#in fairness i was somehow VERY bookish as a child

[stoportotouch]

as it turns out, the classic symptoms of dyslexia that i have been having all my life? yeah, that was dyslexia.

[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.

[areyougonnabe]

Gerry Keay learns that the last place a very dangerous Leitner was seen was an international rare book fair in London, just last week. He intimidates the trader into giving him the information of the buyer, and hopes it’s not too late by the time he gets there, he hopes that his mother hasn’t beaten him to it, hasn’t arrived and done something unspeakably awful to the shop owner in order to get her hands on that 17th-century tome, Athanasius Kircher’s Ars magna lucis et umbrae, which Leitner’s catalogue indicated had the power to induce a catastrophic hallucinatory state in the reader. 

When he gets there, prepared to intimidate and bargain and wheedle and terrify his way into possession of the book, his heart falls as he steps in to see a pale, bookish man seated in a chair, the book propped open on his lap. 

“No—!” he yells, panicked, horrified. This is worse than being beaten by his mother, somehow. With that, at least, he could have had somewhere external to direct his anger. But now, the idea that if he’d just been a bit faster, a bit quicker to research, he could have saved this poor man from a ruined mind— there is only one person to blame, and it’s himself. 

And then, as Gerry rushes forward, prepared to see the telltale swirls of distorted light behind the man’s eyes, marking him out as a lost cause, yet another casualty of a Leitner, the man looks up at him. His eyes are clear and blue, utterly and obviously entirely lucid. How the fuck—? 

The man snaps the book shut. “Mr. Keay, I presume,” he says. "Um,” Gerry stammers, and the man smiles kindly and stands up from his chair, holding the book in wide, solid hands. 

Gerry points at the book, trying to regain some sense of his mission. “That book,” he says, and before he can continue the man interrupts, “It’s quite interesting, isn’t it?”

This nearly draws a laugh out of Gerry. Interesting isn’t exactly the word he’d use to describe a Leitner tome that has permanently incapacitated six people in the last year. “It’s dangerous,” he says, as seriously as he can. “I don’t know how— look. If it hasn’t already done its damage on you, it’s only a matter of time. It’s got to be destroyed. Please. You’re in danger, as long as you’ve got it with you.” 

The man— who Gerry realizes must be the A.Z. Fell of the store’s marquee, though that hardly seems like a real name a person would have— looks him up and down, with a stare that seems to penetrate to the very heart of him. Gerry feels like he’s being— well. Read, like a book.

“I appreciate your concern,” Fell says, “but I assure you, it’s not needed. A little thing like this could do just as much harm to me as you could.” He smiles, a little twinkly smile wildly at odds with the outlandish implications of his statement. 

“But my mother—” Gerry begins, wondering how he could possibly convey the threat Mary poses to anyone who stands in between her and her precious books. Fell, in his waistcoat and reading glasses, looks like he’d last about five minutes against the fearful torments she’s capable of dishing out, even in her weakened state of undeath.

“Your mother,” says Fell, stern, like a schoolteacher, “is, I’m sure you won’t mind me saying, an utterly horrid woman. She knows very well that she’s not to come anywhere near this bookshop, and the consequences that await her if she should even so much as try.”

“...You know her?” 

He raises his eyebrows. “In this profession, one must be acquainted at least superficially with one’s competition."

Gerry’s eyes are drawn inexorably to the book Fell still holds in his hands. “I don’t want to take it from you by force,” he says, “but I will. If I have to. I’m telling you, it’s no good, I’ve got to destroy it—”

Fell tsks softly, letting his gaze fall to the book as well. “Such a beautiful book,” he says quietly. “A shame, what’s been done to it...”

And now those eyes are on Gerry again, and he feels pinned beneath their weight. He’s suddenly conscious of the dirty blonde roots showing at his scalp, clashing with the black dye above; he’s aware of the holes in his shirt, worn down from constant wear; the pitted acne scars on his face and his crooked teeth. 

But Fell is not looking at him with judgement, not the way his mother did, constantly condescending, rating him short of standard. It’s whatever the opposite of that is— a look of pure acceptance. Pride, even— but how is that possible, when he’s never met this man before in his life—? 

“My dear boy,” says Fell, “you’ve done so very well. I think it’s high time someone told you that.” 

He places the book gently into Gerry’s hands. Gerry is frozen in place for a moment, mind whirring prematurely with plans of how to destroy it (would it respond to flame? Necessitate drowning? Shredding, burying, a single stab to the heart of it?) 

But then Fell snaps his fingers, and the air around them shivers, sings silently like a ringing bell, and the book crumbles cleanly to white ash in his hands. 

Gerry’s seen enough to not question the mechanics of such an act. 

Instead, he asks: “Why?”

Fell smiles now. “You remind me quite a bit of an... associate of mine. Someone who’s done me many a favor over the years. Sentimental of me, I suppose, but I have my vices.”

Gerry finds it hard to believe a man like Fell would associate with someone like him— if Fell were to have a friend, Gerry would imagine them to be another stuffy academic type, not a shabby goth with a sarcastic streak fathoms deep.

"Thank you, sir,” says Gerry, because Mary may have utterly failed to impress up on him her worldview and morality, but she certainly taught him his manners. 

“Oh, please,” says Fell, “call me Aziraphale.” 

He extends a warm hand and Gerry takes it, and mid-handshake something clicks in his mind. A tome in his mother’s library, an ancient and obscure manuscript containing illuminated portraits of the hierarchies of angels— one of the few books with pictures, so naturally one he read over and over as a child. One of the pages rattles around in his head and then settles, coming into focus. A white-robed, sun-haired angel with great white wings, bearing a flaming sword, and underneath it in black ink against gold leaf: The Principality Aziraphale.

Gerry steps back, a bit shocked. Aziraphale sees the flicker of recognition in his eyes and raises a single finger to his lips conspiratorially. 

There’s a moment where Gerry thinks he might do something embarrassing like beg for help, or ask to stay a little longer, here in this wonderfully warm and bright and safe bookshop— but it passes, as his purpose reasserts itself inside of him with the burning force that’s kept him going for so long on his own. 

“Aziraphale,” he says, testing the ancient name on his tongue. “Well. If you ever come across any more Leitners—”

“You’ll be the first to know, you have my word.”

Gerry nods. “I— You— you’ve got a very nice shop.” Aziraphale beams at him. “Best be off, though,” Gerry goes on. He dusts off the last of the white ash that used to be the Leitner from his hands and turns to go.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale understandingly. 

At the door, Gerry pauses, and turns back.

“Your friend,” he says. “The one I remind you of. For your sake, I hope he’s better than me at staying out of trouble.” 

“Ah,” says Aziraphale. “He is trouble.” 

“Much better,” says Gerry, and with that, steps back out into the busy Soho street, and disappears into the crowd. 

[vierschanzentournee]

1 and 3 for the bookish questions? 🥰👀

hayley i have literally no idea when you sent me this sorry but THANK YOU SM!!

1. What is your favourite book and/or book series of all time? 

Okay I have two (2) favourites series and I could literally talk abt them all day so like. Sorry in advance.

They’re both by the same author, Sebastien de Castell (who’s releasing the first book in a new series... soon? July, I think!), who I clearly owe my entire life to!

The first is the Greatcoats series, which was his first, and has four books - essentially, the Greatcoats were once travelling magistrates who enforced the King’s Law in the nation of Tristia, until a bunch of assholes (the Dukes) rise up against the King, overthrow and execute him, and leave the Greatcoats a) unemployed and b) hated and reviled throughout the country. They’re narrated by Falcio val Mond, First Cantor of the Greatcoats, and also the world’s stupidest man, who somehow manages to be both incredibly endearing and supremely irritating, and for whom I would absolutely give my life if he wasn’t so keen to die all the time. Before his execution, the King (whom Falcio absolutely adored) gave each of the Greatcoats a special order (there were 144 of them, so I’m not sure how he had time, but whatever) - Falcio’s is to find one of the King’s charoites. Unfortunately, he has no idea what the fuck that is, he’s broke, his best friends Kest and Brasti aren’t even sure why they stick with him anymore (actually, that’s unfair to Kest, Kest is extremely loyal to Falcio above all else for the whole series), and THAT is where the first book, Traitor’s Blade, begins! (SPOILERS from here onwards!) Falcio finds his charoite about halfway through the first book in the form of a 13-year-old girl called Aline - the same name as Falcio’s wife, who was brutally raped and murdered by a local Duke when they were 20. At the end of the book Falcio realises Aline is in fact the King’s daughter (although, to be fair, Brasti realised it first) and the rest of the series is essentially Falcio trying to protect Aline (major spoiler: this does not work and she dies halfway through the last book and I cried SO HARD) and fighting back against various groups that threaten Tristia and the Laws he worked so hard to uphold back in the day. Along the way, he gets a girlfriend (who becomes Saint of Mercy in the third book and was, somehow, once possessed by the memory of his dead wife Aline), reunites with various former Greatcoats who hate his ass to varying degrees (but like, lovingly, for the most part), has extremely cute emotional bonding moments with Kest and Brasti (like the time Falcio was poisoned and was paralysed for longer and longer every time he woke up and Brasti decided to put a coffin over him one morning for funsies! I love him very much), and collects, by my count, at least 4 children (or at least people he cares for in a Very Paternal Manner).

The second series is called Spellslinger, and it has six books because life is good and SdC writes fast (side eyes @ Scott Lynch). The premise is this: Kellen comes from a people called the Jan’Tep, whose entire society essentially is built around the magic they wield. When Jan’Tep children turn 16, they must take their trials to become mages - if they fail, they are sent away from their family to become a part of the Sha’Tep, who are pretty much the Jan’Tep’s slaves. Kellen’s problem is this: he’s, like, two days away from turning 16, and he has pretty much no magic. All Jan’Tep have six “bands”, representing the different elements of magic: iron, silk, sand, breath, blood, and ember - there’s a seventh element too, shadow, but Jan’Tep children are not banded in shadow, as it’s considered evil. Sparking a band basically means you’re able to wield the element of that band - to pass your mage’s trials, you need to have sparked two. At the start of the first book, Kellen still hasn’t sparked any. His father is a powerful clan leader, his mother is a talented mage, and his younger sister Shalla is a prodigy with unheard-of talent, and yet Kellen, despite everything his parents have tried, has little to no magic, and seems destined for a life among the Sha’Tep. The book opens with Kellen’s first trial, his duel, which he’s just about managing to bluff his way through until Shalla (fucking Shalla) realises he’s cheating, and, in some wild attempt to make him find some power or something, literally stops his heart. He’s saved by a mysterious red-haired woman called Ferius Parfax, who speaks with the equivalent of a Southern drawl and is just kind of wildly competent at pretty much everything. I’m now at risk of literally just rewriting the entire first book here so: Kellen spends more time with Ferius, although it’s discouraged, continues to fail his mage’s trials, uncovers a Sha’Tep rebellion conspiracy fuelled by a rival Jan’Tep clan leader, and, crucially is counterbanded by his parents - that is, his parents fill his bands with molten metal and magic sigils which mean he’ll never be able to spark them. This is a horribly painful process, emotionally and physically, to which Kellen never agreed, and he’s literally strapped down to a table for days - he discovers that his grandmother banded him in shadow, a strictly forbidden practice, and that he has the shadowblack, considered a terrible affliction which probably hints at some terrible inner darkness, although throughout the first book the main effect for Kellen is just some dark markings around his left eye. With the help of a violent squirrel cat, with whom Kellen can somehow communicate and whom he freed from a Jan’Tep cage several days ago, he manages to escape before his parents counterband his breath band, and he sparks it - it turns out that he was actually as powerful as Shalla, but the things his parents made him take to “cure” his weakness were in fact suppressing his power. Long story short, the counterbanding and the shadowblack kind of... end his hopes of a normal life in Jan’Tep society, and so he runs away with Reichis (the squirrel cat) and Ferius (who, as it turns out, is Argosi - a traveller who kind of... not quite predicts things, but notes the likely course of events in the world around her) to become an outlaw - specifically, a spellslinger, an outlaw mage who has a little magic, a few tricks, and their hopefully sharp wits to live by.

Tragically, Kellen’s wits are not very sharp, and he spends the next five books being kind of terrible at being an outlaw, crying after every single fight he’s in (verbatim, “I always cry after a fight”), developing a very sweet mentor-student/parent-child relationship with Ferius, reuniting with his childhood crush Nephenia (who had to leave the Jan’Tep for... reasons), becoming best friends with the squirrel cat, getting separated from Ferius for two books, and tearfully reuniting with her in the final book, after which she prompty nearly dies.

So. Uh. I’m super sorry, I was UNAWARE of exactly how much happened in Spellslinger (like, the first book, which is also titled Spellslinger) in particular, and I just really love talking about them! I’m an absolute sucker for found family dynamics and characters learning to appreciate both themselves and the people around them, and both series are absolutely full of that!

3. What is the oldest book you have ever read? (Based on its written date) 

I’m currently reading the Odyssey for my school’s epic reading group (as in, a group for reading epic literature, not just... it’s really cool), so I suppose it’s that!

[pendulum-sonata]

Chapters: 3/7 Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC-V Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dennis Mackfield/Kurosaki Ruri, Akaba Reiji/Rin Characters: Dennis Mackfield, Kurosaki Ruri, Tenjou Kaito, Tenjouin Asuka | Alexis Rhodes, Sora Shiunin, Akaba Reiji, Rin (Yu-Gi-Oh) Additional Tags: Rare Pair Week 2019, One Shot, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Pregnancy Scares, Birth Control, Caught in the Act, Well almost, poor Sora, Rough Kissing, Bad Parenting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage Summary:

A term for the awareness of transience of things, and both a transient gentle sadness at their passing as well as a longer, deeper gentle sadness about this state being the reality of life.

Day 3: Rogue (Mechanicalshipping)

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“You left this at my car last time.” Reiji said after a quick greeting, handing her a bunch of manga and comics she had taken up to read whenever Divine wasn’t around.

“Thank you,” She said, and she meant it, because this wasn’t something he could simply deliver through Nakajima or any assistant whose message or package would definitely pass via her ‘father’. God forbid he caught her reading them and chastise her yet another unsightly hobby for a young heiress, or sometimes if he felt like dealing a low blow, he would question her commitment to college if she had time to waste like that.

“I’ll be taking my leave.” He said but before he fully turned around Rin reached for his shoulder, except he was too tall so instead she ended up grabbing his scarf.

“Uh… I meant, wait.” She swallowed before she spoke again. “Why don’t you stay? I’ll invite you something to drink or we can spare time, playing videogames or something.” Divine had blocked the networks to avoid her from using them, but she had since hacked the sorry security he hired and did whatever she want when he wasn’t around.

Reiji turned around regarding her with those same scrutinizing eyes of usual, it used to unnerve her, but she had since learned that this was simply his default face most of the time.

“Oh?” He said and his smile caught her off guard for a second. “Have the etiquette classes finally started to rub on you?”

Ugh, those dammed classes, of course he knew she took them because one time Himika sent him to pick her up from one of them, and had witnessed the disaster of her throwing a tea into the face of the instructor after she made some snide comments about her hair.

“Oh, if the mighty Reiji Akaba does not want my consideration, then he’s welcome to walk away and drive all the way to his office during rush hours.” She said with a smirk of her own, which widened when he looked to the side, pulling his scarf to muffle a laugh.

“If you insist.” He conceded and stepped in he- the apartment – never hers – with the same grace and elegance as every Akaba seemed to possess.

She pointed to the black couch in the middle of the living room, in front of the large screen… and nothing else, the place was very spare and ��minimalistic’ as Divine liked to put it, even the walls had nothing hanging from them except for a mirror, and a random painting that was supposedly postmodernist.

Rin was quick to hide the books under her mattress and pull the console from a shoebox next to her bed.

“Well, what do you feel like doing? Killing zombies with military armament or see if you can beat me in a race with princesses, plumbers and a long etcetera?” His single raised eyebrow told her that she could choose whatever she wanted.

Zombies it was then, she really needed to release some steam.

.

.

.

“NO FAIR!!!” She yelled at the screen again, after his team had decimated hers, again, for the fifth time actually. “How did you even got that improved gear?!”

He didn’t answer of course, because he had already said once some nonsense about her having to find out herself, if not, then it truly be unfair.

“It must be those ape-like hands of yours,” Rin blurted out, slapping her hands on his shoulder. “It’s easy to reach everything with them.”

“Are you implying my hands are somehow helping me cheat?” He said, half-serious and half-incredulous.

“Bleh, for a goodie-two-shoes you’re really fond of flamethrowers.” She said sticking out her tongue out to him.

And then she couldn’t put it back.

Because he was using two of his fingers to keep it in place.

“Who would have said? It really is easy to reach anything with my hands.” Reiji had the gall to adjust his glasses as if he made some important breakthrough.

She wanted to yell at him, but couldn’t, so she did the next best thing: she pounced him.

Of course that had him rolling onto his back and then just to spite him she crawled towards him just so he wouldn’t get up, not because he couldn’t, but because gentleman that he was, he wouldn’t dare to throw her aside.

“I can’t believe you did that!” She said, half-yelling and half-laughing, “Gross, now I won’t be able to scrub the taste of your fingers off my mouth.”

Rin waited for an answer to her jab, maybe something about how he was the one who had to worry because of bacteria or something equally bookish; but he said nothing, actually he had gone very quiet.

When she looked down, his face was turned, staring hard at the wall, even his eyes were as removed from her as they probably could.

“Rin, please move.” He said in a very low tone, but the strain underneath was palpable.

She recognized that expression, and at the realization she lowered herself until her body was almost lying on him, and her face was mere inches from his.

“Really?” She asked, dropping her voice a bit. “Why?”

“You know why.” He said this time Reiji was looking straight at her, but never lower than her face.

“Maybe I want you to say it.” Rin said this lacing her voice with a playful tone, and her hands, slowly, very slowly went from his shoulders, to his chest, then to his abdomen where she was playing with the hem of his sweater.

“Rin,” He said, the strain in his voice was even more noticeable now, and he made a halfhearted attempt to prop himself up, she simply moved her hips to fully rest on top of him, his eyes closed and his hand motioned as if he was about to move her.

Or he would have if Rin didn’t close the distance between them.

They had not kissed or done anything remotely of the like since that gala, and she could tell he did not expect any of this to happen again, or at least any time soon, and he was responding slowly, almost in a shy way, his lips sliding carefully against hers and sighing when she laid her whole weight on him. His hands were leaving feathery touches on her, first on her arms and shoulders, then to rub small circles on her nape.

It was an almost reverent touch; one she was not used to at all, but it still had her trembling with anticipation.

His of his hands started to trace a path from her ear to her neck, then just above the hem of her top where the swell of her breast begun and how she wished for those brief seconds that he touched her.

Rin could do nothing but whine against his mouth when his hands barely grazed the contours and went to her back instead.

And he stopped kissing her, when she opened her eyes to ask what was wrong, his gaze was locked in hers, Rin felt mesmerized by the pure longing that she saw and she could tell the exact moment when his mood shifted because his hold tightened against her body, and when she gasped at the feeling, he restarted the kiss.

This time she can feel his hands digging his fingers almost painfully in her hips and her back, keeping her in place while their lips slide and entwine together, over tongues and even teeth; but it’s not the fast desperations that she sometimes experienced with others before, no, he still takes his time.

As if he was savoring the experience.

It was impossible that she too, would not be swept into the feeling too.

So much that she only distantly registered the door opening and the few steps given into the apartment.

In what it felt like a flash, she felt herself begin shoved back, almost a bit too harsh from him, but not hard enough to tumble her or anything, in fact Reiji’s hands held onto her shoulder to keep her steady.

But that was not as surprising as seeing the color draining from his face, his eyes wide with shock and maybe even the slightest bit of fear.

Even before she turned around, Rin already knew who had entered.

The whistle full of mockery and appreciation all at the same time only made it worse, and she was faced with Divine’s face looking on the side, but not in embarrassment, but more as If he was holding back his laughter.

“My bad,” He said, his voice filled with amusement. “I only came to check on you Rin-chan.” She hated that he called her that all the time, even when he nagged her, as if she was a child or a funny pet.

“Sir, we didn-” Both of them were now scrambling to get up and look somewhat less of a mess than they had been before, and failed obviously.

“Hey, no worries, I’m leaving already, I can see she is in very good hands.” Oh, that was definitely a low blow that had her fuming inside. “You kids don’t stop on my account.”

That was the only thing he said as he grabbed a suitcase in a nearby table and left without another word.

Rin could do nothing except let herself collapse on the couch and attempting to sink her face into a cushion and maybe die of embarrassment.

If she knew it would be this mortifying she wouldn’t have…

“You planned this, didn’t you?” Reiji said, and he was sitting on the opposite side of her now, he was glaring at her, no, not his usual analyzing look, but she could actually tell his eyes held some anger, his arms and legs crossed, as if waiting for an explanation.

Sadly, she had none.

“There is no way you could have known he was coming,” He started again, this time he was looking at the wall, closing himself entirely from her. “You’re always complaining about his constant check-ins, and then mock him because he doesn’t bother to rotate times so you can always look your best when he arrives.”

“I… I had to,” At this his glare was back on her, and she felt herself flinch, she had anticipated that he would realize – he was a genius after all – she had definitely anticipate his anger, but she hadn’t anticipated how awful it would feel to be in the receiving end of it. “he managed to get ahold of my old phone and saw me exchanging texts with an old friend – I swear he was just a friend - from… before, and he got angry, thinking I was ‘giving away myself’ for some penniless nobody, he called me ungrateful kid, and threatened me with pulling me out from college so I could focus on my goals.”

Divine saw her as barely a notch above a pretty bargaining chip, and if she wanted to survive him, then she needed to convince him how ‘serious’ she was about snatching a ‘good catch’ and in Divine had been incredibly more lenient when she caught Reiji’s interest.

Was It so bad that she used it to her advantage? Just once?

Rin only needed to look at him, his anger trying to hide the shame he felt and even the slightest bit of betrayal, to realize that, yes, it really had been that bad.

She wanted to tell him, that she had planned to tell him everything beforehand, at some point before they got caught into the stupid game.

She wanted to tell him that despite everything she had not pretended her attraction to him, not in the slightest.

But even in her head, it all sounded like excuses.

“For what is worth, I do like you,” She said, not looking at him, fearing his response. “…a lot actually.” She felt herself smiling recalling their first date when she had told him the exact opposite. “But if you feel you cannot trust me anymore, then it’s fine if you want to call everything off.”

She heard him give a long sigh and she prepared herself for the blow.

“I should apologize too,” Reiji said, and she felt him shift in the couch, he was now sitting in a contemplative position, his hands crossed in front of him. “I often forget your real position with him, and take things for granted about you.”

Rin wasn’t sure what she was feeling right not, she only knew that it was spreading from her chest to her entire body and it was making her feel light as a cloud.

“You still should have told me; I would have helped you.” When she turned to look at him, he coughed in his hand. “…obviously I would have chosen a less… exhibitionist method, but still, you played with the cards you thought you had available.”

Rin was still speechless, so she only found herself nodding.

“Maybe one of these day I will think of a method in which you can make it up to me though.” He said in a completely serious voice, but the way he smiled at her, almost in a mock-nagging way made her laugh.

She still felt light-headed for the entire day.

[hekate1308]

That Vanished Abode There Far Away, A Season 13 Drowley AU - Chapter One

He wakes up, and everything’s a blank. No, that’s not true. He knows the basic facts. He knows he’s a hunter, and that he got injured on a hunt.

But other than that... nothing. Not even his name.

That makes him force his eyes open. He doesn’t even know his name.

He jumps up. He doesn’t seem to be badly hurt, and that’s something, he supposes; but he’d like to know where he is, and who he is, for that matter.

He’s in the middle of nowhere – empty field, by the looks from it.

Again, he’s wrong. Not quite empty.

There’s someone else lying near him.

He slowly walks up to the guy. Not bad looking he supposes; in his forties or fifties, beard, dressed the same way he is, jeans and t-shirt.

Also breathing, so at least he's not utterly alone.

The thought that he's not human crosses his mind. But what does it matter? He has no idea who he is, he's in a freaking wasteland, God alone knows what happened.

He kneels down and takes the guy's pulse. He groans, a hand reaching up, waving around. When nothing happens, his eyes crack open.

He smiles; figures he might as well appear friendly, whatever happens.

"Hi."

"Hello" he finally says, looking as confused as he feels. "Would you mind telling me what’s going on?"

British, sound like. That's something, he supposes – at least it' information.

"As soon as I find out you'll know" he promises, registering his own a cent sounds American and filing that away for now.

"Thanks. Mind helping me up?"

He does.

“Where are we?"

He shrugs.

"Not exactly the chattiest, are you."

"I don't have anything to say that's all" he replies while feeling that it doesn't sound like him- but how would he know?

"Fair enough."

"Are you a hunter?" he asks because it is the only thing he knows about himself and he has to begin with something.

The man hesitates, his green eyes studying his features (and he only then does he realize he has no idea what he himself looks like. God, this is crewed up). "I... Know what hunters are. And that demons exist."

"Alright, but you -"

"I don't know! I feel rather human, but..."

"Okay" he says. "Any bloodlust? Feeling like devouring me?"

"Not particularly" he answers. "Also no hunger for dead man 's flash, not feeling vengeful, just a bit peckish, in fact."

It makes him realize his own stomach is growling. "Fair enough. You got any money?"

After checking their pockets, they realize they're indeed broke. He sighs, somehow guessing that this is an all too familiar occurrence. "Guess we'll have to beg."

"Or steal" the guy supplies, his eyes sparkling mischievously.

He tells himself not to find it in any way attractive while he doesn't know what's going on yet.

Always an option, but maybe we should try the honest way first."

The guy hums. "Fair enough. We'll have to find someone to beg off first though."

They stumble across too many empty feels to count.

"What even is this place?" he complains. "Gloomy, rainy, grey..."

"Looks like Scotland to me" he says.

He throws him a suspicious glance. "How do you know this?"

"Just said it looks like it" he shoots back and he grits his teeth. There's no point in going after each other's throat.

"Sorry. A little nervous."

Why? Just because you woke up in no man’s land with no idea who you are and how you got there with another amnesiac?"

"Something like that. I don't even know what i look like."

"That's a pity. You are worth looking at, I'll admit that."

"You’re not so bad yourself" he says, winking.

Huh. Twenty minutes in and they're flirting while still being slightly wary of one another. Somehow, it feels natural.

They struggle on. Eventually they find a road and decide to follow it.

"Pretty sure you’re human" he says, "Otherwise we'd have noticed something by now."

"No moon out yet. Could be a werewolf."

"Think that's likely?"

"No but we should keep our options open."

"You’re probably right."

They finally reach a village. The sun has long since se, and he's starting to feel tired.

"Silverwell" he reads from the sign. Where the Hell - "

"Scotland, as I said" his companion states.

He doesn't quite know what to think of him. He has the suspicion there's more to him than meets the eye.

"Okay. So we're in Scotland. Means I, at least, am pretty far from home."

"You don’t know that. Could have moved to America from here when you were a child."

"Do you have to be the spirit that denies all the time?"

"One thing we know about you, I'd say."

"What?"

"You're the bookish type. Faust, really?"

"I felt like it." he doesn't feel bookish. Then again, how is that supposed to feel like? Not that it'd be a bad thing.

"I'm sure you did, darling. In other news, I’ve found us a bed for the night." he drawls.

He does his best to ignore the fact he said a bed and not beds. "What -"

He points towards a house at the end if the street. A sign proclaims "free bed & breakfast for anyone who stays the night in the haunted attic."

"What are the goddamn odds."

"It's a small world".

"What's our story?" he asks matter-of-factly. "Brothers sightseeing?"

“Don't think we look that much alike" he answer, gesturing towards a nearby shop window.

And this is how he gets his first glance of himself. Rather handsome, from what he can make out; a bit younger than his companion, tall, enough muscles to make his conviction that he's a hunter plausible, at least.

"I don't know." he squints. "Same eye colour."

"Because that is the first thing people notice about siblings. We know nothing about one another. It will be far easier to pretend we're a couple; if someone asks, we can say we haven't been together that long."

He has to concede the point. The familiarity of siblings is indeed something people tend to notice.

"Fine by me."

He grins at him, somewhat hungrily, but again not -

Get it together, you have no idea if you even know the guy.

"Names?" he asks to distract himself.

"Whatever you want; it's a clean slate."

He thinks.

"While you're busy contemplating" he says, "call me Roderick."

"Roderick? Why, you got a twin sister you are creepily obsessed with and who you buried alive?"

"Told you you're bookish. Toa answer your question, give people something to focus on and they won't pay attention to other aspects. Anyone I introduce myself to will wonder who settled me with that name and ignore everything else."

He has to admit it’s clever. "Good, but one of us should have a normal name. Call me Michael."

"Why Michael?"

"As good a name as any."

"Fair enough."

And so, newly-christened Michael and Roderick knock on the door that promises the an unquiet haunted night, but at least a night with a roof under their heads.

The lady who opens it looks nice enough. "Good evening! How can I help you fine specimen?"

Yep, they're in Scotland alright.

"We saw the sign, thought we'd try our luck" he greets her, grinning at her.

"That's of course up to you dearie, but I have to warn you: the ghost’s been haunting this place for over two hundred years, and several people have died of fright."

If he truly is a hunter, he has seen some things. And Roderick - for lack of another name - doesn't seem the type to scare easily either.

"Rosemary McRowan" she introduces herself, and Michael (again, for lack of a better name; he has to think of himself as someone) suppresses a smile.

"Michael Campbell" he improvises.

"Roderick Usher."

Michael shoots him an unimpressed look. He simply raises an eyebrow.

“Oh my, your parents really called you that?”

“At least it’s Poe and not Lovecraft, I wouldn’t even be able to pronounce it” he says with a charming smile.

Couldn’t Michael have landed amnesiac in Scotland with someone who wasn’t quite so attractive? It’s starting to annoy him.

Rosemary beams. “I guess you’re right. And you really are interested in the room?”

Michael and Roderick share a look.

“Depends” Michael says, “Can we borrow some salt?”

An hour later – Rosemary having insisted on feeding them when she realized the two had no bags and come to the right conclusion – they are sitting on the bed (one bed, of course, only one bed, because this whole thing wasn’t complicated enough) in the attic. It’s actually pretty nicely furnished; seems like Rosemary wants her guest comfortable as they get scared to death.

“Must be something in the attic” he muses. “With a ghost hanging around for centuries – they wouldn’t hang on that long to their bones.”

“Agreed. I would feel better if all the victims could have stuck to one story, though.”

Michael frowns; Roderick’s right. Naturally, there are several stories about the ghost, ranging from bloody bride to devilish monk. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

They don’t have to wait for long. At the stroke of midnight – and could it be more cliché? This ghost hardly deserves awards for creativity, in Michael’s opinion – the walls begin to shake and the groaning and bumping starts.

“Rosemary can sleep through this?” is all he asks, calmly getting up.

“She’s lived her all her life; She’s used to it” Roderick supplies in equally unfazed fashion. “Do you have the salt?”

He nods.

The ghost appears, and naturally it’s nothing like the witnesses described.

“A maid?” Roderick asks. That’s not very impressive –“

He’s thrown against the next well. “Hey, no offense. My mother was a maid!”

“You’re amnesiac” Michael reminds him, swinging the iron poker they found in the addict at the ghost and making her vanish, for the time being.

“Exactly, so she could very easily have been!”

He doesn’t answer, preferring to start looking for something, anything this ghost might have latched unto, trusting his partner to do the same.

Within a few minutes, he’s covered his half of the room and is reasonably certain there is nothing there –

“Michael!”

He turns around. Roderick is pointing at something about two feet over his head, a piece of cloth sticking out of the wall. With a jump, Michael’s at his side, Roderick helping him up –

An apron like the ghost is wearing. “Here” Michael says, shoving it into his hands, burn it before – “

He and the poker are both thrown around the room, and he grunts as he hits the floor. He’s going to be sore tomorrow, that’s for sure. The ghost is bending over him, an angry expression on her face.

Before she can reach out to him, Roderick lights the apron on fire and she vanishes in the flames with a scream.

He sits up, realizing that nothing’s broken, at least.

“Well done.”

“You’re welcome.”

Roderick holds out a hand and helps him up, and Michael is suddenly very aware of the fact that they’re touching for the first time – when both of them are conscious, that is.

“What do you think her story was?”

Roderick shrugs. “Maid in old times... Could be all sorts of things. The most likely motivator was vengeance, though.”

“Or love” he supplies, “Love is rather powerful too.”

Something or someone must have turned her into the ghost she became.

“If you say so.”

Roderick says that as if he’s never really experienced love, which doesn’t make any sense since they have no idea who they are, but still – Michael can’t help but feeling sorry for the guy.

“Yeah, well. Tell you one thing I know. We don’t make too bad a team when it comes to hunting.”

“Yes” Roderick agrees, “I guess we do.”

And as he gives him an actual rather adorable boyish grin, Michael can’t help but feel that maybe things don’t look so bleak for them after all.

[2nd-rate-film-school]

Breakfast at Tiffany’s Review

I present yet another review from @kubrickking! This time, she is reviewing Audrey Hepburn’s numerous films and comparing them to - you guessed it - Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

I’ve watched 4 Audrey Hepburn films essentially all my life: Roman Holiday, Sabrina, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and Funny Face. I’ve since made my way through almost her entire filmography, but these were the four films my mother showed me at a young age and I would play continuously on the car ride home from school. Finish Roman Holiday on the way home Thursday afternoon, start it over again when we set off for school on Friday morning. I was still in elementary school when my mom bought me a nicely packaged DVD set of these four Audrey classics and they sit on my bookshelf to this day.

Although she has received accolades for almost all her work, Audrey became particularly known for her Oscar win on Roman Holiday and complex performance in Breakfast at Tiffany’s among several other films -

My Fair Lady, Two for the Road, Wait Until Dark

etc. - which I did not see until later on. Despite knowing all this now and having seen more of her work, one of her films that left a lasting impression in my childhood will always be

Sabrina

. A romance story, like all her Hollywood hits, the allure was hardly Humphrey Bogart. In fact, I do remember noticing the age discrepancy between them even as a child, probably stemming from an inevitable parallel of Linus with every boring, fun sucking adult I knew.

Still, something about the coming of age story and Audrey’s particular elegance in that film cemented it as my favorite. In retrospect, the costuming is most responsible for my attraction to the picture. Here, Hubert de Givenchy did his first and, dare I say, best work designing original pieces for his muse Audrey. The sleek suit, circular hat, and dangling earrings Sabrina wears at the train station caught not only the attention of David, but my young eye for fashion as well. She goes on to sport the most gorgeous black and white evening gown with two separate bottom skirts, a number of gorgeously tailored little black dresses, and boating shorts, a plaid top, and wedges which somehow manage to appear as practical as they are effortlessly elegant. Funny Face is similarly a showcase of glorious designer clothing, but without the ruse of being a fulfilling love story.

And, in truth, that is all the narrative of this film is: a ruse. Sabrina’s main, and only, conflict is that she is hopelessly in love with a man, David, who will always be more in love with himself and his wealth than any beautiful woman he takes advantage of. Her character arc consists solely of realizing that Linus, the older brother, rather than David offers the love and companionship she desires. That’s it. She is given no more or no less; a cardboard cutout of a woman, painted and traced by men. While Sabrina does become a successful cook and independent woman abroad in Paris, all of her characterization leads back to the simple goal of attaining David’s attention.

As a child, I never noticed an issue with this narrative. It simply adhered to the societal beliefs and treatment of women that saturates media to this day. However, especially as I learned more about Audrey Hepburn’s life outside of her films, I began to view this particular role as a sad failure in harnessing even a glimmer of the true compassion and determination of its portrayer. Interestingly, as I grew older Breakfast at Tiffany’s emerged as my new favorite from the group of four. As far as romance stories go, Tiffany’s is more a character study than anything. Audrey’s Holly Golightly is an icon of adulthood and childhood all at once. She is undeniably childish in her approach to dealing with adult problems and naive in relation to their surrounding realities. Still, this adolescence becomes a pure indicator of adulthood in and of itself; aka the reality that no one grows out of childhood flaws into an idealized adulthood. In fact, many of the professional aspects of adulthood appear drama free and efficient to a child until they grow up to work with people and on tasks that are just as resentful and senseless as the situations of their youth. Holly’s attitude, policies, and monikers all become indicative of that on a meta level.

This is where Breakfast at Tiffany’s succeeds and Sabrina fails. Holly is a complex, interesting character with more tangible and meaningful conflict and action than Sabrina. She is given subplots and background related to her brother in the Army, her unfulfilling life as a hick in the country, and her transformation into a city girl, which all ultimately reveal her to be the same self-seeking, misguided “phony” underneath. She may not be the most desirable character because of her flaws, but she is undeniably a three-dimensional, dynamic, and - despite Paul Varjack’s final monologue - an indefinable woman. Paul’s “sugar mama” is “a very stylish girl,” Paul himself is “the sensitive, bookish type,” Mag Wildwood is a “thumping bore,” Sally Tomato is “a darling old man,” but Holly cannot be reduced to the simple archetype of “wild thing” no matter how hard she tries. She is not anchored to the woes of the men in her life; in contrast, this dynamic is continually flipped on its head. Holly leaves a trail of pleading men behind her (the rats and super rats), having little interest in romance beyond the lifelong wealth it may eventually secure her. She pursues men with large fortunes and picks up extra cash as both a call-girl and delivering coded messages of a criminal nature to inmates in Sing Sing Prison. In truth, Holly doesn’t know what she wants from life, but neither do many of the women in my life. She’s a character that is allowed to be emotional, emotionless, intelligent, naive, right, wrong, promiscuous, and modest as all women are in reality.

Funny enough, both Sabrina and Holly are characters with misguided and unclear goals related to their future marriages. However, in relation to love, while Sabrina is refining her wants, Holly is denying her needs. Sabrina’s conflict then becomes a battle with the external options presented to her, while Holly’s proceeds as an intense internal battle over whether she even has options or choices at all. While Breakfast at Tiffany’s may still end on a romantic reunion, it is much less about the specific union of Paul and Holly than it is about Holly’s self-actualization and self-realization concerning her desires. The heart of her final scene lies in the rescue of Cat, a moment that forces her to accept that she does possess genuine love for and companionship with something beyond herself and for reasons other than money. This feeling only ripples onto Paul, as a result of Cat, in their final embrace.

Audrey has always brought depth and honesty to her on-screen roles in a way that transcends even the worst written female characters. However, if you’re looking for an arc and characterization that live up to the intelligent, compassionate, vivacious woman behind it, Breakfast at Tiffany’s is one of the only ways to go. Holly justifiably refuses that others put her in a cage, especially her male pursuers, as the patriarchal world and her experiences have hardened her. In the end though, Holly learns to recognize and allow love that makes her happy, as all women must.

[papaculture]

Ottoline by Chris Riddell

This series from former Children’s Laureate Chris Ridell presses several of my parenting buttons. For a start, these hardbacks (a less spectacular paperback version is also available) are things of beauty. They are books that celebrate books, with the retro faux-engraving recalling a time when reading was the height of childhood entertainment. Inside, each volume has a delightful easter egg attached to the back cover – a postcard collection (all drawn by Riddell), Bog Goggles that reveal a secret illustration, slightly wicked school achievement stickers and a fortune teller (not sure what that one actually is as the four-year-old appears to have lost it).

No wonder kids are turning their backs on e-books. These are serious artefacts to be seriously treasured.

Yet, for their proud bookishness, there’s an appealing sense of multimedia to these tomes. Riddell’s playfully extravagant illustrations carry more than their fair share of the storytelling, while adding the sort of fantastic comic detail that rewards hours of poring over his panels. At a glance they might be mistaken for a juvenile graphic novel, complete with speech bubbles and footnotes.

Instead, I feel they offer a bridge from picture book to first novel: thick enough to give the young reader a real sense of achievement in journeying from cover to cover, but sprightly enough to make this journey a fast and unstintingly pleasurable one.

Ottoline Brown

I’ll say more about the multimedia element below, but first let’s talk about the series’s star. Ottoline Brown lives alone, more or less, on the 24th floor of the Pepperpot Building, in a city that might have been designed in collaboration with Fritz Lang and Tim Burton. Her professor parents are forever overseas, collecting all kinds of improbable objects.

Ottoline is kept company by Mr Munroe, a hairy troll from Norway who is part Dr Watson, part Snowy the Dog. (Actually, the relationship between these two is surprisingly complex and affecting, reminding the reader that even the strongest friendships must navigate the odd rough ocean or two.)

The four books see Ottoline (whose notebook is full of bold ideas and clever plans) undertake adventures across several different genres. The first is a quirky detective story involving a petnapping racket, the second is a transcontinental quest, the third a sort of science fiction ghost story in a school and the last a high society mystery-romance.

Ottoline is clever, self-sufficient and well-educated, living the kind of life that probably seems extremely attractive to a child. It’s a luxurious, urbane and somewhat bohemian existence, with no parents around to cramp her style, although she is well cared for by kindly-if-distant staff. The only chore she has to undertake herself is the laundry and she seems only to do that so she can eavesdrop on the neighbours and chat to the bear who lives in the basement. She is a Mistress of Disguise, who enjoys dressing up in flamboyant attire and collects unusual shoes (one of each pair).

Pleasingly, she is far from infallible. She has a tendency towards distraction and self-absorption and seems drawn towards friends who are even worse on both counts. But these are the sort of shortcomings that come with being the hero, whose duty must lie ultimately lie with furthering the plot.

Mostly, I love that she is an intellectual adventurer. A self-reliant eccentric with undeniable sartorial flair. This is the sort of role model I want for both our girls.

Listen Again

If I’m honest, though, the thing I probably love most about these books is the accompanying audiobooks, energetically performed by Roni Ancona. I have to put my hand up and admit that I didn’t actually read the fourth book until Child One had read it by herself (with help from Roni) several times. She’s still a pre-reader, but I feel working through these books alongside the audiobook has helped her confidence (and made her feel a little grown up). Many is the morning when she’s woken early that we’ve plonked her in the other room with Audible and an Ottoline book and she’s been kept happy for a good hour or so while we doze.

I’ve noticed that her patience with reading (or, rather, being read to) has increased as a result of these sessions. Recently, we’ve gone on to read several short novels, many of them with far fewer illustrations than she would have expected previously. She has also enjoyed listening to other audiobooks and radio plays during her quiet time, with or without an accompanying book. There is a particular kind of stillness and focus that comes with listening to a story, a relaxation of the senses and an invigoration of the imagination.

Of course, the really good news is that the Goth Girl audiobooks, Riddell’s subsequent series, last two and a half hours.

Stepping up to Goth Girl

One last stroke of genius in the Ottoline series is that the unconventional manner in which they link to Goth Girl. In the fourth (and final?) book, Ottoline purchases the first Goth Girl book. Wordless dreams follow in which she imagines herself meeting the hero, Ada Goth.

Our young reader powerfully identified with this sense of wanting to meet a fictional character (and has subsequently expressed it in regards to other eccentrics such as Willy Wonka and Doctor Who). Books sometimes give us the friends we need – or perhaps, the friends we aspire to one day make.

The obvious trick would have been to have both series somehow share the same fictional world, but Riddell’s approach is instead a celebration of the act of reading. In reading about Ada, Ottoline makes Ada real. So real that Child One couldn’t wait to read the book for herself. (I suppose, this is much like having a trusted friend recommend your next read.)

I actually think the Goth Girl books are probably a little too dense for a four-year-old to enjoy (I’m possibly very wrong), but I love the way that Riddell has provided another bridge for developing readers.

Just as Ottoline's books help ease the leap from a five-minute read to a novella, her parting gift is to give a leg up to reading a proper novel. This is a rare series that grows with – and helps to grow – a young reader. I can’t recommend them highly enough.

[goldinavonlea]

You know I agree that it’s very likely Anne got brought on when Mrs Hammond was expecting her second or third set of twins, but I think Anne’s position in that household makes it unlikely that she would have been directly involved in the births, you know? Like she was definitely there as a servant, not a family member or a kind of confidant or anything, if you get what I mean? That being said, in that position as a servant I’ve no doubt she would have been the one doing the sort of running about stuff when Mrs Hammond was in labour—getting towels, hot water, keeping the other kids out of the way etc, the kind of thing you might have expected the husband to do if the husband wasn’t a drunken lout.

And we know from Anne’s very turbulent entry into school that her knowledge on this kind of thing is a really mixed bag: she knows the babies come from something to do with the husband and ‘intimate relations’ but she doesn’t know what that entails besides being potentially a) funny? and b) really scary. And if she’d been at that kind of age running about the peripheries of two labours without anyone who paid her enough attention or care to like... properly explain what was happening... can you imagine how frightening that would be? You don’t really understand what’s going on, only that the woman you work for has children inside her that have to get out somehow and that the somehow involves a LOT of screaming. I can barely even process the degree to which that would put the absolute fear of god into you as a child.

But then after all the stuff with Prissy and Mr Phillips and how badly that whole situation went down, in combination with her stubborness and refusal to accept help, not to mention a perfectly understandable lack of desire to bring up things she saw or experienced with the Hammonds during a traumatic period of her life, I can’t imagine she’s really about to go and ask anyone what the hell was up. She KNOWS it’s one of those things People Don’t Talk About and that she’ll get herself in trouble if she goes around straight up asking questions.

But, if Bash mentioned that Gilbert had a rough idea what he was doing from calving/ foaling on the farm? Anne’s Anne: not only is an interest in cute baby animals something she can get away with expressing, but it’s further knowledge of farm work, etc etc. She could get away with asking Gilbert if she could help out the next time one of the horses gives birth or whatever.

And obviously OBVIOUSLY it’s not the same and I can never help the like almost comic-horror reaction every time I watch that scene because birth is a WHOLE different ball game for a human being, the whole bipedal, upright spine thing makes everything infinitely more complicated and painful etc etc.

But for Anne just being able to have something, some new recollection to soften the horror of the old—an experience that’s non traumatic and in the company of someone she feels safe around and with the outcome of a cute little foal stuttering about trying to stand up on its little foal ankles instead of hours and hours of screaming followed by being handed two infants (also screaming) and being told they’re her responsibility... it helps. And opens up space for a conversation, for her to make some mention of the Hammonds and that experience.

Which could actually be a good oportunity for some good old classic comedy lightening of a dark situation because bless him Gilbert would want to be helpful but also everyone has their limits in this world and as a teenage boy trying to explain the details of the human reproductive process to a girl you’re in love with is I think a very fair limit to have. But because the only plausible way to suspend our disbelief enough to imagine that a sixteen year old could pull off delivering a breech birth on his own is imagining that he read loads and loads and loads of books (and honestly... believable. he’s a seriously academic and self-identied bookish kid trying to process his own mother’s death in childbirth like if I were in that situation I would have read every book on pregnancy and birth i could get my hands on); so that is something he could offer to Anne. Loads and loads and loads of books. And of course I’m not sure how Appropriate it would have been considered in that time period for women to have any kind of knowledge of anatomy but denying people the right to understand their own bodies sounds like exactly the kind of thing that would justifiably piss Gilbert off massively, AND again he’s coming at it from a very different place and perspective but he does also get the scariness of it: I mean probably his first real awareness of anything to do with birth was learning that it was what killed his mother, so he gets entirely finding the whole idea of it absolutely terrifying; and I think he and Anne are very similar in how they respond to things like that—by restlessly seeking out knowledge until they can classify it and understand it and it’s not scary anymore. So yeah, Anne helping Gilbert out with birthing the farm animals and him unloading like three stacks of books on midwifery and anatomy and several of the medical texts he’s been reading for his internship? And probably awkwardly shuffling her in Mary’s direction because again, he wants to be helpful but he’s like a 17/18 year old boy in the 1890s there’s only so helpful he can possibly be even if he did manage to pull of that one insane miracle that one time.

But I tell you what he definitely WOULD talk to her about because it’s the kind of thing you can only really talk to an Anne about and expect them to Get It is the emotional side of it all, about Ruth and about how absolutely mind bendingly insane it felt to be involved in something like that, in bringing an actual human being with a whole life ahead of them into the world, how it was incredible and beautiful despite being absolutely the most terrifying thing he’d ever done ever and Bash definitely having to take him for more rum afterwards just to get his hands to stop shaking.

Anyway it’s 5am and I’ve absolutely ridiculously gone off on one but in conclusion: yeah I’ve thought about the fact that Anne came from a household with three sets of twins two of which were probably born while Anne was in residence as well, I’ve thought about it a lot

Conversations I desperately want to see include Anne finding out about the whole ‘Gilbert delivered a breech baby on the fly in Trinidad with zero medical training’ thing, because can you imagine her face?

She’s just chattering away to Bash about his and Gilbert’s exploits travelling about on the steamer, all ‘Wow what an adventure, what amazing things you’ve seen and done’

and Bash like ‘Haha yeah, gotta say though electric lights in New York feel a little less dramatic when you’ve watched some skinny little white farm boy who don’t even know how to keep his own mouth shut deliver a complete stranger’s baby with nothing but some stolen blankets and a flask of babash’

‘I’m sorry, he did WHAT.’