#levi will never find true peace. in this essay i will

[rivangel]

99% of the time Levi wakes up, he’s going to jolt and shoot a look around his surroundings, startled.

How could he have ever found a “safe” place to sleep in the underground? and when he did sleep, how often was he startled awake by commotion in the street, his own hunger or injuries, or a gun to his head … or a combination of those?

Kenny would never have let him “sleep in”. As a part of his training Levi was definitely taught to be alert 24 hours a day. Maybe he stuffed a pillow over his face each time Levi never sensed him coming in time, or threw him off of his thin, bare mattress on the floor.

He can’t sleep. But when he does sleep, he suffers no shortage of nightmares. How many of those chase him out of sleep anyway? When he wakes up, he’s always startled.

But there’s no shortage of suffering when he’s awake, either.

[purple-dragon]

in defense of chapter 139 (spoilers!)

it's still hard for me to get my thoughts in order so this might be a little disjointed but:

the (seemingly) extremely unpopular opinion: i liked it. a lot.

first let me go over the things i'm !!!! about that don't need further discussion: EXTRA FUZZY CONNIE!!!! jean and connie live!!! jean and connie see sasha and get some closure!!!! lmao this is just the jean and connie show isn't it

okay next. did the chapter feel a little rushed? yes, of course. is there stuff i wish was elaborated on? yeah, no shit. i wanted to see how the battle with hallu-chan ended. i wanted to see historia's side of the story. i wanted to see ymir's side of the story. if yams ever decides to come out with a series of epilogues or something that go more in depth, i would 100% support that. i want more. however, i'm still happy with this chapter because even though it didn't answer all of my questions, it was thematically consistent with the rest of the work. the ending made sense with where the entire manga has been building up to. it wasn't some kind of ass pull that came out of nowhere.

on ymir... i'm a little conflicted on how her story ended. i interpreted her backstory like this: she was in "love" with fritz the only way she knew how to be. fritz slaughtered and enslaved ymir's people, and yet he gave her attention, favor (i'm assuming), and sex (which we know to be rape, but she probably did not). this of course isn't actually love, but to an orphan with quite literally nothing else and no one to teach her differently, it must be love, right? it's got all the right ingredients (but we know it has none of the necessary dynamic).

so with all of that, ymir had no concept of what love actually is until mikasa came along. mikasa, who, much like ymir, loved someone so much that she dedicated her whole life to him. who would willingly lay down her life for him, just as ymir did for fritz. they're incredibly alike wrt the people they love, but with this major difference: mikasa is able to put herself and the world first, even if it means killing eren, while ymir has chained herself, intentionally or not, to fritz for 2000 years. mikasa ends up being the real inspiration for ymir - that's why we saw her smiling at the end of 138, because she sees the real, true love between eren and mikasa, but mikasa is still free, so ymir can free herself too.

actually, now that i've typed all that out, the more i realize that i like it, i just wish we saw it, rather than me interpreting a whole character based on a handful of panels.

now i guess i'll talk about reiner and levi? first off, i'm so so so happy that they both survived. levi was arguably the most damaged character through the whole series, and reiner was actively suicidal - i know a lot of people thought they were going to die as the end to their character arcs, but i'm so glad they didn't. i'm very happy that they both get the chance to rest and heal from everything that happened. reiner gets the chance to figure out what he wants to do with his relationship with his mother (and he's still simping for historia alskdfjasld), levi can live quietly (with the kids!!!!!!). they've both found something new to live for and i love it

also,,, gabi and falco are so cute i love them so much (wish udo and zofia were here too tho,,,)

okay. to the meat of the chapter.

i can't fit all of my thoughts on eren here, i'd have to write a whole essay on him, but i will say a little. i didn't see this chapter as a character assassination at all - i saw it as us finally seeing what was under the hard, cold mask he's been wearing since the time skip. because like, we know eren. at his core, he's the same emotional person he's always been - more grown up for sure, and more of an edgelord, but still him? and he must have been in constant pain, seeing all of time all the time... my poor boy. and even knowing that he has become an irredeemable monster, he still wants to live with mikasa and his friends, winning their freedom at the cost of his own... that's tragic, man. that shit hurted.

"thank you for becoming a mass murderer for us" excuse me??? armin??? sir hello?? is this allowed hello??? armin what the fuck?

also,,, did eren reincarnate as a bird? is that what that was implying? what was up with the birds through the story then?

eren and armin finally seeing the world together... i am in Pain

hooooooly shit, that dina reveal was not at all what i expected out of this chapter. like i knew the theory was out there, but i didn't expect it to be confirmed at all? i've seen the interpretation that eren just directed her into shiganshina, or that he directed her straight to carla, and tbh i like the second one more. it's darker and more messed up and i just think it's neat. ymmv, though.

i don't know how anyone thinks this is a happy ending, rather than bittersweet or outright tragic. like sure, our favorite characters are alive (except the obvious), but the world is still massively fucked and will be for the foreseeable future. 80% of humanity is dead, there's probably even more wildlife gone, and most of nature has been absolutely flattened. ecologically speaking, eren might have pushed this world into a mass extinction. additionally, removing titan powers from the world wasn't a magic ticket to peace - all it did was level the playing field between countries, and we can see that where the alliance becomes ambassadors and it says in the narration "this fight won't end until either the eldians or the rest of the world is wiped out". the equivalent to this would be to magically remove all nukes from existing and stop them from being made in our world - would it magically bring peace? no. of course not. would it put countries on a slightly more equal footing? perhaps.

basically, what i'm trying to say is that the fight hasn't ended, it's only been brought down to a human v human level, rather than human v titan v technology. what the implications of that for the world are, i don't know, and i wish yams had elaborated on that a little.

what eren did, then, with the rumbling, was give back the world's choice. there's no more titan threat, no more of his friends being forced to fight and die in 13 years, no more babies born with their choice to fight already stolen from them. he gave them freedom by eliminating the titans - exactly what he said he was going to do.

also on that note, what is up with the jaegerists? it seems like in and before the rumbling, all the extremists died out? maybe? like floch and his ilk, and that's why they aren't rushing to massacre the rest of the world, but who really knows... i want more post-rumbling worldbuilding...

finally (i think), that brings me to mikasa. i'm... not mad about the way we see her story end, tbh. i've seen people saying she just stays on paradis forever with eren, alone and practically in exile, but i don't think that's it? like we only see the gang 3 years in the future. mikasa loved eren so much, she dedicated her life to him from the time they were 9, and in the end he died because she killed him. let that sink in, y'know? the love of her life didn't just die, she killed him herself. if it were me, it would take me a lot longer than just 3 years to heal from that. and i think that's what we see her doing there at the end - resting and healing from undoubtedly some of the worst moments of her life. healing from grief isn't a quick or linear process; you don't just get over something like that. i know the saying goes "time heals all wounds" but sometimes it doesn't.

if we saw her maybe 10 years down the line, it might be a different story. maybe she would be in a much better place, with her own new family and goals. maybe she would be worse off, still missing eren and stuck in the past. i don't think that would be the case, though who knows? but for 3 years in the future, i think chilling on paradis with the memory of eren was the right place to leave her.

here's what i like to think happens in the future (and this is why i love semi-open endings, because some things are concrete but there's so much left open to interpretation): over the years mikasa heals, as does the world. she goes traveling the world with armin, and sees the rest of her friends often. she and levi are close - you can often find them having tea together. on occasion, she returns to paradis to share stories of her adventures with eren('s grave). in the end, she lives according to her definition of happiness, whatever that may be now, and though she never forgets eren, she keeps moving forward, and much like reiner and levi, finds a new purpose in life.

annnddd... that's all. unless i come back to add something i forgot about later, but we'll see if that happens.

[hellofastestnewsfan]

I didn’t remember having signed up to host a high-school senior in my freshman dorm room, but suddenly there she was, fresh off the train from her yeshiva in New York, suitcase in hand. She didn’t look like a yeshiva girl. Or even really like a New Yorker. She looked like a Malibu-born-and-bred hippie even back then, with her straight blond hair, her perfectly worn-in Levi’s, her giant eyes that drew you in and threatened to drown you. “Hi. They told me I was staying here this weekend. I’m Lizzie Wurtzel.” She dropped her suitcase on the floor and flopped on my couch.

It was 1984. I couldn’t check my answering machine for a message from the admissions office heralding her arrival, because I didn’t have one. I couldn’t send the office an email to make sure this wasn’t a big mistake, because we were all still using typewriters. Plus I was instantly captivated: What was her deal? In my memory of that day, she still glows yellow. “Welcome to Matthews,” I said, which was the name of my dorm.

“So do you like this school?” she said, getting straight to the point. She’d heard the social life could be boring.

All I knew about Harvard’s social life at that point, in the fall of my freshman year, was that it seemed to be nonexistent unless you were in an all-male final club or invited to attend a party at one. I told her about the giant bus that had picked up select freshman girls—those of us who had been plucked based on our photos in the freshman facebook—and then driven to a party with too much grain alcohol and not enough restraint. Consent was not yet part of the college vernacular.

“Sounds fun!” said Liz, and she meant this earnestly, not eye-rollingly. Four years later, in The Harvard Crimson, where we both became columnists, she would write: “I cannot deny that I have spent a fair amount of my time at Harvard at final clubs. I have drunk their liquor, snorted their cocaine, smoked their pot, popped their ecstasy, eaten their food and danced on their floors. I have no right to say what I'm about to say … But of all the stupid and morally questionable things I have done in the name of a good time—and there have been a few—I cannot forgive myself for hanging out at final clubs.”

The next thing I knew she was browsing my bookshelf, snooping. Wanting to know why I had so many issues of Seventeen magazine.

I told her I’d had a column for the magazine in high school, which I was supposed to have continued writing once I’d arrived at college, but with my schedule of classes and all the reading I had to do, I could never find time.

“I have time!” she said. “What’s your editor’s number?”

The next thing I knew, she had taken over my column.

Years later, she wouldn’t exactly thank me, but she would say that meeting a teen girl who’d published articles in a real magazine had given her the courage to do the same.

By the time of her arrival at Harvard the following fall––now Liz instead of Lizzie––she was instantly college famous. Within weeks on campus, everyone knew who Liz Wurtzel was. How could you not? Particularly after the popped-cherry party she threw midyear. Or rather, our mutual friend Donal Logue threw the party, and Liz commandeered it. “So the story is we threw a huge party sophomore year in Adams House,” said Donal earlier today, when we spoke to commiserate over her death. “Liz, a freshman at the time, showed up and announced she had just lost her virginity and it was now officially the ‘Elizabeth Wurtzel lost her virginity party.’ At first, I was surprised. She seemed so wild. When I got to know her and understood her Ramaz background, her high-school life, it made sense.”

Now Donal and everyone else who knew Liz, or has encountered her work since, are trying to make sense of the idea that she’s gone. Elizabeth Wurtzel died on January 7, 2020, at the age of 52, of complications from breast cancer. When I spoke with Roberta Feldman Brzezinski, her college roommate and friend ever since, she remembered Liz as “brilliant, acerbic, volatile, and fiercely loyal. In her last years, she became a fountain of life wisdom. Why do you care how people behave? You are the star of your own drama, and everyone else is just a bit player. In her case, that was epically true.”

[Read Elizabeth Wurtzel’s essay, “I Refuse To Be a Grown-Up,” published in The Atlantic in 2013]

All of us who knew her, in fact, have a Liz story. Our friend Amanda Brainerd, a real-estate agent who, at 52, will be publishing her first novel this year, thanks in large part to Liz’s example and urging, sent me a typical Liz-related text in the wake of her death: “She accused me of stealing the hairbrush that Jimmy Cabot gave her. I still have it. Also once relatively recently I bumped into her in the pharmacy in the San Francisco airport, and she hugged me then said she had the flu and was looking for meds. And yet her fearlessness helped me tell my deeply personal story, albeit in novel form.”

Wurtzel’s 1994 memoir, Prozac Nation, forever changed the literary landscape. It redefined not only what women were allowed to write about, but when they were allowed to write about it: their messy, early decades in medias res. Mental illness was no longer something to be hidden or shameful. It was a topic like any other, to be brought out into the light.  

Liz was suddenly the It Girl in New York, throwing epic, unforgettable parties in her loft. Suddenly, in the same way that she’d once drawn courage from my teenage writing, I now drew courage from her literary descriptions of early adulthood. “You should write about your war-photography years,” she urged me during one of her parties. And so I did. From then on, whenever anyone wanted to criticize women memoirists for oversharing; or dismiss personal writing as lesser or not literary; or shame us for describing, in intimate detail, the joys and miseries of human love, in all of its messy glory, we’d get lumped in together or collectively shamed as examples of what not to do. As the years wore on, we sometimes even found ourselves “oversharing” on the same stage.

After my marriage fell apart, Liz showed up at my first post-separation dinner party wearing an outrageous miniskirt with spikes and chains and spouting equally outrageous stories of sex with rock stars, completely hijacking the conversation until we were all laughing so hard, I forgot about my broken life. Yes, she was famously difficult. Yes, she could be infuriating, hypercritical, annoying. Sometimes I felt like a prisoner in her apartment, looking for a break in the conversation that would never come. But when the term narcissist got thrown around to describe her, I’d put my foot down. No, I’d say. She’s not a narcissist. It’s not that.

[Read Elizabeth Wurtzel’s essay, “1% Wives Are Helping Kill Feminism and Make the War on Women Possible,” published in The Atlantic in 2012]

I would argue, in fact, that when the chips were down, either for me or for one of her other friends, whether close or not, Liz was the first to pick up the phone and invite us over to carefully dissect each part of our sad, pathetic narrative, looking for places to insert a decent laugh track.

After she got married, she was happy for once. And I didn’t see her for several years.

The last time we emailed was this past summer, after I’d heard she was going through new travails. No, not the breast cancer that eventually stole her from us too early: that she’d made her peace with. It was other stuff. Private stuff. The kind of stuff we don’t––or, rather, didn’t–– share with the world, which was best discussed alone, just the two of us, for several hours, preferably on a floppy couch with several dogs between us. I kept offering up dates to come over for dinner, and she, in typical Liz fashion, kept flaking. “Hi and forgive me for the (very) delayed response,” she wrote on July 3rd, in one of her multiple forgive-me emails in that same chain. “I am like that. It takes me the longest time to do anything. Instead of reflexes, I have deflexes. Which, I’m sure, makes complete sense. Anyway, thank you for thinking of me. I am here and completely crazy, I don’t even know why. Shocked and maladjusted. That must be it. I would love to see you. Xelw”

The last time I saw her alive was last week, at Sloan Kettering, but she never saw me. Her giant, mischievous eyes were closed, lightless. Her yellow glow was gone, replaced by a hospital gown and the loud beeping of machines. Her mother was gripping her hands, leaning over her body like a chiaroscuro, shooing my friend George and me out of the room. We’d brought her a vase filled with fake red roses, not knowing if real ones would be an issue in her critical condition but wanting to let her know she was loved nonetheless.

I find myself wishing, right now, that Liz could send us a missive from the beyond, one last word to let us know she made it there safely, that the music was just meh, and that she was already asking everyone not how they died but how they lived, helping each to find, without shame, the humor, pathos, and humanity in their narrative arcs.

from The Atlantic https://ift.tt/2QTweNP