the uproar that would cause. “Just make sure they’re made out of that fabric that’s designed to ruin holos. Pakod.”

The ol’ boy made a sound like a malfunctioning mouse-droid.

“Is it too much to believe that I’d like to spend whatever leave I get wearing as few clothes as possible?” he wailed, quietly, with a desperation that made Cody think this was an argument he and the senator had gotten into before. With this revelation in mind, he snapped a few holos of his own while Rex was distracted and vowed to get them to the senator if Skywalker’s brain cell was too lonely to manage it. “Isn’t it enough that I have this already?”

“Oh, dear me,” a low voice said from behind Cody’s left ear, “I can’t imagine how terrible it must be to have two attractive, attentive lovers who wish to shower you with tokens of their affection. Truly, Captain, your misery must be exquisite.”

Cody turned his head to press a sloppy kiss to Obi-Wan’s cheek in gratitude for the pitiful sound his words had drawn out of his favorite brother.

“General,” Rex whined pathetically, “they keep getting me plants. Alive ones, dead ones, prickly ones, poisonous ones. My quarters are being taken over by non-sentient invaders.”

Obi-Wan made a little noise of patently fake sympathy. “My old master’s quarters were like that as well,” he commiserated, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin behind Cody’s ear. The noise of the locals around them changed in pitch, but Cody’d had enough to drink over the course of the evening to not feel worried by the change. If he was lucky, Obi-Wan would be shoved into a pretty outfit like this next. “It drove me mad that he never formally answered, let alone turned down, any of the suits. Just let the poor, smitten beings keep sending him gifts. So uncivilized.”

“Speaking of uncivilized,” Cody said, wondering if he could get away with pulling Obi-Wan down onto his lap.

Rex rolled his eyes. “If I don’t get to canoodle in public with my Jedi then you don’t get to with yours,” he huffed, leaning over to push Obi-Wan a few inches away. “Leave room for the Force, sirs.”

“‘Leave room for the Force’?” Obi-Wan repeated, nonplussed, while Cody found himself hung up on, “Canoodle?”

No longer quite so flustered, Rex shrugged. “Skywalker talks like a scandalized opera singer, sometimes, and Ahsoka says that when she catches the lads giving each other a tune-up. How’s the kid doing, by the way?”

“Well,” Obi-Wan said ruefully, “she’s seventeen and in the middle of a war and puberty. Thus far, I believe she’s coped by placing you all in the ‘dear friends and family whom deserve her utmost respect’ category of her mind, rather than allowing herself to see you as attractive young men. Tonight seems to be causing some kind of breakdown in that line of thinking.”

Cody turned to give Rex his full attention and clapped him on the shoulder. “Cheers, vod’ika, keep it up and you might have a full set soon!”

In response, Rex covered his face with both hands and groaned again.

“Remind me to send the good captain some appropriate literature about age of consent laws, would you, dear?” Obi-Wan murmured into his ear. He most assuredly was not leaving room for the Force between them. “Until then, I believe you mentioned being uncivilized?”

Cody made a mental note to remind him as requested before standing up, bowing at the local assembly, and following Obi-Wan wherever he led.

[daylightsun]

What I Learn from Years of Reading and Collecting Books and Letting Some of Them Go

These past few days, I "KonMari" my room and decided to rearrange my bookshelves. While sorting out all of my belongings, I discovered a box filled with books I manically collected during my college years sitting underneath my bed. After opening it, the books seem to be staring at me while I stare back at them like we are having a confrontation of sorts. For a moment, it made me reflect on my life as a reader and book collector, and this sense of nostalgia hit me.

After snapping out of this nostalgic state, the fact remains that my shelf space and room space are precious and limited, and I only want to fill my life with things that “spark joy” within me. I need to decide which books would stay and which would eventually go to the bin. So in honor of literature month and the books I am about to throw away, I would like to write some piece to honor my journey as a reader and book collector.

Starting Years as a Reader and Book Collector

My fascination with books started early in my childhood. I remember holding my small hardbound fairytale books, a book set with stories like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and Three Little Pigs. But it was the illustrations at first that engrossed me. It's like my eyes can't get enough of the colors and drawings. I look at them again and again, committing them in my memory. Then there was my childhood best friend Grimm's book of fairytales. The book was enormous and heavy. It contained more words and the occasional one to two pages of illustrations, like the naked butt of the king in The Emperor's New Clothes, the candy house of the witch in Hansel, and Gretel other beautiful illustrations inside that book.

However, it is in my teenage years that I started to enjoy reading literature, and book reports ignite my interest in book collecting. Books like Ella Enchanted, The Little Prince, and Thieves of Ostia were carried inside our classroom boxes after boxes. A sheer excitement overcame me, forgetting the fear I felt days before asking for extra money to buy something outside the average family expenses, even if it is for school requirements.

I did not grow up in an environment that encourages me to read books outside the typical academic obligations. It is usual for Southeast Asian households to be thrifty, so buying books for leisure is a luxury. Moreover, since it does not involve cleaning and moving around the house, reading for my parents is a lazy activity. Not to mention what damage it can do to your eyesight, they would add. However, I continued to read in secret and went against the general expectations.

I have read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince while holding a flashlight while everyone in the house is sleeping at night so no one could scold me. I read with my friends at school. We exchanged novels, particularly stories about young adults. I bought my first novel, L. Montgomery's Anne of Green Gables, in a book fair inside my school using my savings. And even after my childhood best friend, who was four years older than me, went away to college, I marched to their house and borrowed books from her mother like Louisa Alcott's Little Women.

Reading helped me to cope with my deep-seated feeling of isolation and loneliness because of being an adopted child. I found out pieces of the truth through indirect hints and silent whispers between adults and childish banter between cousins. So I was left alone on my own devices to understand and stitch the truth. But in reading, I started to find solace and identity with the people I meet in stories. Books became for me houses I visit to explore and get to know the people living inside. And sometimes, I leave too early out of boredom or just out of an inability to comprehend the house. But sometimes, even after the visit, a piece of my heart stayed inside those pages. When I read, I have companions, and when I buy a book, I have something of my own.

Moreover, in books, I found girls like me, like Anne in Anne of Green Gables or Mary in The Secret Garden. Orphaned and neglected at a very young age and adopted, they were able to find acceptance and love. In those stories, they eventually mattered and belonged to the people around them. And in my heart, I wanted the same assurance these characters have that I am going to be OK despite my "oddness."

Not encouraged to read, buy books for my leisure, and being an adopted child in her young adolescent years made me want to form a personal path of rebellion. I decided to be a bookworm and persist in reading and building my book collection even if I am discouraged! Talk about being brave and revolutionary. Though I developed a deep affection for reading and books by this time, this "rebellious" way serves another personal purpose, and that is instead of being single out because ofbeing an adopted child, I can be single out because of my "bookish-ness." This identity gave me a powerful feeling of being significantly different from the crowd. I am somehow special but without the burden and constantly feeling the need to fight the pity of the people around me.

College Years

When I went to college, I develop an unhealthy impulse of excessively buying booksbut not reading them. There is a Japanese term for this impulsive behavior called "tsundoku." My obsession with buying books can be attributed to two main culprits. First, I started to attend and participate actively in church, and second, the store Book Sale.

In our church, we have a statement I wrote in the tablet of my heart with great faithfulness and love. It goes this way "Great leaders read books," which is a remarkable statement unless someone went overboard with trying to read books by purchasing them. This someone is, of course, is me. Ooops.

On multiple days within a week, I would visit and sit on the SM Baguio's Book Salefloor, hunting and obsessing over books. I would gladly move stacks upon stacks of books desperately looking for a purchase treasure. And most of us know, books are sold at Book Sale at a meager price. It became a standard for me to go home to my boarding house with three to five books. And oh boy, the stacks of books in my room just grew and grew. By the end of my seven years in college, the heaviest of my baggage is the one enormous box where I managed to fit all the books I have acquired.

Even though my college years were a time of my compulsive and unhealthy behaviors in reading and book buying, these were also the years I familiarized myself with what types of storytelling I would enjoy and who are my favorite authors. Neil Gaiman and Haruki Murakami cast their spell on me, and I would read again and again stories like The Little Prince, Memoirs of A Geisha, and The Last Time I Saw Mother.

But what I am most thankful for reading around this time is the opportunity it gave me to connect to other people through knowledge sharing. When I read an excellent book that gave me a lot of insight, there is an internal urge to pass it to someone else or talk about it with a friend. So I either talk about it or give the book. Giving that well-written book will sting a bit. Still, the disappointment of not having someone to undergo the experience of reading it is more painful than letting it go because I've discovered that there are types of books that cannot stay only in one pair of hands but have to travel to the next pair to be held and read. Some stories and books are personal to me, and they will stay on my shelves as long as they can, but there is another type of book that the knowledge they contain needs to be passed on and shared.

Working Years

Buying books using the allowance from your parents are far easier than using your own hard-earned money. Being a young professional and just started to manage my finances made the reality of my unhealthy addiction hit hard. I can not longer afford to go to book shops without thoroughly thinking if the book I am picking is something I should buy. "Adulting" has forced maturity in me.

Putting some healthy breaks on my general attitude towards reading and book collecting is just one part of the exciting times ahead of me as a bibliophile. Going back to my hometown and having more personal freedom have opened the doors to uncharted territories. As a reader and book collector, I've been officially and finally introduced to book fairs and Philippine Literature.

When I talk about book fairs that I participate in this time, these are the mega fairs that involve many publishing houses. Book fairs with book launching, book signing, live-reading, and writers' meet and greet events. The Manila International Book Fair (MIBF) and Big Bad Wolf are an example of these fairs. The experience was exhilarating and magical, and I would like to think that every reader and book collector would agree that book fairs are sort of heaven or nirvana on earth.

But so far, the greatest book fair I get to experience must also be the most challenging endeavor I undertook professionally, the Frankfurt Book Fair 2019. Imanaged to be a part of the team that organized the delegation that represented the Philippines in the largest international book fair. FBF is annually held during October in Frankfurt, Germany, with participants worldwide and boost to be the most extensive platform for digital and printed content. So even though I did not personally go to Frankfurt, being part of this massive event as a production assistant and being part of the early planning stages to post-prod was a dream come true. Seeing over 500 books published by the leading publishing houses in the country and written by Filipino authors showcased in the entire world in a beautifully designed stand made me very happy and proud.

Working in a government agency that primarily serves the Philippine publishing industry also gave me a closer look into the local literature. Unfortunately, I did not grow up reading books written by Filipino writers. Aside from the usual piece of local literature my Filipino textbooks in high school and college courses offered, Philippine literature did not become part of my early reading and book collection. But my ignorance of Filipino authors and literature ended when  I worked at NBDB and when a friend lent me Philippine literature books. As I started to read the literary works of Eliza Victoria, Nick Joaquin, Luis Joaquin M. Katigbak, and other amazing Filipino authors, I felt both shame and relief. I finally got to experience my national consciousness and Filipino identity through literature by Filipino authors for Filipinos.

But my bad habits in college still are present and had managed to erode my psyche. Surrounded by so many book-related things, I got back to the same dangerous pattern. I acquired more books but have no diligence and genuine interest in reading. In the process, I become a hoarder like the Businessman from The Little Prince, who cannot stop owning and counting every star he sees in the sky but never understood its value. After all, what is a book without its reader?

And as a result, something bad happened. The words in the pages started to leave me, I slowly lost the ability to build worlds in my head, and my insatiable thirst for knowledge had dwindled. Then one day, I lost all of my interest in books. For one and a half years, I would not touch any books on my bookshelves and stop actively reading and looking for books to buy. I had enough.

                                                           *** Going back to the present time and Marie Kondo, she mentioned in her best-selling book, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up (and yes, I have the book), that the KonMari method encourages only to keep around thirty books. Thirty books seem to be awfully few, and how can a person who loves reading and collecting books find the courage to let go.

But as the book explained, you need to ask oneself the fundamental question of the KonMari method, "does this spark joy?". Does this book spark joy? Have I read this, and if I happened to have, does it aroused my intellect? And I have asked these hard questions to every book in my belongings.

It is almost four years after my time at the university. I am currently in a work-from-home setup which is a very fortunate situation while in the middle of a global pandemic. And yes, I am about to throw books, a lot of them, which you might think is a waste, but deep down, I know I will never reread these, nor will I ever start to read them again.

Honestly, I cannot remember the exact day I pick up a book on my shelf and read again, nor the reason behind it. But having the courage to declutter and purge my book collection, I realized a few months ago that I started again to read and purchase books, but this time there is an effort to be mindful with every reading and purchase made. This subtle change in behavior gave my reading and collecting a better sense of purpose and direction.

My life is composed of limited time, meaning I can only read books that much. But I've been in a relationship with books for many years now. Collecting books became a form of personal art, and reading stories helped me become a better person. It healed me, became a catalyst to learn a couple of life lessons, and taught me to give. And I do not see myself stopping at any point in my life. So might as well keep and read books that only truly capture my spirit, challenges me, and, if I was lucky, changes me. Because that is the thing about it, books are powerful.

[pedros-mustache-main]

couldn’t utter my love

summary: some words are simply too dangerous to speak.

word count: 2k+ 

warnings: big hoe for the angst

a/n: long time reader, first time writer (for this fandom, anyway). i’m eager to write for these guys––majority being gwil, bri, and joe. let me know what you think & what you’d like to see. i have some more ideas coming in the future which i’ll share soon. 

(disclaimer: i do not own gif below.)

he’s been there, hovering in the back of your mind like an itch, for the past week.

it’s not totally uncommon, thinking about brian. since meeting in the early days of your university studies, he’s been a friend, and fleeting thoughts––whether he’s finished his term paper, if he’d like something other than a sandwich for supper, if he’s phoned his parents recently––filter through your mind on repeat during any given day. you mother him; it’s an unfortunate habit as the eldest sibling of five, but he’s never seemed to mind. and your silly worries over his health and his studies? they’ve never bothered you either.

that is, until your worries shifted to something... unexpected.

you blame freddie. 

if it hadn’t been for freddie, smile likely wouldn’t have become queen, and queen wouldn’t have taken the u.k. by storm, and you wouldn’t have gotten a front row seat to your friend’s talent and success, and then you wouldn’t have found yourself thinking of brian may as anything other than a good schoolmate. so, in actuality, freddie is at fault for the new course of your thoughts and the new course of your worries.

now, brian is like a spectre in the corner of your eye. he’s always there, even when he’s not. every turn you take around a corner, you imagine he’ll be standing there, all long legs and curly hair. every night when you slip under the covers, you find yourself wondering if brian is alone in his own bed. every morning, when you look at your reflection in the mirror, you try to guess what he sees when he looks at you.

it’s positively infuriating, and it’s freddie’s fault, so you avoid them altogether.

but brian is too smart for his own good, and he catches on fast. he knows the spots around campus you hide in when the going gets tough, and he finds you one thursday afternoon.

it’s raining. you’re snuggled beneath an over-sized, pill-ridden sweater, the latest draft of your senior thesis spread across your lap. the pen in your mouth is worn with teeth marks, and your hands are stained with red ink. you fingers are attentive to the work—you shuffle through the pages of your paper with expertise and purpose—but your mind is elsewhere. you’d dreamt of brian the night before (and not for the first time). he’d been singing to you and you alone, and it’s gotten to be—

“thought I might find you here.”

you look up, the replay of your dream stuttering to a halt. his hair is sodden by the rain, his face covered in a fine mist. he’s smiling, though the smile is soft as ever, as if he’s shy despite it only being you and he in dimly lit corridor. 

“here.” he hands you a paper cup. steam rises from within, smelling vaguely of berries. “can i sit?” he motions to the small space on the window seat not overtaken by your work or your feet.

you nod, and he squeezes himself in between the wall and your legs. you scoot your knees closer to your chest in response.

“i haven’t seen you ‘round lately,” he says. “i––we missed you at the last few shows.”

with a sigh, you set your cup of tea on the floor. “i’ve got my thesis. it’s due soon.” he only looks at you, so you hurriedly add, “i’d be there if i could. you know that.”

he shrugs, lifting his hand to rub the back of his neck. “i haven’t been paying much attention to my coursework myself. thing’s are kinda crazy.”

at this you have to laugh. he’s effortlessly humble about queen. you suspect he views it as a hobby; at least, he did at one point. what with the recent tour around the u.k., you’re surprised he’s still enrolled in his doctorate program. anyone else would have jumped at the chance to drop out and focus entirely on rock n roll.

but not brian. he’s different. and that’s why you like him.

that’s why you like him as a friend. nothing more.

the silence stretches, thinning but not yet brittle. quiet has always been a part of your friendship. whether it’s studying in the library or reading in one of the common rooms, you feel at ease in the subdued moments you share with brian. but this silence... it’s different. you shift on the bench, your backside gone numb. you open your mouth to say something, but he speaks first.

“we’re going on tour... after the holidays.”

your brow puckers in a frown. “you only just got back from a tour. a small one, but still a tour.”

“this one’s bigger. it’s america... japan too, if they can fix it.”

your first instinct is to question him, to mother him: what about his program? what about his family? what about all the travel, the logistics of it all? what about his health?

what about you?

instead, you smile. you lean forward and squeeze his shoulder. “i’m happy for you, bri. truly i am. that’s wonderful news!”

the tension in his shoulders seem to ease under your fingers, but you chalk it up to the happy news and his excitement. still, you leave your hand on his upper bicep, your touch feather-light. 

“i’m really happy about it. all the guys are. but it means i’ve got to let go of my studies for awhile. i just came from submitting the withdrawal forms.” he shakes his head with a rueful sort of chuckle. “never thought i’d say that.”

“it’s not every day you become a rock star.”

head still bent, he peers at you through his long lashes. “i came to tell you first. i mean, besides the registrar. i thought you should hear it from me instead of... i dunno... someone else.”

as cliche as it is, butterflies take flight in your chest. you try to squash them, but they won’t be moved. you’re left with a hammering heart and increasingly hot palms. you pull your hand away from his arm, but nudge his leg with your foot.

“well, i’m honored. it’s not every day a girl’s lab partner suddenly decides to tour the world with his band. just so long remember me when you start winning awards or something. after all, i was the one who helped you through literature 101.”

you’re rambling now, nervous and trying to underplay the rising giddiness in your chest. likely he meant nothing by his decision to come and give you the news first. your mind, however, which has run through wistful thought after wistful thought for the last week, jumps at the chance to imagine that he could mean something more.

his gaze is serious, as is customary, but there’s something decidedly more intense about the way he’s looking at you. you look down at the floor and reach for your tea. the cup is growing cool, perhaps hurried along by the chill of rain against the window. you take a sip, try not to smile at his remembering your favorite flavor. 

“you mean a great deal to me,” he suddenly says. 

your eyes snap up, meeting his. you swallow past the lump in your throat. something about the tone in his voice and the uncertainty in his eyes makes you wonder what more he’s trying to say.

“you mean a lot to me, too, bri. i’ll miss you loads while you’re gone.” you force your lips into an easy smile. “but you’ll be back and then i’ll keep pestering you about whether you’ve eaten enough for dinner. maybe i’ll call you in japan just to make sure.”

“[y/n]...” his voice is but a whisper, so much softer than it normally is, heavier too. he twists where he’s sitting, and you feel your heart squeeze painfully. 

you know what he’s going to say then. you can see it written across his face, in the way he watches you every movement, in the way his hand moves to cup your bent knee then falls to his lap. god, you’d dreamed of this––him wanting you. only you hadn’t planned on the fear which is creeping up your spine. you hadn’t planned on feeling so afraid when it truly happened. you aren’t even sure what you’re afraid of, but the giddiness of moments past is quickly replaced by panic.

before he can speak, you surge to your feet. the force of your movement sends papers scattering to the four winds, falling through the air like leaves in autumn. you set the tea aside and drop to your knees, muttering under your breath as you scramble to grab the papers and put them back in their proper order. brian joins you (as if he wouldn’t?). your hands brush amongst the mess, and, by george, you want to take his hand and hold it, maybe even kiss his knuckles if you’re daring enough, but you’re too afraid. too afraid of what it will do to your friendship which is good and solid and comfortable. and you’re too afraid of what will happen if you do hold his hand and then he leaves and meets someone else, someone more suited for life beside a rockstar. 

so you ignore the fleeting touch, mumble a thank you as you stand, papers gathered––out of order, but gathered.

he towers over you. it’s not threatening, but it’s not as comforting as it once was. he shoves his hands in his pockets, his face colored by frustration.

“when do you leave?” you ask.

“februrary, i think.”

“i really will miss you.” 

your words have an air of finality you weren’t intending. you don’t mean to say goodbye forever. aside from a handful of others, brian is your closest mate at school. he has been since year one, and you don’t want to lose that. you don’t want to lose that to a world tour or a shift in your relationship.

even if it means shutting off the part of your heart that is screaming––screaming––for you to push to your toes and kiss him hard in the quiet hallway.

brian has the decency to nod in agreement, though you can see the disappointment in the way he holds his shoulders. “i’ll miss you, too.” clearing his throat, he jabs a thumb over his shoulder. “i should go tell my parents the news.”

“yes!” your voice is loud in the cramped space; you suppress a wince. “yes, they’ll be thrilled.”

“well”––he shrugs, the awkward, gangly boy of your first year––“bye.”

leaning forward, he presses a kiss to your cheek. it’s all you can do to not turn your head and capture his lips, wind your arms around his back, and throw fear to the wolves. instead, your eyes flutter shut, reveling in the softness. he draws back, and the moment is gone.

“bye,” you whisper. “i’ll call you over the holiday, yeah?”

he nods. you both know the truth. 

with a grim sort of smile, he turns and walks down the hall. you watch until he disappears around the corner. 

months later, you catch a glimpse of him on the local news. the reporter is raving about queen’s success across north america and hyping the band’s journey to asia. the images of him which flash across the screen are brief, a second here and there in between shots of roger and freddie. 

you slowly sit on the couch, hands curled around a mug of tea. berry flavored, like the one he gave you. you watch, entranced, until he appears, just him, speaking to someone just off camera.

“i guess we just want to say thank you.” his voice is slightly garbled by poor quality, but it wrenches your chest because you hadn’t realized how much you missed the sound of it. “it’s been great fun over here, and we’re excited for japan. should be exciting.” his eyes slide to the camera, and he laughs with ease. “i think i’m having trouble remembering to eat, though, we’re so busy, but it’s all good.”

you know in your heart of hearts he’s speaking to you. and you wish, not for the first time, you could change the past. you wish you had ignored the fear and said what you both felt.

you wish you had kissed him when you had the chance.

[ladyhearthkeeper]

Please tell us more about how you were raised like a Victorian lady. I would like to be accomplished too.

Hello :)Thank you for your ask. I will try to answer it the best way I can.

Well, the main thing is that in my education more emphasis was given to building my manners, broadening my mind and my taste for art, music and literature, religious obligation rather than a career.

This is a quote from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen that expresses what I mean by accomplished like a victorian lady :

“No one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with.  A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, all the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half deserved.”

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

So these would be more of the superficial (yet important elements) of what makes a lady accomplished.

To that, one needs to add a foundation. A proper victorian lady was raised as a believing woman. This provided her with a space to work on her soul but also provide kindness to her community and those in need.

Even though I use dear Jane Austen to explain this, I think Margaret Hale from Elizabeth Gaskell’s North & South is a better example. Examples help us find what we want to work towards.

Now that we have a framework, here is more about me…

I was encouraged to read all kind of books, in any genre. Back when I was a teen YA wasn’t really a thing so I read proper books. YA are nice but they are not enough to broaden a young mind. I mostly read classics but I didn’t stop at that. Books were my best teachers. Later, when I realized that I wanted to become more ladylike I even read guides written in the 19th century for young ladies. You can found them at the Project Gutenberg. Books like this one.

It helps that I studied literature, with a particular interest in 19th century novels. Victorian ladies were well read and had a lot of knowledge. So I think it’s important to choose a good subject to study, not as a mean to earn money but to broaden your scope. It doesn’t have to be frilly, it can be science, technology etc. The goal is to learn more.

I joined the choir (I regret not knowing an instrument but I would like to remedy that one day), took painting classes since I was a kid, and learned how to embroider, sew, and crochet. I still eagerly learn new skills. Activities such as these also helped me to have a sense of what is beautiful. Of course, I was also taken to the museum and to concerts, and taught about nature. Learning to attune your sense to beauty is important.

The more you learn how to do, the more you become accomplished. To take the time to learn something new, gives you patience but also substance. Especially if you dedicate yourself to the mastery of a skill or a subject. 

Contrary to what one may think, these ladies did not lack depth nor intelligence. It wasn’t only about knowing how to hold a smile.

I’m lucky to be from a culturally diverse background. It gave me the opportunity to learn many languages but also about how to identify different types of social cues in different cultures. All this to make sure I keep my behavior attuned to those of around me and not make them uncomfortable. If you know about someone else’s culture or background you know how to make them feel at ease.

So yes, knowing how to hold herself in society is also part of what makes a lady accomplished.

I was taught by my mother how to behave with others, especially men. It’s about having a sense of propriety. How to receive people and to honor invitations. How to hold a conversation. But I learned more from observing rather than actually being taught.

I was also taught how to make condolences visits, how to support bereaved people, how to be supportive with people who need help, how to be part of a community. Of course, charity work, volunteering have played a big part in my life too and have given me the opportunity to go beyond my own self. Keeping a good inner life is what gives a graceful quality to our outer behavior. It’s more important to work at being a good person than learning a new skill.

All these things I’ve listed in the previous paragraphs can be explained more thoroughly if you wish. But I wanted to mention them because being a victorian lady is more than being good at playing the pianoforte. Lady Catherine de Bourgh would approve.

Most of these things are drawn from my own religion but they reflect the values of 19th century Britain. So maybe your own ethics can help in the matter.

I’m not a social person, I am more of a wild creature of the woods. But I have been so used to being aware of my behavior towards other people that in spite of my mood, I can keep a serene agreeable countenance. Not always unfortunately but most of the time. So much that one day, after leaving party I told my friend that I didn’t feel social at all and I was glad I was going home and she was surprised because I talked with everyone and remained interested in what they were saying. 

It’s not about being fake (please don’t do that) but of not imposing your mood on others. That doesn’t mean saying yes to everything and forcing yourself to be social all the time, but it’s knowing how to hold your own when you don’t feel like it. It’s about saying ‘ok I don’t feel that great but I’ll deal with this after I’ve honored this social situation and once I’m alone or with intimate friends or family.’

I think deportment is also very important. I was vaguely taught about it (I attended some ballet classes as a kid but I didn’t continue)  I think the practice of yoga has helped me better understand how to use my body gracefully. It’s about understanding how to hold yourself, it flows outwards from your own sense of worth and dignity.

Here’s a good illustration from Elizabeth Gaskell’s North & South :

« And as he looked with this intention, he was struck anew with her great beauty. He had never seen her in such dress before and yet now it appeared as if such elegance of attire was so befitting her noble figure and lofty serenity of countenance, that she ought to go always thus appareled. She was talking to Fanny; about what, he could not hear; but he saw his sister's restless way of continually arranging some part of her gown, her wandering eyes, now glancing here, now there, but without any purpose in her observation; and he contrasted them uneasily with the large soft eyes that looked forth steadily at one object, as if from out their light beamed some gentle influence of repose: the curving lines of the red lips, just parted in the interest of listening to what her companion said—the head a little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from the summit, where the light caught on the glossy raven hair, to the smooth ivory tip of the shoulder; the round white arms, and taper hands, laid lightly across each other, but perfectly motionless in their pretty attitude. »

This is what I mean about deportment. It’s not about the surface but poise, an inner serenity and openness to the world. 

But, without telling you the whole story, I have to just add that the character described here, Margaret Hale, is not only defined as a lady by her behavior at this party but also by her behavior in times of loss, with people in need of help or even people behaving in an uncouth manner. She is also characterized as a lady in her kindness and generosity towards others. These are key to being a proper victorian lady. For this, volunteering for a good cause can benefit your character immensely.

How to be gentle is also an important thing.

Most ladies had servants but they still knew how to run a house and keep a home. These skills are also important but more tedious to describe.

Those are only a few points that I’m exploring but there are many other things that can be said in the subject. And I don’t think there is just one way to go about it. But reading helps, it can help you identify what you want to emulate and what to avoid. I could give you a list of books that can inspire you if you want. :)

Now, having said all of that, I don’t think I’m an expert on the subject. And I’m far from being a perfect lady. There’s a lot of room for improvement. But when I read those novels I feel like these women were raised the same way I was and I feel understood. I don’t think it’s necessarily how everyone should be. There are other skills that I struggle to learn and that would help me better navigate in this world. Skills that were not necessarily taught to victorian ladies...

I simply wasn’t raised to be a career woman (there’s nothing good or bad about it, it’s just how it is) but I was raised to be an accomplished lady. 

I hope this wasn’t too long, and I hope I answered your question. If not, you can ask again. Thank you for asking I enjoyed replying to this.

I’m sorry for any spelling mistakes or forgotten words. I’ve notice I’m more prone to these recently.

[facelessxchurch]

What we’re your thoughts about the book?

Some asks were answered already in this post already so I just smacked those asks in here at the part where I talk about the topic in question, which is why the answer may not 100% fit the question.

Massive “Seasons of War” spoilers below the cut:

First off, of all, this book read like GoT/any zombie movie ever. With the necromancers being like the white walkers, Vile is the night king and daugar are the wights. even with the necromancers crumbling away after Vile got killed Tell me I’m not the only one seeing that.

I think there was a lot of fanservice and some confirmed headcanons in the book, which I really liked. Saracen magic got revealed, there was a return to the Leibniz dimension, the Vile vs Vile fight so many wanted finally happened (tho that was kinda underwhelming) and the Dead Men returned which I’m sure made a lot of people happy. 

Ravel poisoning Saracen during the war and Vile being so powerful bc of being dead were two popular headcanons that got confirmed. And I am personally so happy that this book killed the ‘there is no sarcasm in the Leibniz dimension’ headcanon bc I bloody hated that.

Finally, Landy tries to please the old fans instead instead of what feels like purposefully pissing them off. I guess the phase 2 book sales weren’t that great so far (nice try blaming it on the pandemic, but no). 

I’m also glad that the romance in this book was kept to a minimum bc The Val/Militsa kiss in the beginning, yikes, fanfiction has better written kisses than that. And the the dialog for the lesbian love triangle (bc for some reason Ms.Wicked aka Laura’s self insert is Militsa’s ex??) was cringy and stiff as hell, it felt more like first graders trying to do a dramatic play and not natural at all.

Surprisingly enough Mevolent’s and Serafina’s relationship seems to be the most healthy and romantic in the entire series and I have no idea if that was on purpose or if Landy just has twisted views on relationships.

I however am actually kinda happy with how Mev was written. He was sympathetic and charismatic, tho some of the stuff he did doesn’t fit to they way he’s characterised when he’s on screen (I know he is probably lying 90% of the time he speaks, but still). Like, banning all languages apart from English doesn’t seem like something a man who cares about culture, literature and art would do. It also seems kinda stupid bc those languages will be forgotten eventually and if they need an old text translated no one will be able to do it. Also, why English? Isn’t Mev old enough that his first/original language should be Gaelic? So weird. I have the feeling this was mainly done so Valkyrie (and with that the audience) can understand what the people on the continent are saying bc I very much doubt she understands/speaks any languages apart from English. 

But I loved that Mev was also shown as insanely smart. He managed to outsmart Val multiple times. And I love how he doesn’t need his magic to fight, how quick and agil and skilled he is. So I take it that his fighting style is more based on agility and not getting hit, and he uses brute force only when forced into it (by Darquesse/the Unnamed). I was wondering about that bc his armor is made of leather and chainmail instead of metal plates which is considered light armor and not something a tank type of fighter would wear.

What really rubbed me the wrong way tho was when he was talking Tanith and Skul and more or less stated the war wasn’t a challenge anymore ever since Skul died. Or when he was talking to Val being like ‘you’re more powerful than I could ever hope to be’.It bothers me even more knowing that Val is based on girlfriend!Laura. Does really everyone and everything in-vers, even a big bad like Mev, rub Skul’s/Landy’s and Val’s/Laura’s ego? Big yikes.

Crespular Vies is surprisingly fun. At first I thought the two men going after the Obsidian Blade were hired by the Unnamed, but since that wasn’t the case, I think Crespular Vines hired them that so he could show up in time to save Omen and his friends. I think him opening up to Omen about being Skul’s former partner came too unprompted, too quickly and that he is trying to gain Omen’s trust so he can get close to Skul through him. I think another giveaway that that’s the case is bc one of the men Omen had to meet to get his brother back wore a Cleaver outfit and Vies gave that man probably the same reasoning Omen gave him.

That said Omen’s chapters were surprisingly enjoyable. By what I had heard of others I expected a sad sack that can’t fight worth a damn. 

I’m not found of the Temper/Kierre stuff, it came out of nowhere.

Val is overpowered AF, it seems that she can get on Darquesses level with more practise/learning how to keep the doors open. She certainly needs to be nerfed.

Also I skipped the Darquesse chapters bc I’m giving negative fucks about her and the plague doctor.

The last 10% of the book were too rushed and felt like half finished thoughts.

Also I was kinda really bothered by the citizen of the Leibniz dimension. They were cartoonishly racist and it was very pretty black and white for the most part AKA everybody good is in the Resistance and all other sorcerers are evil/corrupt. That is also shown by there being children in the Resistance camp while there was no mention of children in the mage cities. In reality, most people are fairly mellow and it’s just a small percentage that is either really good or really wicked. I would have liked to see more racism towards mortals in form of apathy or ‘the soft bigotry of low expectations’ like I’ve seen it from Serpine in DotL. You know, make it a little less black and white.

Also, I understand the mermaids, but the bats in Europe were random AF. Like, I would understand it if they were just in Romania/Transylvania as a nod to the Dracula-typ vampire legends originating from there. As a plot-device they weren’t really needed to keep the protagonists from flying bc the danger of getting spotted by necromancer by doing so should be enough of a threat to keep them on the ground. This might seem nit-picky of me, but the bats just seemed so bloody random to me like wtf????

And also bc I’m a slut for magical creatures, I would have really liked to see more of them than just daugar and giant bats. Some undead cut together and resurrected necromancer experiments would have been pretty cool tbh. Like whatever the hell this is.

Something like zombie bears would have also been acceptable, I mean, bears are fucking terrifying on their own, let alone when undead and decaying.

I’m kinda pissed at China that she wanted Skul to kill Nef, but it does seem in character. Of course I still don’t like it bc I headcanon as Nef, Eliza and China having been besties during the war (no matter what canon says, I’m keeping that headcanon). I’m surprised Skul didn’t let Wreath have Nef considering that. Then again, he thought Nef might still be useful. And he was right. I loved how Nef actually had an essential part in saving the world by throwing the bomb. So proud of my boi <3 But Skul refused to kill him even after that. Could it be that Skul is finally getting character growth and development? 👀

Aaaand, China’s continuing to be a tyrant. With Tanith’s sense of justices flaring up shown when he killed the city governor, Erato, and Nef being shown to go after people that betray him (Lorien) I think those two are being set up to go after China to kill her (and to probably kill Creed too). Imagine Eliza joining the team bc she want a piece of China too.

I feel sorry for Baron, but at least he got a few speaking lines this time around. Still, I really wanted Nef to save him. :C Like, he suffered so much before he died too considering he spend a year alone starving and thirsty with broken legs in the middle of nowhere wft, why is Baron getting fucked over like this? #BaronDeservedBetter2020 he is the only honorable person of all faceless followers and he’s the one that gets screwed over in every book he shows up in, why tho- 😭

Speaking of Nef, I absolutely loved him in this book, he was a delight and stealing the show whenever he was on the page, despite being used as  punching bag through pretty much the entire book. If people have always treated him that way I can see why he turned evil jfc that poor man. Despite that, he was still being such a clever, funny and relatable bae <3 He’s described as ‘cynical, and nasty but also kinda cheerful’ and as liking to ‘needle’ people (aka trolling and roasting) by Val and that essentially describes every shitposter on the internet ever. And I so loved the way he roasted Saracen lmao

And how he’s so clever, like the Lorien part was my favourite scene closely followed by how Nef essentially talked Remus Crux into getting himself killed, just 👌 smart snek boi, I love him <3 Also I hope he keeps poisoning everybody thoughts against Skul like how he had already been doing it to Tanith, he’s poison in human form and that’s just my jam.

That obedience bracelet was kinda fucked up tho.

Why does this thing even exist? Aren't electro shocks or any other form of pain enough instead of shutting his nervous system down/rendering him completely defenceless? I feel like some messed up mage 100% used it to keep himself (sex) slaves at some point in time :/ Landy might have gotten that idea from some fucked up hentai. Even the implications of the name "obedience bracelet".... I can’t be the only one that got creepy perv vibes from that thing, right?

Btw what the fuck happened to Harmony? You know, Leibniz Serpine’s girlfriend. She hasn’t been mentioned again. Did she die? She didn’t seem too found of him in DotL, was she plotting against him and he found out about it, killed her and fled the Resistance? Or did she die prior to him leaving and it was part of the reason he left bc she was the only thing that had tied him emotionally to the Resistance?? Or Landy just forgot  she existed. I would not be surprised.

Of course my biggest issue with this book was how he retconned Nef’s magic and how he took his trademark, his red hand, away, but more about that in a different post.

TL;DR: Nef was a delight even though he was done dirty. Mev’s scenes were a 50/50 split between good and bad. I actually liked the Crespulare and Omen chapters. The Unnamed was a disappointment. The last 10% of the book were to rushed and the final fights that were supposed to be the biggest were underwhelming. The rest is meh, didn’t really care tbh. Let’s be real here, I only bought this book bc Nef played a bigger role in it, anyways.

[momentous000]

Americanized: A struggle with identity and culture

This is a reflective essay I wrote for my first semester college english class. It was the first college essay I was assigned to write  and I found it intimidating, realizing that my writing skills will finally be put to the test. I wanted to share my story because I know that I am not alone in struggling with these experiences. I am still struggling with balancing two cultures and learning to make peace with feelings of frustration and shame. 

As first-generation immigrants, my parents are unfamiliar with the American education system, specifically, college in its entirety. While my parents have been supportive of my education, they do not have the knowledge or time to guide me along the process. As a result, I was forced to become independent within my academic journey. In becoming self-reliant and navigating through The Academy on my own, I struggled to balance my cultural and academic identity.

Growing up, my parents instilled in me the importance of education as a foundation for success. The guidance they provided was limited to: “Be a good student,” which meant, “earn good grades.” To please my parents, I finished my homework, studied dutifully, and earned fridge-worthy grades throughout my academic career. They congratulated me on every report card, with the same phrase: “Good job, anak, keep doing well,” my father would always write on every report card. With every A I brought home, they sounded like a broken record, it started to feel like they were mocking me. Their response was so superficial, so focused on the letter grade. I graduated high school with a 4.2 GPA, decorated with cords. According to my parents’ definition, this proved I am a good student. They were proud of me.

Nevertheless, I know a good student is not defined by the grades they earn. I consider myself a good student because I value and apply the knowledge I learn beyond the classroom setting. But, the more I learned, the more I withdrew myself from my family to focus on my studies. In prioritizing my academics, I struggled to balance my Filipino identity. The more serious I was about perfecting my academic skills, the more I held my parents accountable for the same standards they placed on me. While dealing with my perfectionism and familial expectations, I feel compelled to further conform to the academic standards of the Model Minority Myth. A model minority is a racial group whose members are perceived to have a higher level of success compared to others. The media often portrays Asians as a poster child for this myth, using seemingly positive stereotypes, such as “all Asians are good at math.” Not only does this have detrimental effects on diverse Asian ethnicities, but also race-relations in general.

As a result, the Model Minority Myth and my parents’ expectations forced me to bolster my sense of agency. Both conditioned me to attach my self-worth to my academic accomplishments. As a second-generation college student, would I become another prized possession, a trophy, for my family? My older sister, fortunately, went through the college experience before me, attending Northern Virginia Community College (NVCC) and successfully transferring, and graduating from the University of Virginia (UVA). Despite our similar paths, the future of my education solely rests in my hands. I must have exigence because if I do not, how will I repay my parents for their sacrifices, if not for an educated daughter destined to pursue a better life than theirs?

For this reason, I adopted the habits that eventually isolated me from my family, such that of Rodriguez in Scholarship boy: “with ever-increasing intensity, I devoted myself to my studies. I became bookish, puzzling to all my family. My ambition set me apart.” Like Rodriguez, when I was in high school, I would come home every day armed with knowledge I was eager to share with my parents. My eyes lit up, almost alarmingly, chattering on about Crime and Punishment. Yet, as I was rapt in my speech, my mother’s eyes glazed over. She curtly commented on how all the books we were reading were too old, too Eurocentric:

“Fyodor… ano? Russian, talaga? Why do they make you read those books?”

“It’s a classical novel, mom. It brilliantly explores morality and religion—”

“He murdered someone? Wow! Don’t start thinking like him!” “The author didn’t commit a murder. Raskolnikov is a complex character that—” “Why all the books you talk about are old? No modern or Asian?”

“Well, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad—”

“Do you have to write an essay on it?”

“Yes.”

I started to feel contempt against my parents’ way of life. Their philosophy was “not only different but starkly opposed to that of the classroom,” as stated by Rodriguez.

While I am adopting the identity of a scholar, according to my parents, I am becoming Americanized. In his song Kuya Derrick, Nak, a Filipino-American rapper, shares his similar struggles with maintaining his identity: “Our parents wanted us to grow up in America without becoming American.” My parents assumed American education was stripping me of my native culture because they claim The Academy has a standard, monolithic, mindset. Despite explaining The Academy’s emphasis on not only diversity in ethnicity, but as well as in thought, I do agree with them: I am struggling to be proud of, to retain, my Filipino identity while simultaneously becoming a member of The Academy.

In our image exercise in class, I chose the image with a group of people surrounded by thought bubbles and collaboration. I interpreted the frenzy of intellect as an example of scholars sharing their insights in The Academy. As an introvert, I see myself as the first person from the right, the one listening and contemplating the ideas they learned. While I do not see my introversion as a problem, my analytical thinking exacerbates my shyness and self-criticism. These issues not only hinder my contributions, but growth in The Academy. Currently, I am weighed down by the “Panic Monster.” To guarantee my successful transfer to UVA, he is always awake in my mind, pressuring me to confine myself in the yellow walls of my aunt’s attic, suffocating me with the constant transfer of knowledge. The only way to shut him up is to obey his orders: study and the “Panic Monster” takes a nap. To make the most of my college experience and to better engage in The Academy’s frenzy of knowledge, I plan to become more confident in my skills and embrace a hint of extraversion.

Now that I am paying for my education, I feel a profound sense of determination to take advantage of my resources. I do not want to be a passive student, just dutifully doing their work and waiting for two years to go by. I will participate in class discussions, connect with my professors, and take honors courses to grow further as a scholar. I will exhaust this campus of its resources by taking advantage of the tutoring centers, getting free merchandise from Student Life, and joining campus clubs such as the Honors Club and the Pride Alliance. To refrain from wasting the precious days of my “Life Calendar,” as Urban explains, I will further challenge my shyness by becoming involved outside of NVCC’s campus. I will explore Annandale, instead of constantly being cooped up in my aunt’s attic, and meet new people from various backgrounds in one of the most diverse colleges in America.

My parents, like most immigrants, wanted me to succeed and pursue the opportunities they missed. They were living their American Dream vicariously through me. I should be grateful for their sacrifices. While they do not have the same intellectual curiosity as I do, I take for “granted their enormous native intelligence,” as Rodriguez confessed. While I have an English accent in Tagalog, my parents can fluently write and speak in our native tongue. While I am forgetting the language, they manage to speak both English, Tagalog, and even a regional dialect, though they have an accent. While I can quote classical literature, they can cook a variety of traditional Filipino cuisine that I enjoyed eating growing up and still do today. While I held contempt for them, imagine how heartbroken they felt when they witnessed their child becoming increasingly disconnected and foreign from their family. I want to learn more about my roots, I want to study my history.

I strive to express gratitude towards my parents’ strength in moving us here after political persecution and extrajudicial killings of human rights advocates in the Philippines forced us to flee and seek refuge in America. I strive to reclaim my Filipino identity and culture by being less judgmental, and truly understanding my parents’ way of life, our culture’s way of life. I must not let the rules of The Academy and my Eurocentric education consume my identity. I aim to learn how to cook traditional meals, learn our rich native history, and respond to my parents in Tagalog.

footnotes:

A reference to the first Academy, founded by Plato. It is also used to describe the overall intellectual work and environment of colleges or universities.

anak means child in Tagalog, the main language of the Philippines.

“What”

“Really”

“Older brother”

The name Tim Urban coined for upcoming deadlines during his TEDTalk on procrastination.

[t0ngue-tech]

Sideline

“There were sparks in your eyes whenever you talked about flowers and how certain ones grow in different seasons. You were a force of nature; fearless, strong, and capable. There were so many things to love about you and Hoseok didn’t know where to start.”

↠ pure a n g s t ↞

word count: 2.9k

↠ oneshot ↞

A/N: happy early birthday to our sunshine, jung hoseok! i know angst may not be the best way to go, but i decided to write something different for him huhu. enjoy my loves!

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Yellow. Pink. Hues of orange.

Warmth. The rich taste of hot chocolate on a cold night. Thick blankets. Freshly washed sheets.

There was no color in the world—no feeling that could ever describe the way Hoseok felt being around you. Fireworks were always present and the stars seemed to shine brighter every time you walked outside.

Hoseok was blessed to have known you since middle school. He had been by your side through many horrible haircuts and long nights of complaining about school work. 

You weren’t a valedictorian type of student, more like a cum laude student however, you didn’t take the effort to do the work for the honors acknowledgement. 

Hoseok was the opposite, so he knew he drove you crazy with the constant nagging of reminding you about certain pieces of homework or constantly going over your book reports. It was probably exhausting for you, but the way you beamed at Hoseok every time you had a high grade meant you still appreciated his efforts.

It was always an adventure being by your side. You loved to drink milkshakes at eleven in the evening; according to you, it tasted better late at night. Hoseok hated the rain, but on the contrary, you were extremely fond of it. You took every chance you had to go running out in the rain and Hoseok never hesitated to follow in suit. He also hated horror movies, pickles, and pizza crust, but because of you, he slowly learned how to tolerate all of those because they were all of your favorites.

You had an alluring luminescence about you that easily reeled people into your circle. You had a big heart; a large soft spot for everyone because you believed that everyone was a good person deep down. Hoseok loved how you smiled at everyone, how you break out into song mid-sentence, and he loved how you smelt like lavender every time you walked by.

There were sparks in your eyes whenever you talked about flowers and how certain ones grow in different seasons. You were a force of nature; fearless, strong, and capable. There were so many things to love about you and Hoseok didn’t know where to start.

Even with all of your beautiful qualities, Hoseok had to admit that there were things about you that he didn’t like.

Throughout the early years of knowing you, Hoseok watched you get your heartbroken over boys who never appreciated you. You’d question every single aspect about you when you were heartbroken and as much as he cared for you, it pissed him off.

You cared deeply for others and this meant you get hurt easily; Hoseok hated that. He hated the way your face looked when you were disappointed. When your eyes would glisten with tears, he could feel his chest cave in. He hated the way you doubt yourself, the sound of your squeaky laugh, and the way you’d hook your arm with his or how you would lean on his shoulders when you were tired. Most of all, he hated the way you say his name.

“Hoseokie!”

“Seokie.”

“Hobi, Hobi!”

“Hoseok..”

The sound of his name coming from your lips was like honey, sweet and rich. His parents, his sister, his friends, they all called on his name on a regular basis but nothing compared to the beautiful tone of your name.

But how can something so beautiful hurt so much?

↠↞

Summer break.

How could Hoseok forget the time you visited during summer break? It was impossible to forget.

Hoseok picked you up at the airport at one in the morning and the first thing you wanted was his mother’s steamed eggs and rice cake soup. By the time you both arrived, she was asleep (obviously), so you took his bed while he slept on the floor. It was a random cold summer night, but you were bundled up in warm blankets and that’s all that mattered to him.

Since summer school was in the works, Hoseok took the liberty to give you a campus tour of his university. He saved the literature wing for last because it was your major and the library on the upper floor would be your sanctuary.

What he didn’t account for was seeing a certain “shorter” friend with raven hair skimming along the tall shelves.

He didn’t want to regret walking up to his friend with you.

“Hey, Yoongi. It’s a rare sight seeing you with your head in the books.”

He didn’t want to regret introducing you to Yoongi.

“This is my friend, y/n. She’s visiting for the summer.”

He didn’t want to hear it.

“Hi Yoongi. It’s nice to meet you.”

And there it was. Honey dripping from your lips at the way Yoongi’s name rolled off your tongue.

Running into Yoongi didn’t happen that one time. Yoongi ran into both you and Hoseok at a cafe near Hoseok’s university, Hoseok introduced you to more of his friends and Yoongi was also there, and you also mentioned to Hoseok that you ran into him at the supermarket.

It’s not like Hoseok had the power to stop you from meeting Yoongi over and over again. He also couldn’t politely ask you to do such a thing because he had no authority over your social circle. 

Hoseok had to stand by and watch your friendship with Yoongi slowly bloom into something new. It was torture to watch you laugh and lean against Yoongi’s shoulders when there were get togethers. You would bat your eyelashes, play with the ends of your hair, and you even invested in a new bottle of perfume that smells like toasted marshmallows; now his clothes and blanket smelt a little sweeter. All of these little things you did were a bit reminiscent of your behavior back in high school and he wished he could have forgotten about all of those things.

But how could he forget the late night conversation he had with you on his porch? It sealed the deal.

“Hoseok. I think I really like Yoongi.”

The dimness of the nearby street light shone on your face, revealing a noticeable blush.

“Really? Well, he’s a decent guy.”

The truth.

“He is, isn’t he? I’ve been hanging out with him a lot since I’ve been back. Thank you so much for introducing us by the way.”

“Of course. You two look great together.”

Lies.

Not to be selfish but, Hoseok had hoped he could spend the majority of summer break with you and that maybe within the time you spend with him you could feel something a little more than friendship.

It was a hopeless dream. It always has been.

A week before you left for the new spring semester, Yoongi had officially asked you to be his girlfriend. 

It’s not that Hoseok wasn’t happy for you—of course he was happy. Maybe it was just his childish side getting to him; being a bit jealous and shit. He was in love with you for years, how else was he supposed to feel?

He was used to being in this position anyway.

All that was left was for you to send him a text or call him one day with an empty tone of voice explaining that long distance wasn’t working out anymore.

Hoseok got no such notification.

Instead, he received texts and calls from you gushing about how things were sailing smoothly with Yoongi and how he made the trip to visit you during spring break and on a random weekend. Yoongi was putting in a lot of effort for you and Hoseok was genuinely happy that there was a guy out there who was treating you like a queen.

It wasn’t long before he heard the painful words he didn’t want to hear.

“I’m so in love with him, Hoseok.”

Love. 

In love with Yoongi.

You loved your exes in the past and broke up, so there had to be some “hope” for him, right?

Slowly, texts and calls from you became rare. Sometimes you’d take a few days to reply to a text and a simple how have you been conversation could take an entire week just to say I’ve been doing well, how about you.

Eventually the only way Hoseok could get updates on you was through your social media posts and according to those, you were still in a happy relationship with Yoongi.

This was for the best. It had to be. Hoseok had to let go of his first love at some point, so why was he feeling disappointed?

There was probably no hope left anymore.

↠↞

Years down the road, Hoseok found himself in love. It was a breathtaking, pinch-me-am-I-dreaming kind of love. He never thought he would ever feel this way about someone else, but Chaerin was that someone. She entered his life like a hurricane and Hoseok allowed himself to get swept away.

The sky was always a vibrant shade of blue, flowers were always in bloom, and birds only sang love songs. Oh how he wished he could have felt this a lot sooner in his life, but Chaerin was worth the wait.

Everything was going perfect for Hoseok, until one day he came home after a long day at the office. He opened the door of the apartment he shared with his lovely girlfriend and found her going through that day’s clutter of mail.

“Junkmail, junkmail, home catalog… oh, baby you have something addressed to you. It looks like an invitation? Or maybe a thank you card?”

There was a slight drop in Hoseok’s stomach and he hesitated to move closer to Chaerin because he had a good feeling as to what the contents of the envelope was. He swallowed the lump in his throat and proceeded to open the white fold of the envelope.

There it was.

“Kindly join us for the wedding of y/n and Min Yoongi--y/n? Oh my God, babe isn’t that your friend from high school?”

Chaerin knew who you were, but he didn’t have the heart to tell her anything beyond the basic information. All Hoseok could do was nod slowly and continued to read the invitation to himself. The card was printed with baby pink and gold details and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from your name. He knew you were engaged because of your social media and he paid no mind to it, but because the two of you don’t talk anymore, he didn’t expect to receive an invitation. 

This was completely unexpected and it stirred everything inside of him, enticing chaos. He hasn’t seen you in years and his biggest fear was that every single thing he felt for you would come rushing back, ruining the happiness he finally had.

There was a plus one option on the reservation card and because Chaerin had no idea about Hoseok’s past feelings, she continued to encourage him to go to support you on your special day.

“Come on, honey. I’m sure y/n would be delighted to see you. Plus, it’s been a while since we’ve gotten all dressed up.”

Hoseok always imagined shaking hands with his old high school friends on his wedding day, but instead, he was doing it on your wedding day. It wasn’t just your wedding day, you were getting married to someone who wasn’t Hoseok. 

Tears brimmed the eyes of guests as both you and Yoongi said your wedding vows; Hoseok’s eyes welled for a different reason.

“They’re beautiful together.” Chaerin whispered.

Hoseok held tightly onto his girlfriend’s hand and prepared for the next two words that were going to slip past your lips.

“I do.”

And that was that.

Now here he was, standing on the outside of the dance floor with his hands in his pockets. Hoseok smiled fondly at Chaerin who had a surprising reunion with a friend from college who was Yoongi’s cousin. 

Just like everyday, Chaerin was as gorgeous as ever. No one in the entire room could compare to his girlfriend, but… 

“Hoseokie!”

There it was.

Just like that, his entire world crumbled at his feet. After not hearing your voice call for him for what felt like an eternity, Hoseok melted into a puddle but just like how he used to, he sucked in a breath and smiled.

“Hey, congratulations.” Hoseok tried to go for a hand shake, but you hastily ran up to him and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Thank you and thank you so much for coming.” You smiled up at him with your eyes still sparkling even under the dim lights.

Please stop. Please don’t smile at me.

“Hobi, dance with me?”

The agonizing pain in his chest grew worse at the touch of your hand on his forearm. He turned to search for Chaerin who was still speaking with her friend. She met his eyes and gestured her hands in encouragement as if she knew what you asked him.

“Of course.” Hoseok breathed. “I’d love to.”

The next slow dance song played right on cue and all Hoseok could focus on was the way his shaky hands gently held onto your waist and the warmth of your hands sat at the nape of his neck. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from yours, feeling the intensity within his soul.

Time had done you well, you were still so beautiful. Your eyes still glistened the way it used to and it still had the same effect on him. Truly, Yoongi was a lucky guy. Incredibly lucky.

“So, tell me, who’s the lucky girl?”

Hoseok’s breath was caught in his throat for a moment.

“Her name is Chaerin.”

You tiptoed to take a peek over his shoulder. “She’s really beautiful, Hoseok. I’m happy for you.” You then leaned your head against his chest and swayed silently to the music.

Hoseok was sure he wasn’t in love with you anymore, but why was he feeling this way? It wasn’t fair.

“Hey,” you spoke over the music. “I really can’t thank you enough. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you introducing me to Yoongi and these days we don’t even see each other anymore. I’m so sorry.”

Please don’t thank me.

“No need to thank me, y/n and don’t apologize at all. Life got in the way too. I’m happy to see you now.” It hurt to say those words, but this was the closest Hoseok could ever be to you and he had to bear with it.

“Why don’t the four of us get together sometime for a double date?” You had the brightest smile on your face and it made Hoseok’s heartache. Did he have the heart to sit across from you with a ring on your finger and watch the love you have for Yoongi bleed out into his breathing space?

“I would love that.” He was sure his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Why did it feel like this was the last time he would ever see you?

The song was beginning to fade out and you crept your arms around Hoseok’s neck to pull him into a warm embrace. He shut his eyes breathing in your faint lavender perfume. You were held so close to him that he could feel the slow rhythm of your heartbeat against him. Time had to stop. He wanted it to stop. Why hasn’t it stopped?

“You’ve been a great friend to me all these years, Hoseokie.” You breathed into his ear before releasing him. “I hope you know how much I love you.”

Love? No.

It wasn’t the love he wanted, but he had to accept. 

“I love you too, y/n. “

You began to step away from him and Hoseok could feel the grip on your waist loosening. He wanted to hold you longer. He wanted to feel your heartbeat once more, afraid he’d forget what it sounded like when you were near him. He wanted your breath to tickle his skin and to feel the tips of your nails graze steadily against the back of his neck. The desire to be your center of attention even for a few more minutes was strong, but you were slipping at his fingertips.

With just a few more steps, you were at a foot’s distance from Hoseok and you smiled at him, fleeting away to your husband who was standing at the front of the dance floor.

Hoseok backed up, watching you throw your arms around Yoongi and rock side to side. You looked at Yoongi as if he held the entire universe in his eyes and he looked at you with just as much admiration if not more.

Now completely out of the dance floor, Hoseok still couldn’t tear his eyes away from you as you guided Yoongi towards the middle. Even with the music playing, Hoseok could hear the squeak you make every time you let out a hearty laugh. He soaked in the shape of your slim shoulders and the curve of your waist. He caught a glimpse of your perfect side profile as you turned and the twinkle in your eyes wasn’t hard to miss.

The dance floor started to fill up and just like that, Hoseok lost you in the crowd.

Standing on your sideline was where he belonged.

Hoseok was a secondary character in your life, the second lead, and the second lead never gets the main girl in the movies. 

There was never room for him in your heart that way.

It was probably written in the stars from the beginning; friends from the start. His friendship with you was written with a pen and the story ended just as it started.

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♡ rae jagi

[tvdas]

John Berryman in 1966, two years after the publication of “77 Dream Songs.” The Heartsick Hilarity of John Berryman’s Letters is a book review by Anthony Lane (in The New Yorker) of The Selected Letters of John Berryman. The book is edited by Philip Coleman and Calista McRae and published by the Belknap Press, at Harvard. My acquaintance, the generous Philip Coleman, mailed me a copy of this book at the end of October.   Lane writes, “. . . anyone who delights in listening to Berryman, and who can’t help wondering how the singer becomes the songs, will find much to treasure here, in these garrulous and pedantic pages. There is hardly a paragraph in which Berryman—poet, pedagogue, boozehound, and symphonic self-destroyer—may not be heard straining toward the condition of music. ‘I have to make my pleasure out of sound,’ he says. The book is full of noises, heartsick with hilarity, and they await their transmutation into verse.” Here is the book review:

The poet John Berryman was born in 1914, in McAlester, Oklahoma. He was educated at Columbia and then in England, where he studied at Cambridge, met W. H. Auden and Dylan Thomas, and lit a cigarette for W. B. Yeats. All three men left traces in Berryman’s early work. In 1938, he returned to New York and embarked upon a spate of teaching posts in colleges across the land, beginning at Wayne State University and progressing to stints at Harvard, Princeton, Cincinnati, Berkeley, Brown, and other arenas in which he could feel unsettled. The history of his health, physical and mental, was no less fitful and spasmodic, and alcohol, which has a soft spot for poets, found him an easy mark. In a similar vein, his romantic life was lunging, irrepressible, and desperate, so much so that it squandered any lasting claim to romance. Thrice married, he fathered a son and two daughters. He died in 1972, by jumping from the Washington Avenue Bridge in Minneapolis. To the appalled gratification of posterity, his fall was witnessed by somebody named Art Hitman.

Berryman would have laughed at that. In an existence that was littered with loss, the one thing that never failed him, apart from his unwaning and wax-free ear for English verse, was his sense of humor. The first that I heard of Berryman was this:

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so. After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns, we ourselves flash and yearn, and moreover my mother told me as a boy (repeatingly) ‘Ever to confess you’re bored means you have no

Inner Resources.’ I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored. Peoples bore me, literature bores me, especially great literature, Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes as bad as achilles,

who loves people and valiant art, which bores me. And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag and somehow a dog has taken itself & its tail considerably away into mountains or sea or sky, leaving behind: me, wag.

“Wag” meaning a witty fellow, or “wag” meaning that he is of no more use than the back end of a mutt? Who on earth is Henry? Also, whoever’s talking, why does he address us as “friends,” as if he were Mark Antony and we were a Roman mob, and why can’t he even honor Achilles—the hero of the Iliad, a foundation stone of “great literature”—with a capital letter? You have to know such literature pretty well before you earn the right to claim that it tires you out. Few knew it better than Berryman, or shouldered the burdens of serious reading with a more remorseless joy. As he once said, “When it came to a choice between buying a book and a sandwich, as it often did, I always chose the book.”

“Life, friends” is the fourteenth of “The Dream Songs,” the many-splendored enterprise that consumed Berryman’s energies in the latter half of his career, and on which his reputation largely rests. His labors on the Songs began in 1955 and led to “77 Dream Songs,” which was published in 1964 and won him a Pulitzer Prize. In the course of the Songs, which he regarded as one long poem, he is represented, or unreliably impersonated, by a figure named Henry, who undergoes “the whole humiliating Human round” on his behalf. As Berryman explained, “Henry both is and is not me, obviously. We touch at certain points.” In 1968, along came a further three hundred and eight Songs, under the title “His Toy, His Dream, His Rest.” (A haunting phrase, which grabs the seven ages of man, as outlined in “As You Like It,” and squeezes them down to three.) Two days after publication, he was asked, by the Harvard Advocate, about his profession. “Being a poet is a funny kind of jazz. It doesn’t get you anything,” he said. “It’s just something you do.”

There was plenty of all that jazz. Berryman forsook the distillations of Eliot for the profusion of Whitman; the Dream Songs, endlessly rocking and rolling, surge onward in waves. Lay them aside, and you still have the other volumes of Berryman’s poems, including “The Dispossessed” (1948), “Homage to Mistress Bradstreet” (1956), and “Love & Fame” (1970). Bundled together, they fill nearly three hundred pages. If magnitude freaks you out, there are slimmer selections—one from the Library of America, edited by Kevin Young, the poetry editor of this magazine, and another, “The Heart Is Strange,” compiled by Daniel Swift to toast the centenary, in 2014, of the poet’s birth. And don’t forget the authoritative 1982 biography by John Haffenden, who also put together a posthumous collection, “Henry’s Fate and Other Poems,” in 1977, as well as “Berryman’s Shakespeare” (1999), a Falstaffian banquet of his scholarly work on the Bard. Some of Berryman’s critical writings are clustered, invaluably, in “The Freedom of the Poet” (1976). In short, you need space on your shelves, plus a clear head, if you want to join the Berrymaniacs. Proceed with caution; we can be a cranky bunch.

Of late, Berryman’s star has waned. Its glow was never steady in the first place, but it has dimmed appreciably, because of lines like these:

Arrive a time when all coons lose dere grip, but is he come? Le’s do a hoedown, gal.

“The Dream Songs” is a hubbub, and some of it is spoken in blackface—or, to be accurate, in what might be described as blackvoice. It deals in unembarrassed minstrelsy, complete with a caricature of verbal tics, all too pointedly transcribed: “Now there you exaggerate, Sah. We hafta die.” To say that Berryman was airing the prejudices of his era is hardly to exonerate him; in any case, he seems to be evoking, in purposeful anachronism, an all but vanished age of vaudeville. Kevin Young, who is Black, prefaces his choice of Berryman’s poetry by arguing, “Much of the force of The Dream Songs comes from its use of race and blackface to express a (white) self unraveling.” Some readers will share Young’s generously inquiring attitude; others will veer away from Berryman and never go back.

For anyone willing to stick around, there’s a new book on the block. “The Selected Letters of John Berryman” weighs in at more than seven hundred pages. It is edited by Philip Coleman and Calista McRae, and published by the Belknap Press, at Harvard—a selfless undertaking, given that Berryman derides Harvard as “a haven for the boring and the foolish,” wherein “my students display a form of illiterate urbanity which will soon become very depressing.” (Not that other colleges elude his gibes. Berkeley is summed up as “Paradise, with anthrax.”) The earliest letter, dated September, 1925, is from the schoolboy Berryman to his parents, and ends, “I love you too much to talk about.” In a pleasing symmetry, the final letter printed here, from 1971, shows Berryman rejoicing in his own parenthood. He tells a friend, “We had a baby, Sarah Rebecca, in June—a beauty.”

And what lies in between? More or less the polyphony that you’d expect, should you come pre-tuned into Berryman. “Vigour & fatigue, confidence & despair, the elegant & the blunt, the bright & the dry.” Such is the medley, he says, that he finds in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins, and you can feel Berryman swooping with similar freedom from one tone to the next. “Books I’ve got, copulation I need,” he writes from Cambridge, at the age of twenty-two, thus initiating a lifelong and dangerous refrain. When he reports, two years later, that “I was attacked by an excited loneliness which is still with me and which has so far produced fifteen poems,” is that a grouse or a boast? There are alarming valedictions: “Nurse w. another shot. no more now,” or, “Maybe I better go get a bottle of whisky; maybe I better not.” There are letters to Ezra Pound, one of which, sent with “atlantean respect & affection,” announces, “What we want is a new form of the daring,” a very Poundian demand. And there are smart little swerves into the aphoristic—“Writers should be heard and not seen”; “All modern writers are complicated before they are good”—or into courteous eighteenth-century brusquerie. Pastiche can be useful when you have a grudge to convey: “My dear Sir: You are plainly either a fool or a scoundrel. It is kinder to think you a fool; and so I do.” It’s a letter best taken with a pinch of snuff.

Berryman was a captious and self-heating complainer, slow to cool. Just as the first word of the Iliad means “Wrath,” so the first word of the opening Dream Song is “Huffy.” Seldom can you predict the cause of his looming ire. A concert performance by the Stradivarius Quartet, in the fall of 1941, drives him away: “Beethoven’s op. 130 they took now to be a circus, now to be a sea-chantey, & I fled in the middle to escape their Cavatina.” The following year, an epic letter to his landlord, on Grove Street, in Boston, is almost entirely concerned with a refrigerator, which has “developed a high-pitched scream.” Berryman was not an easy man to live with, or to love, and the likelihood that even household appliances found his company intolerable cannot be dismissed.

Yet the poet was scarcely unique in his vexations; we all have our fridges to bear. Something else, far below the hum of daily pique, resounds through this massive book—a ground bass of doom and dejection. “You may prepare my coffin.” “If this reaches you, you will know I got as far as a letter-box at any rate.” “I write in haste, being back in Hell.” Such are the dirges to which Berryman treats his friends, in the winter of 1939–40, and the odd jauntiness in which he couches his misery somehow makes it worse. It’s one thing to write, “I am fed up with pretending to be alive when in fact I am not,” but quite another to dispatch those words, as Berryman did, to someone whom you are courting; the recipient was Eileen Mulligan, whom he married nine months later, in October, 1942. To the critic Mark Van Doren, who had been his mentor at Columbia, he was more formal in his woe, declaring, “Each year I hope that next year will find me dead, and so far I have been disappointed, but I do not lose that hope, which is almost my only one.” We are close to the borders of Beckett.

There are definite jitters of comedy in so funereal a pose, and detractors of Berryman would say that he keeps trying on his desolation, like a man getting fitted for a dark suit. The trouble is that we know how he died. Even if he is putting on an act, for the horrified benefit of his correspondents, it is still a rehearsal for the main event, and you can’t inspect the long lament that he sends to Eileen in 1953—after they have separated—without glancing ahead, almost twenty years, to the dénouement of his days. The letter leaps, like one of those 3 a.m. frettings which every insomniac will recognize, directly from money to death. “I only have $2.15 to live through the week,” the poet says, before laying out his plans. “My insurance, the only sure way of paying my debts, expires on Thursday. So unless something happens I have to kill myself day after tomorrow evening or earlier.” To be specific, “What I am going to do is drop off the George Washington bridge. I believe one dies on the way down.” If Berryman is playing Cassandra to himself, crying out the details of his own quietus, how did the cry begin?

It is tempting to turn biography into cartography—unrolling the record of somebody’s life, smoothing it flat, and indicating the major fork in the road. Most of us rebut this thesis, as we amble maplessly along. In Berryman’s case, however, there was a fork, so terrible and so palpable that no account of him, and no encounter with his poems, can afford to ignore it. The road didn’t simply split in two; it was cratered, in the summer of 1926, when his father, John Allyn Smith, committed suicide.

The family was living in Clearwater, Florida, at the time, and young John was eleven years old. There was a bizarre prelude to the calamity, when his brother, Robert, was taken out by their father for a swim in the Gulf. What occurred next remains murky, but it seemed, for a while, as if they would not be returning to shore. One of the Dream Songs takes up the tale, mixing memory and denial:

Also I love him: me he’s done no wrong for going on forty years—forgiveness time— I touch now his despair, he felt as bad as Whitman on his tower but he did not swim out with me or my brother as he threatened—

a powerful swimmer, to         take one of us along as company in the defeat sublime, freezing my helpless mother: he only, very early in the morning, rose with his gun and went outdoors by my window and did what was needed.

I cannot read that wretched mind, so strong & so undone. I’ve always tried. I—I’m trying to forgive whose frantic passage, when he could not live an instant longer, in the summer dawn left Henry to live on.

Smith’s death would become the primal wound for his older son. Notice how the tough and Hemingway-tinged curtness of “did what was needed” gives way, all too soon, to the halting stammer of “I—I’m trying.” The wound was suppurating and unhealable, and there is little doubt that it deepened the festering of Berryman’s life. As he writes in one of the final Dream Songs, “I spit upon this dreadful banker’s grave / who shot his heart out in a Florida dawn / O ho alas alas.” Haffenden quotes these lines, raw with recrimination, in his biography; dryly informs us that the poet, in fact, never visited his father’s grave; and supplies us with relevant notes that Berryman made in 1970—two years before he, in turn, found a bridge and did what he thought was needed. He sounds like a patient striving mightily to become his own shrink:

Did I myself feel any guilt perhaps—long-repressed if so & this is mere speculation (defense here) about Daddy’s death? (I certainly pickt up enough of Mother’s self-blame to accuse her once, drunk & raging, of having actually murdered him & staged a suicide.)

Alternatively:

So maybe my long self-pity has been based on an error, and there has been no (hero-) villain (Father) ruling my life, but only an unspeakably powerful possessive adoring mother, whose life at 75 is still centered wholly on me. And my (omnipotent) feeling that I can get away with anything.

For readers who ask themselves, browsing through “Berryman’s Shakespeare,” why the poet bent his attention, again and again, to “Hamlet,” to the plight of the prince, and to the preoccupations—as Berryman boldly construed them—of the man who wrote the play, here is an answer of sorts. And, for anyone wanting more of this unholy psychodrama, consider the list of characters. Berryman’s mother, born Martha Little, married John Allyn Smith. Less than eleven weeks after his death, she married her landlord, John Angus McAlpin Berryman, and thereafter called herself Jill, or Jill Angel. As for the poet, he was baptized with his father’s name, was known as Billy in infancy, and then, in deference to his brand-new stepfather, became John Berryman. This is like Hamlet having to call himself Claudius, Jr., on top of everything else. As Berryman remarks, “Damn Berrymans and their names.”

A book of back-and-forth correspondence with his mother was published in 1988, under the title “We Dream of Honour.” (Having picked up the habit of British spelling, at Cambridge, Berryman never kicked it.) Inexcusably, it’s now out of print, but worth tracking down; and you could swear, as you leaf through it, that you’d stumbled upon a love affair. The son says to the mother, “I hope you’re well, darling, and less worried.” The mother tells the son, “I have loved you too much for wisdom, or it is perhaps nearer truth to say that with love or in anger, I am not wise.” We are offered a facsimile of a letter from 1953, in which Berryman begins, “Mother, I have always failed; but I am not failing now.”

One obvious shortfall in the “Selected Letters” is that “We Dream of Honour” took the cream of the crop. Only eight letters here are addressed to Martha, six of them mailed from school, and, if you’re approaching Berryman as a novice, your take on him will be unavoidably skewed. By way of compensation, we get a wildly misconceived letter of advice from the middle-aged Berryman to his son, Paul, concluding with the maxim “Strong fathers crush sons.” Paul was four at the time. Haffenden has already cited that letter, however, and doubts whether it was ever sent. One item in the new book that I have never read before, and would prefer not to read again, is a letter from the fourteen-year-old Berryman to his stepfather, whom he calls Uncle Jack, and before whom he cringes as if whipped. “I’m a coward, a cheat, a bully, and a thief if I had the guts to steal,” the boy writes. Things get worse: “I have none of the fine qualities or emotions, and all the baser ones. I don’t understand why God permitted me to be born.” He signs himself “John Berryman,” the sender mirroring the recipient, and adds, “P.S. I’m a disgrace to your name.”

To read such words is to marvel that Berryman survived as long as he did. If one virtue emerged from the wreckage of his early years, it was a capacity to console; later, in the midst of his drinking and his lechery, he remained a reliable guide to grief, and to the blast area that surrounds it. In May, 1955, commiserating with Saul Bellow, whose father has just passed away, Berryman writes, “Unfortunately I am in a v g position to feel with you: my father died for me all over again last week.” He unfolds his larger theme: “His father’s death is one of the few main things that happens to a man, I think, and it matters greatly to the life when it happens.” Bellow’s affliction, Berryman reassures him, lofts him into illustrious company: “Shakespeare was probably in the middle of Hamlet and I think his effort increased.” Freud and Luther are then added to the roster of the fruitfully bereaved.

None of this will surprise an admirer of the Dream Songs. Among the loveliest are those in which the poet mourns departed friends, such as Robert Frost, Louis MacNeice, Theodore Roethke, and Delmore Schwartz. Berryman the comic, who can be scabrously funny, not least at his own expense, consorts with Berryman the frightener (“In slack times visit I the violent dead / and pick their awful brains”) and Berryman the elegist, who can summon whole twilights of sorrow. In this, a tribute to Randall Jarrell, he gradually allows the verse to run on, like overflowing water, across the line breaks, with a grace denied to our harshly end-stopped lives:

In the night-reaches dreamed he of better graces, of liberations, and beloved faces, such as now ere dawn he sings. It would not be easy, accustomed to these things, to give up the old world, but he could try; let it all rest, have a good cry.

Let Randall rest, whom your self-torturing cannot restore one instant’s good to, rest: he’s left us now. The panic died and in the panic’s dying so did my old friend. I am headed west also, also, somehow.

In the chambers of the end we’ll meet again I will say Randall, he’ll say Pussycat and all will be as before when as we sought, among the beloved faces, eminence and were dissatisfied with that and needed more.

A photograph of 1941 shows Berryman in a dark coat, a hat, and a bow tie. His jaw is clean-shaven and firm. With his thin-rimmed spectacles and his ready smile, he looks like a spry young stockbroker on his way home from church. Skip ahead to the older Berryman, and you observe a very different beast, with a beard like the mane of a disenchanted lion. Finches could roost in it. The rims of his glasses are now thick and black, and his hands, in many images, refuse to be at rest. They gesticulate and splay, as if he were conducting an orchestra that he alone can hear. A cigarette serves as his baton.

If you seek to understand this metamorphosis, “The Selected Letters of John Berryman” can help. What greets us here, as often as not, is a parody of a poet. Watch him fumble with the mechanisms of the everyday, “ghoulishly inefficient about details and tickets and visas and trains and money and hotels.” Chores are as heavy as millstones, to his hypersensitive neck: “Do this, do that, phone these, phone those, repair this, drown that, poison the other.” We start to sniff a blend—peculiar to Berryman, like a special tobacco—of the humbled and the immodest. It drifts about, in aromatic puns: “my work is growing by creeps & grounds.” Though the outer world of politics and civil strife may occasionally intrude, it proves no match for the smoke-filled rooms inside the poet’s head. When nuclear tests are carried out at Bikini Atoll, in 1954, they register only briefly, in a letter to Bellow. “This thermonuclear business wd tip me up all over again if I were in shape to attend to it,” Berryman writes, before moving on to a harrowing digest of his diarrhea.

Above all, this is a book-riddled book. No one but Berryman, it’s fair to say, would write from a hospital in Minneapolis, having been admitted in a state of alcoholic and nervous prostration, to a bookstore in Oxford, asking, “Can you let me know what Elizabethan Bibles you have in stock?” The recklessness with which he abuses his body is paired with an indefatigable and nurselike care for textual minutiae. (“Very very tentatively I suggest that the comma might come out.”) Only on the page can he trust his powers of control, although even those desert him at a deliciously inappropriate moment. Writing to William Shawn at The New Yorker, in 1951, and proposing “a Profile on William Shakespeare,” Berryman begins, “Dear Mr Shahn.” Of all the editors of all the magazines in all the world, he misspells him.

No such Profile appeared; nor, to one’s infinite regret, did the edition of “King Lear” on which Berryman toiled for years. What we do have is his fine essay of 1953, “Shakespeare at Thirty,” which begins, “Suppose with me a time, a place, a man who was waked, risen, washed, dressed, fed, on a day in latter April long ago—about April 22, say, of 1594, a Monday.” Few scholars would have the bravado, or the imaginative dexterity, for such supposings, and it’s a thrill to see a living poet treat a dead one not as a monument but as a partner in crime. “Oh my god! Shakespeare. That multiform & encyclopedic bastard,” Berryman says in a letter of 1952, as if the two of them had just locked horns in a tavern.

Such plunges into the past, with its promise of adventure and refuge, came naturally to Berryman, nowhere more so than in “Homage to Mistress Bradstreet,” which was published in the Partisan Review in 1953 and, three years later, as a book. This was the poem with which he broke through—discovering not just a receptive audience but a voice that, in its heightened lyrical pressure, sounded like his and nobody else’s. The irony is that he did so by assuming the role of a woman: Anne Bradstreet, herself a poet, who emigrated from England to America, in 1630. It is her tough, pious, and hardscrabble history that Berryman chronicles: “Food endless, people few, all to be done. / As pippins roast, the question of the wolves / turns & turns.” In a celebrated scene, the heroine gives birth. Even if you dispute the male ability (or the right) to articulate such an experience, it’s hard not to be swayed by the fervor of dramatic effort:

I can can no longer and it passes the wretched trap whelming and I am me

drencht & powerful, I did it with my body! One proud tug greens Heaven. Marvellous, unforbidding Majesty. Swell, imperious bells. I fly.

What the poem cost its creator, over more than four years, is made plain in the letters, which ring with an exhausted ecstasy. “I feel like weeping all the time,” he tells one friend. “I regard every word in the poem as either a murderer or a lover.” As for Anne, who perished in 1672, “I certainly at some point fell in love with her.” Berryman adds, as if to prove his devotion, “I used three shirts at a time, in relays. I wish I were dead.”

Is this how we like poetry to be brought forth, even now? Though we may never touch the stuff, reading no verse from one year to the next, do we still expect it to be delivered in romantic agony, with attendant birth pangs? (So much for Wallace Stevens, who composed much of his work while gainfully employed, on a handsome salary, as an insurance executive.) Berryman viewed the notion of his being a confessional poet “with rage and contempt,” and rightly so; the label is an insult to his craftsmanship. Nobody pining for mere self-expression, or craving a therapeutic blurt, could lavish on a paramour, as Berryman did, lines as elaborately wrought as these:

Loves are the summer’s. Summer like a bee Sucks out our best, thigh-brushes, and is gone.

You have to reach back to Donne to find so commanding an exercise in the clever-sensual. It comes from “Berryman’s Sonnets,” a sequence of a hundred and fifteen poems, published in 1967. Most of them had been written long before, in 1947, in heat and haste, during an affair with a woman named Chris Haynes. And, in this huge new hoard of letters, how many are addressed to Haynes? Precisely one. Gossip hunters will slouch off in frustration, and good luck to them; on the other hand, anyone who delights in listening to Berryman, and who can’t help wondering how the singer becomes the songs, will find much to treasure here, in these garrulous and pedantic pages. There is hardly a paragraph in which Berryman—poet, pedagogue, boozehound, and symphonic self-destroyer—may not be heard straining toward the condition of music. “I have to make my pleasure out of sound,” he says. The book is full of noises, heartsick with hilarity, and they await their transmutation into verse.

[hellenicprayercircle]

ah thank you! i’m just struggling with finding ways to honour Mnemosyne, as almost all information was lost on her aside from her being the mother of The Muses. do you have any advice on how i could find ways to strengthen my connection with Her if i don’t even know what sort of offerings to give? thank you so much

Hey, I did some fun and sexy research for you using JSTOR and SciHub. @illusionofmyself

So: Things you may not know about Mnemosyne!

If you are familiar with Asklepios and curative incubation, Mnemosyne was honored at the Asklepieia. One author believes her presence was requested to aid in recalling the encounter with Asklepios after the patient woke up, “represented the capacity for ordered thought (akin to her function in epic poetry) which allowed for the transformation of the ritual experience at the Asklepiea into sacred literature” and to help memorialize the divine intervention of Asklepios, which would “[bolster] the fame of Asklepios and the status of his sanctuaries”. [[A quick summary of incubation: Asklepios is a healing god, the son of Apollo. Patients in Ancient Greece would go to the Asklepieia, which was a healing temple. Incubation is the process of receiving divine advice through dreams--patients would sleep at the temple, Asklepios would visit them in their dreams and tell them how they were to be cured. When the patient awoke, they would tell the priests, who would perform the cure.]] So Mnemosyne helped the patient recall the dream, and therefore give the full advice to the priests from Asklepios. 

The sacred texts from the Pergamon Asklepion has a bit more detail... The preliminary rituals at Pergamon included offerings of meat and cake to various gods and an offering of a suckling pig to Asklepios at the main altar, along with the monetary offering, but this was not the last offering for most supplicants. At nightfall, three more nine-knobbed round cakes were to be offered, one each on the outside altar to Tyche and Mnemosyne, and one to Themis within the incubation chamber.  ... [I]n Piraeus, Mnemosyne’s offering probably preceded the offering to Asklepios before incubation. In Pergamon, the offering to Asklepios happened after the meat and cake offerings to the other gods and before the offerings to Tyche and Mnemosyne just outside the sleeping chambers and to Themis just inside the sleeping chambers. So, the offering to Mnemosyne happened right before incubation. Threnheim’s point about the importance of remembering the dream certainly accounts for the timing of the offering to Mnemosyne. Presumably one would want to invoke Mnemosyne as closely as possible to the actual incubation... Mnemosyne is one of the two gods (along with Apollo) that can be found at the Epidaurian, Pergamene, and Piraean sanctuaries. [[This is significant because there were up to 11 different gods honored at each of the 3 sites, but only Asklepios, Apollon, and Mnemosyne were mentioned at each one. She was clearly VERY important.]]

...

So what was the significance of Mnemosyne? At the most basic level, her gift of memory was necessary for the cult of Asklepios to work properly, since everything hinged on the incubant remembering the dream and attributing the cure to the god. But the process of remembering a dream vision is no simple matter, let alone interpreting it in a sensible way. Mnemosyne’s presence was a way that ancient people thought they could ensure accurate recollection of a dream vision of Asklepios. 

...

Mnemosyne also could have helped make logical sense of the nonsensical images remembered in dreams—sort of a second order of intellectual activity beyond that of remembering. Diodorus goes on to say, “Of the female Titans, they [the Cretans] say that Mnemosyne discovered the power of reason [λογισμούς],” a power that allows humans to account for phenomena and think through their various dimensions in a logical and orderly manner (5.67). Diodorus explains that Mnemosyne also “prescribed the determinations of names for each of the things that exist through which we also explain each and every thing and converse with one another” (5.67.3).24 So, it is not simply the internal intellectual powers of reason that were attributed to Mnemosyne, but also the power of human knowledge of the world through which humans could then interact intellectually and culturally. For without knowing the names of “everything that exists,” humans would not be able to communicate with each other in any meaningful way. Mnemosyne is credited with reason, human knowledge, and one of the basic tenets of human culture: meaningful verbal interaction.

...

As mother of the Muses, Mnemosyne drives what comes at the hand of the Muses. The following inscription captures well the relationship between the Muses and Mnemosyne in ancient Greek culture. It comes from a statue group of the Muses; the Muse Polymnia is speaking: “It is fitting that I, Polymnia, daughter of Mnemosyne, am the researcher of everything; for all history comes from memory.” 31 So, when the epic poets invoke the Muses, Mnemosyne must also be considered as the grounding for what results.

[[The author also notes that communicating the glory of the gods was a role of the Muses, and therefore is attributed to Mnemosyne.]]

...If the ritual effects of Mnemosyne’s presence in the Bacchic mysteries were to remember, order the mind, and stave off the possible madness that an encounter with a god might produce, ...

Conclusion:

She provided the ability for supplicants to remember the somnolent encounter with Asklepios; she could logically order the muddled memories of the dreamer; she could help articulate their thoughts clearly in order to act on it individually or by telling it to temple officials; and she could inspire the temple officials to create a narrative of the dream and construct a literary collection of the accounts that made famous the deeds of Asklepios. This whole process could be thought to be driven by the powers of Mnemosyne, and if this was the case, it is not surprising that she was present in the Asklepieian rituals at the sanctuaries. In addition, Mnemosyne could have made it possible for other humans not present at the Asklepieion to glorify Asklepios, which attests to the complexity of the religious system at play in the Asklepieion. This was not simply a mutual exchange between one god and one supplicant solely for the purpose of procuring a divine favor. Instead, the rituals and actions that took place in the Asklepieia were imbued with a variety of divine significances all working together to highlight the proper interaction between human and divine worlds. In this system, the gods cooperated with one another and with supplicants to enact meaningful and efficacious rituals that empowered humans to comport themselves in a sacred way by offering pleasing sacrifices, purifying themselves properly, processing, praying, singing, dreaming, remembering, articulating in narrative, inscribing, posting in the sanctuary, using the inscriptions as reminders of divine benefaction, retelling the stories, and so on. 57 Mnemosyne plausibly played a key role in this process, the removal of any part of which would have jeopardized the ebb and flow of proper divine-human relations at the Asklepieia.

sci-hub.se/10.1086/675272

Image of Mnemosyne at the Chapel of the Muses in San Francesco at Rimini. Her daughters are all depicted as well, but she is the only one who wears a veil.

sci-hub.se/10.2307/751273

She may have been more important in pre-literate Greece than later, for memory is a vital skill in oral literature vs written.  sci-hub.se/10.2307/283194

The other articles I wanted to read, I could not get to open, sorry.

So my advice is to use her gifts in ways she would approve of. 

You will, of course, need to contact her directly in order to discover what exactly that means. I have never communicated with her, so please take my ideas with a grain of salt. 

Dream Recall: pray for the ability to remember significant parts of your dreams, and for the ability to interpret them. This may aid you in shadow work or other psychological pursuits, as dreams can be a gateway to the subconscious and your higher self. You can also pray to another deity to receive messages in your dreams to help you be a better person, or give you advantages in your life. 

Employ Logic and Reason: Whether it is for school or for your own education, learn about critical thinking and employ those skills. When you read a piece of news, ask yourself these questions: “How does this fit into the context of what I already know? What are the historical influences? What are the future implications of this piece of news? Where could this lead? What is most likely to happen next?” Write down your thoughts. I would follow a blog that did this, that’s for sure. 

Employ Logic and Reason by practicing Discernment: You may have already heard about discernment, but it is a vital skill for anybody on this type of spiritual path. You can even become more attuned to the spiritual forces at work around you, by practicing discernment, and more easily notice divine influence, thereby allowing you to thank them properly for their blessings. 

Memorize things that are useful to you: Of course, a great thing to memorize would be prayers and poems to the gods. Depending on your line of work and social circle, there may be other topics that come up a lot that you would do well to memorize. When I worked with a lot of Muslims, I memorized certain things about Islam and terrorism so that when I encountered ignorant people, I could gently educate them and challenge some of their more unfortunate beliefs. (This happened more often than you’d think.) You can also memorize epithets and proper pronunciation of the names of the gods. 

Learn how to tell a good story. When you capture people’s interest with the stories you tell, give quiet thanks to Mnemosyne and her daughters.

#hellenicpolytheism #hellenism #hellenismos #mnemosyne #mousai #muses #dodekatheism #titans #titanai 

[thedarkthatbindsus]

Here it is!

Your first peek at The Dark That Binds Us, my debut novel, due to be released in Fall 2019! 

The earth shudders as another dreadnaught drifts over the Dukcha Wood, casting a shadow like storm clouds.

Professor Gim keeps a hand on my shoulder, the both of us crouching as low as we can into the underbrush, waiting for the ground to still and the roar of the engines to fade. Its shadow is so huge that it blocks the sun, already struggling to pierce the thick canopy of the jungle.

I don’t know why I’m holding my breath, but I do, hand over my mouth as the ground finally stills and only the sounds of birdsong and buzzing insects fills the air. Professor Gim’s body relaxes next to me, but our guide Arjun’s body stays tense. When I look at him, his dark eyes are still wildly scanning the canopy, sweat pouring down his face.

Like me, he’s no stranger to invading Adosi ships

“This is…unexpected,” says Professor Gim. She doesn’t sound the least bit rattled. In fact, she’s glowing from the combination of sweat. My heart is pounding so hard, I can hear it in my ears. “I guess that peace treaty didn’t mean much.” She turns to me with a reassuring smile on her tanned face, but it quickly fades when she sees how pale I am.

“Are you well, Verity?” she asks. I nod, but of course, I’m lying. The underside of an Adosi dreadnaught is always an ill omen. I have scars left over from Adosi brutality. A cold knot of dread coils in my stomach at the mere thought of seeing the crimson armor of an Adosi soldier, but I take in a deep breath through my nose, trying to draw in some of Professor Gim’s bravery. I can’t be the apprentice of famous explorer Minji Gim and be a coward.

 She pats my shoulder, giving me a soft smile before she turns to Arjun. “Are you ready to lead us, Mr. Kang?” she asks. He seems to be having a harder time calming down. He clears his throat, shaking the sweat from his ginger beard and mustache. He gives a stiff nod, leading us out of the underbrush and back onto the path.

 We’ve been in the Dukcha Wood for a week, and we’ve spent three of those days spotting Adosi ships flying eastward to Haseul City. It’s the last bastion of civilization before the jungle and the capital of East Nal Va. I’d be a fool to think those ships were paying a friendly visit.

But Professor Gim has led us with a single-minded determination. Through rainstorms, armed checkpoints, and oppressive heat, Professor Gim has never faltered.

Even though Arjun is the guide, the professor leads us down the trail, her trousers and boots caked with mud. The handles of her pistols glint in her belt. I carry a pistol of my own, even though I hate the things.

“It’s not safe for a woman in most places,” she told me before we departed from New Argent City. “Any student of mind needs to be able to protect herself.”

I took the gun from her with shaking fingers. “Have…you ever killed anyone before, Professor?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Once.”

Now, she pauses in front of us, kneeling down to look at something in the mud. She waves me over and I rush to her side. A strand of black hair sticks to her cheek with sweat, but her face is glowing with excitement. It’s a struggle to look away from her face and down to where she points a long finger.

“What does that look like, Verity?” she asks me, nearly breathless.

I wipe away some of the mud to reveal a glint of polished stone, a sharpened length of obsidian attached to a turquoise hilt. As Professor Gim fishes her field notebook out of her satchel, I carefully pull the obsidian dagger from the mud and rotate it in my hands. The blade still gleams as though it were shaped just yesterday.

 A series of thick, intricate letters carved into the bottom of the hilt tell me exactly why the Professor is so excited.

This is of Witgan make. The characters on the hilt could either be the name of the person it belonged to or the trademark of the smith who made it.  

“We’re close,” the Professor says as she puts her notebook away. “We’re so close!”  

Already, I can feel the weight of our discovery settling on my shoulders. For years, the scholarly consensus was that the Witgan people never ventured this far north from their cluster of villages and cities to the south of the Aksenti Mountains…not until their decline two hundred years ago forced them to migrate into Ilios. But little discoveries like this dagger put doubt on that theory. Witgan literature is just as rare, but what little pieces of it the Professor found mention temples and shrines erected by Witgan people who traveled abroad to honor their gods and spirits. Of course, they may have been destroyed over the years, but finding just one here would be enough to shift all we know about Witgan history.  

Professor Gim plucks the dagger from my hands and shows it to Mr. Kang. He takes it from her almost with reverence, turning the blade over in his hands carefully. He reads the characters on the bottom, tapping them with a finger.  

“This belonged to a warrior,” he says, speaking to us in stilted, accented Varterian. “This is their family name, Tu Wabe.”  

“Astounding,” Professor Gim breathes, but excitement is cut short by another dangerous rumble of earth. This time it’s accompanied by a terrible roaring sound, like some great beast has been awakened. My body goes cold, and memories of a crumbling, burning city flood my mind. For a moment, I’m a little girl again, watching my home disappear into a crater carved by Adosi bombs.  

Professor Gim has to shake my shoulders to tear me away from the memory.  

“We keep moving,” she says, that mad determination back in her eyes. “The sooner we finish here, the better.”  

I take in a shuddering breath. I didn’t come this far to be cowed. Mr. Kang and I follow the Professor down the trail, deeper into the woods and farther south. The trail disappears into the mud and dead vegetation, and it becomes so dark that even the air chills. The canopy becomes so thick and overgrown that no light can peek through. The humidity creeps away, replaced with the kind of dry cold that proceeds winter. The stench of mold and dead things is stronger here. There were rumors in East Nal Va of the wood being cursed, either by ghosts or malevolent spirits. I’ve never been a superstitious person, but I’m having a hard time finding a logical explanation for the sudden drop in temperature.  

I pull a torch out of my satchel, shaking it to activate the mechanisms inside that cause it to glow with a bright, white light. I have no idea how it works, but I can’t help admiring my friend’s ingenuity.  

Professor Gim shakes her own torch to life and gasps when she casts the light on a wall peeking out from the trees. I join my light with hers, giving Mr. Kang room to run his fingers over the carvings on the brown stone.  

Some of the lettering is faded, but over his shoulder, I can make out the words ‘ruined’ and ‘fallen’ amidst murals of mountains crumbling and people and animals fleeing to escape whatever calamity is being described here.  

“The Akiwran’tam,” says Mr. Kang. “When Mt. Aksenti erupted.”  

And shortly after that, Ados invaded and took what was left.  

“But we’re miles away from Mt. Aksenti,” I say. I raise the torch higher and find that the ground starts to slope up into a hill. Cobblestones poke through the mud and undergrowth. A road. This used to be a road! I leave the Professor and Mr. Kang to follow it, nearly having to fall to my hands and knees to climb up the slippery incline. I breach the tree line like I’m emerging from the water and gasp like I'm taking a breath for the first time in minutes.  

A temple rises before me, and I see patches of moss growing over ancient stone hewn with arches, faces, and the bodies of gods and spirits. It rises in terraced levels, each adorned with demonic faces, intricate visages of dragons, leopards, and birds. Some of the temple has fallen, islands of stone invaded by tree roots and rot. It’s silent here. Not even wind whispers through the leaves. I don’t even hear a bird.  

“Verity!” the Professor shouts from behind me. “Don’t wander...off...”

Her voice trails into astonishment. She drops her torch, raising her hands to her mouth in shock. Mr. Kang mutters something to himself in Witgan and clutches his heart.  

“I knew it,” Professor Gim says with a gasp. “Oh, I knew it. I knew it!”  

I’m ready to join her in celebrating before I hear it: a horrible buzzing noise like a horde of locusts is approaching us fast from the east. The sweat that blossoms on my skin tells me what they truly are: Adosi wasps, the smaller ships that hover around their dreadnaughts like flies and peel off the main fleet for reconnaissance or to carry smaller squadrons. There’s no roar of a dreadnaught engine, so these ships are flying on their own.  

“We need to get inside,” I say, partly out of fear and partly because I am eager to explore this discovery.  I lead the way inside, and the Professor and Mr. Kang follow me towards the stone archway that marks the entrance. The darkness swallows us, and the stench of dust and mildew waft around us. It’s colder here, and I find myself shivering as I raise my torch to look at the walls. There are scratches on them in several places. There’s an armored figure that repeats several times amidst falling mountains and cracking skies, but each time, their face is scratched or gouged out. When I touch the stone, it’s icy cold against my fingers.  

“I...don't know this,” Mr. Kang says beside me. “They were obviously an important figure, but at some point, they must have done something unforgivable. I’ve never seen this before.”  

“This day is full of wonderful discoveries,” the Professor sighs. I wonder, does anything scare her?  

I let her lead the way deeper into the ruins. I trip over uneven stone, feeling my exhaustion creep over me. They war inside me, the desire to go home, and the urge to see what lies deeper in its ruin. If those Adosi ships keep buzzing around outside, I don’t know if I’ll make it home.  

The hallway slopes down and we slip over the wet stone. Water drips from the ceiling. We must be underwater somehow. The hallway opens up into a grand, circular chamber of stone, waterfalls roaring through an opening in the high ceiling and spilling in with the sunlight. The sound fills my ears and rumbles in my chest, the spray of the water dampening my skin and clothes. But it’s what lies in the center of the chamber that draws my attention.

It’s a body.

[pomegranatesandcrowns-blog]

Pomegranate 1.1

an: chapter one is officially done, i hope you enjoy the story as much as i enjoyed writing it! i’m not completely sure where the story is going to go aside from some basic points from the original Persephone and Hades story. you’ll notice that aside from proper nouns all other words are lower case. it was a stylistic choice I had decided on when I initially wrote this. i may change it one day but for now i hope you can forgive it. please let me know what you thought and without further ado please enjoy chapter one of Pomegranate.

Kore sighed as she absentmindedly plucked grass from the Earth as she stared out at the meadow in front of her. perhaps she should be kinder to nature however, she couldn't help but view the act as a small rebellion against her mother. although if she were to think logically about it, it was only an act against herself as she was the goddess of spring in which she governed the flowers and with it grass. no matter logic though as she was feeling more impulsive.

her unusual spur of impulsivity was the result of a particular conversation with her mother that morning regarding her freedom. it was no secret to anyone that kore was practically locked away from the world, being forced to stay confined to her home, the meadow, the forest, and the lake. this restriction had suited her just fine in her younger years, but now that she was finally coming into her own she felt very much suffocated. when Kore decided to bring this thought to her mother's attention she was all but shouted at.

Demeter could not fathom why her daughter had any inkling of want for life outside of the haven she had created for them and the nymphs. as a result of this, she promptly shut down her daughter's crazed imagination stating her well-rehearsed speech about men and their tendency to taint and destroy anything their fingers touched. Kore felt like crying but had long since trained herself to hide any emotion besides adoration for her mother, leaving it bottled up until she was able to escape to the meadow.

Demeter was not a bad mother, no Kore did not believe this at all, but she was a blinded mother. past experience and observations had left Demeter blind to the good of men and thus hurting her daughter. perhaps Demeter was more than content with a simple life of tending to the Earth and its inhabitants, but Kore felt stifled by such a lifestyle and she wanted more.

her fingers grazed the cover of the book beside her 'Prometheus Bound'. she had read the story a multitude of times as it was one of few books she held in her possession as her mother viewed labor in the fields higher than enjoying works of art such as literature. the story of her cousin was intriguing yet saddening, despite knowing how it ends Kore is always left with a sick feeling in her stomach at the cruel torture that he endured because of her father. it was this story that at times made Kore feel peace with not knowing Zeus. despite her deep doubt of ever escaping her haven disguised prison Kore always made a mental note to find her cousin and personally apologize, this would be after she marched up to Olympus and gave Zeus a piece of her mind. The incident may have occurred long before her birth, but that didn't stop the intense feeling Kore felt when she read the book as if it was happening in real time.

'Kore!' a voice that could only belong to her mother shouted out

'Coming mother' Kore replied as she scrambled to stand and hide her book from her mother, opting to shove the book in the tall grass beside the tree.

as she reached her mother she could detect the look of annoyance on her mother's face. worrying that her mother had discovered something such as her books or her secret meetings with Artemis and Athena Kore slowed her pace, hesitant to receive her scolding. however, this was quickly cast away when her mother's face turned to a smile as her daughter neared.

'Kore my little poppy. i have some bad news, i must journey to Olympus at the demand of Zeus. i will return as soon as i can, but in the meantime the nymphs will be looking after you.'

'but mother why can i not go with to Olympus? i am almost a grown woman, my eighteenth birthday is nigh'

'you will do as i say Kore. i have stated that you are forbidden to journey to Olympus and you will do good to remember that. you need not concern yourself with the business of the gods.'

'yes mother'

'good. i will see you soon my little poppy' with that Demeter left her daughter behind.

once her mother was out of her sight she unclenched her fists which she had unconsciously clenched while her mother dismissed her want, her silent protest. turning to enter their home so as to stew in her frustration she is stopped by a voice calling out.

'finally, i thought she would never leave'

'Artemis?'

'the one and only. oh and Athena's here' Artemis emerged from the forest with Athena behind her.

'yes do announce my presence with more gusto' Athena's ever-present stoic expression hiding her internal eye roll.

'was that sarcasm? you know i hate that.'

'nooo... why would i ever use sarcasm against you, the all-mighty goddess of the hunt' Kore couldn't help but smile at the goddesses' banter, they always knew how to put a smile on her face.

'what are you two doing here?' deciding to end the banter before one of the two took it too far, Artemis.

'have you forgotten silly? your mother is gone so it's time for another secret meeting'

'really?' In the midst of her distress, Kore had forgotten all about their tradition. it had begun when she was but a preteen, before puberty had graced her presence. her mother had left to visit one of her temples that was holding a feast in her honor, during her absence Athena and Artemis had decided to introduce themselves to their youngest sibling that had been hidden from them. For whatever reason, the two had decided to impart their wisdom upon Kore with Athena preaching wisdom and strategy and Artemis instructing combat. Throughout the years Kore had become a skilled warrior taking to blades and, much to Artemis' delight, the bow and arrow.

'of course, while i may mess around with Artemis i assure you that i respect you too much to do the same' Kore did her best not to let it show, but Athena's words made her heart soar.

'hey!'

'anyway it's been some time since we have been able to hold a secret meeting and as we are abided to attend this forthcoming meeting on Olympus as well it will have to be a quick one at that'

'what our dear sister is trying to say in her fancy tongue is that this meeting will have to be short'

'can we practice that maneuver that you told me about in the story of how you and your huntresses defeated that beast?'

'oh, um i don't know if you're quite ready for such an advanced move quite yet'

'what she means is that the story she told you was falsified and she has never done such a move ever in her life'

'woah okay no need to ruin the girls’ image of me'

'do you honestly perceive it to be better that she believe in some wild fable of yours?'

'well--'

'you think i'm some little girl?'

'oh Kore i didn't mean it in a bad way. it's just you are younger than the rest of us, by a significant amount, you haven't even turned of age yet'

'i thought you both were different, but it seems you are the same as mother'

'Kore wait! i promise i meant you no harm'

'Artemis i think it is wise we leave our sister alone, for the time being, we need to make an appearance soon as it is' Artemis grudgingly agreed and the two goddesses set out to Olympus.

Kore not having looked back ran straight to her room, burying her face in her pillow as an attempt to stifle her tears. she felt shame for not realizing sooner that she would never be seen as an equal to the other gods and goddesses.

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