#me reading online that the thirteen year old girl has sex with her cousins husband and gets pregnant and everyone is cool with it

[lydiacatfish]

Finished The Witching Hour

Why was it so long

Why were there so many horrible lurid details

Reading this book made me think I might not actually like Gothic horror because this was too much for me but then I was like no, she just did Too Much with this one

I did not get a sense of consistency from the main character Rowan AT ALL

Anne why did you do this. What were you working through when you did this

I miss Lestat

[cracktheglasses]

Would you mind telling us more about your Tolstoy hate?

Sure, nonnie! 

FYI, I’m not even remotely an academic, so this isn’t going to be a well-crafted analysis, but I’ve read a lot of Tolstoy in my life. He’s arguably the Russian literary maître, or at least, up at the top with a select few, and his works are widely read in schools, beginning with his children’s books and ending with the big ones, usually The Kreutzer Sonata, Anna Karenina, and War and Peace. 

Basically, I want to talk about three things, but I suspect it’ll be WAY too much and I’ll probably need to stop: 

the characters of Natasha Rostova (from War and Peace)  and Kitty (from Anna Karenina) and my belief that Tolstoy was not capable of writing women as people. I’d talk about Anna, too, but it’s gonna be a lot

his appalling treatment of his wife, Sophia (it’s very easy to be a faux ascetic back-to-the-earth, living the simple life, sex-is-bad recluse telling others how to live properly, when your wife hand-copies and edits your manuscripts, feeds you, clothes you, and takes care of your thirteen children, wrangles publishers for you, puts up with your sex-is-bad-but-i-still-need-it-so-be-a-good-wife ways, and really, I can probably stop there, but I’ll add some more below)

and, finally, the character of Levin, the “nice guy” fuckboy self-insert Gary Stu (see “back-to-the-earth” “living the simple life with the peasants” and writing treatises on philosophy while wife deals with actual mundane problems)

Note: I haven’t read much Tolstoy in English translation, only in Russian (I don’t usually like Russian classics in translation, with few exceptions), so anything I’m quoting or paraphrasing below is going to be my own translation/memory (easily verifiable with an English edition I’m sure; I can provide links to the Russian text online). I’m not a professional literary translator, so the translations will be accurate, but they’ll also be shitty writing. 

When I first read Tolstoy, I was a bookish, confused, angry kid, reconciling myself to a frustrating, ill-fitting girlhood. I read a lot, I read all the time, and I was usually drawn to the male characters, I identified much more with them, I wanted their realities – but I knew/was told that I should model myself more after Natasha Rostova or Wendy Darling than D’Artagnan. That my reality, and eventual choices, would have to be about growing up female, whatever that meant, aside from eventually stopping running around in the woods with my bow and arrows, and embracing princess gowns. I remember wanting to dress up as Cardinal Richelieu for a costume-guessing game at a fifth grade recital, but was kindly, yet firmly steered to Anne of Austria, instead. My grandparents wanted me to be a better girl, not an irresponsible delinquent like my cousin, but the eventual valedictorian cum successful mother and wife with a respectable career (funny how that goes: my juvenile delinquent cousin ended up all of the above, but I digress). My grandfather, who had made the bow and arrows for me, didn’t actually discourage me running around in the woods, but he did hope I’d grow out of it, and held up Natasha Rostova as the graceful ideal, the girl to emulate, and I’m sure he wasn’t the only one. 

Natasha is Tolstoy’s ideal woman; at the start of the novel, a 13-year-old girl, smiling, pink-cheeked, “that delightful age where a girl is no longer a child but not yet a young woman”, thin, fresh-faced and curious. We see her next at her first ball, at 16, charming, waifish, well-behaved, a graceful dancer. She is already named a woman here, at 16, a “proper countess”. She is beautiful but doesn’t know it (oh, that trope, when will it end), and described largely via the opinions of other men at the ball, which continues as she ages. She’s 20 and Pierre Bezukhov talks her physical qualities up to Andrei Bolkonski, they discuss her: “she’s a lovely treasure, don’t overthink it, what is there to think about, marry her, my friend, marry her” – “she’s a special sort of girl, a rarity here, she’ll dance here for less than a month and skip off into a marriage.” 

Natasha is flighty, she’s a bit boy-crazy, which Tolstoy describes in this indulgent manner, you know, that’s how young women are, lovely and a little flighty and obsessed with their young woman obsessions – and this would have bothered me less if Kitty in Anna Karenina wasn’t described much in the same way, this slightly silly delightful creature, happy to be noticed. This, then, was the right way to be a girl – cute and happy and exciting and available – but not too exciting or too available, because, of course, there are too many Bad Boy Vronskys and not enough Nice Guy Levins for all. Natasha sings, she plays guitar, she hunts (several comparisons to Diana the Huntress come up), she is passionate about her interests – but her passion is frequently presented as “in her nature”, she’s got that woman’s passionate nature when she jumps into a new venture, be it dancing or hunting. 

So, we have this idealized lovely girl, much like Kitty; much like Kitty, she makes a mistake, falls for the wrong man, the bad boy: Anatole. Anatole, unlike Karenina’s Vronsky, who is interested in Anna, not Kitty, takes full advantage; he is already married, but Natasha is planning to elope with him, and breaks off her engagement to Bolkonsky. She knows she is doing the wrong thing, but she can’t stop herself, and has to make up for this transgression later in the narrative by nursing the wounded Bolkonsky until his death. This is all before she is 21; she is married at 21, to her childhood friend, Pierre Bezukhov, who has already been married, who forgives her for these transgressions as if it were his place – and then, when she is finally wife, the descriptions change. There is one particular description that struck me and stuck with me, the first time I read it, this “what the fuck”:

“… by 1820, she had three daughters and a desperately (note – Tolstoy uses ‘passionately’ as the verb here, because that is Natasha’s thing) wanted son, whom she was breastfeeding (Tolstoy emphasizes that she’s feeding him herself). She had gotten thicker, wider; it was hard to recognize the former spry, waifish Natasha in this strong mother. Her facial features had settled into a clear calm. There was no longer that fierce, perpetual fire that had been her beauty. Her soul was no longer visible, only her face and her body. Only the strong, beautiful, fertile female animal.”

Specifically, the word “самка“, which Tolstoy uses for Natasha, is sort of like saying “the female of the species”, but not quite. There is a more clinical and less reductive way to say that about a person rather than an actual animal. Specifically, that word emphasizes her fertility, reduces her to reproductive capabilities. I remember reading that and being absolutely crushed – that this already awkwardly idealized girl was suddenly not even worth that original pedestal, however shitty that had been. That her entire purpose was to become a wife and mother – and then be derided and chided for fulfilling it. You see, now married with children, she has no time, she is slovenly, she is no longer attractive: 

“…Natasha had left behind all her charms, the loveliest of which had been her singing…”

“… Natasha stopped taking care with her manners, with speaking properly, with showing herself off to her husband in flattering poses or dresses…”

“…she stopped singing, she didn’t think much before she spoke… it’s as if she had no time to take care of these things…” 

“The only subject that occupied her now was family – her husband, needing to be kept so he would belong to her and the home – and the children, who needed to be birthed, nursed, raised…”

This transformation is much the same in Kitty, when she marries Levin. In juxtaposition to the divorce of Karenin and Anna, and Anna’s involvement with Vronsky, Levin and Kitty marry for love, a pure and profound feeling, devoid of banal passion; an entire chapter describes their awkward, endearing wedding ceremony. Levin, who is not religious, expects the process to be ridiculous, farcical, but instead, both he and Kitty are touched by the words, they mix up the rings, they smile at each other, they feel uplifted, and like they’re meeting each other for the first wonderful time. But it’s telling that the final line of the chapter is the reaction of the casual observers outside of the church and at the ceremony, specifically the townswomen: “What a darling the bride is, like a dressed lamb. And yet, what a pity for our sister.”

Before the wedding, Levin gives Kitty his diaries, where he has detailed his sexual relationships with other women. Kitty is disgusted, appalled -- she doesn’t want to know these things about him, and yet he insists that she needs to forgive and accept him for this, while simultaneously thinking that he doesn’t deserve her forgiveness, that she is too pure. She cries, and says she forgives him, though what she’s read was horrible; this makes Levin even surer that she is too pure, too good, and he doesn’t deserve her. 

This scene is lifted entirely from Tolstoy’s own experience. When Tolstoy and Sophia married, he was in his mid-thirties, worldly, sexually experienced; she was 18, having been brought up the way girls from good families were brought up. After reading his diaries, where he detailed his relationships with sex workers in particular, she was appalled, yet couldn’t do anything about it. Her subsequent sexual relationship with Tolstoy, based on her own diaries, was viewed by her as largely non-consensual. 

A few chapters after Kitty and Levin’s wedding, we see that 

“Levin had been married for three months… he was happy, but not in the way he had expected to be. In every step, he found a new disappointment. He was happy, but family life was not at all what he had imagined…” 

“…he was surprised that the poetic, lovely Kitty was… able to remember and fret about the tablecloths, about furniture, about beds for guests, about serving trays, about dinners…”  

“…homemaking irrevocably pulled her in.”

“During this time, he could feel the straining chain connecting them particularly strongly, the pull of it from side to side. The honeymoon, that first month after the wedding, from which he had expected so much, was not so honeyed as it was the most difficult and humiliating period of their lives. In their subsequent days, they tried to strike from their memories the ugly, shameful events of this unhealthy time, when neither of them were in a normal mood, and rarely felt like themselves at all.”

After three months, Levin is displeased at the idleness of their existence, and blames Kitty: 

“... he knew it was not her fault, but perhaps it was the fault of her shallow, inadequate, too frivolous education...”

“...aside from an interest in homemaking (and that she had in spades), she had no other interests... she does nothing, and is absolutely happy...”

Kitty decides she will go with Levin when he receives news that his brother is dying; Levin interprets this as Kitty being bored and wanting a change of scenery. She cries, trying to convince him that she is going as a show of support for him, and Levin finally agrees to take her along, but is displeased at having given in, and thinks of himself as enslaved to her whims. In addition, he doesn’t want pure, proper Kitty to associate with “his brother’s woman”, mistress rather than wife; “the very idea of his Kitty being in the same room with the woman made him cringe in disgust and terror.”

After Kitty gives birth, Levin feels nothing but revulsion for the baby, and watches Kitty and the baby with distaste. He begins thinking about the meaning of life, about the role of religion, about faith, and every time he thinks of sharing these thoughts with Kitty, he is interrupted by the mundane tasks that Kitty has to perform -- bathing and feeding the baby, arranging for rooms for visiting family, and the like. Kitty makes sure that Tolstoy, I mean, Levin, is able to live his largely unchanged life -- philosophizing, working with his peasants, going to concerts, working on a manuscript -- while she takes care of all the banal, earthly things. Of course, she doesn’t do this by herself, as they are nobility, wealthy landowners, but still, Levin judges her for her work, for her inability to understand him, though he decides that this sort of suffering may very well be part of happiness. 

The novel ends before Kitty and Levin have any more children, however, Tolstoy insisted that he needed to have as many as possible, while Sophia was still able to carry them. He believed that breastfeeding by the mother was the most natural, best option, and so prevented her from hiring wet-nurses for any of the children -- I repeat, 13 in total -- Tolstoy was a wealthy count; they could most certainly afford the assistance. Sophia was his editor, his secretary, she put up with what she viewed as a series of rapes, she spent 13 years of her life nursing, over a decade pregnant. He spent years trying to convince her to get rid of all their possessions, to lead a Walden-esque life on the land with their peasants and his students; when she resisted, he tried to put the plan into place for himself, though, much like Levin, he still had all of the comforts and privileges afforded to him by his station. He chose to leave the rights to his literary works to his students, adherents to his philosophies, “Tolstoyans”, rather than to Sophia; she had to fight for these in court after his death. 

I would really like to talk more about the character of Anna Karenina, because Tolstoy doesn’t even subscribe evenly to the madonna/whore dichotomy there; Anna is sort of both, sort of something else entirely. However, her sister-in-law, Dolly, is described by Levin as an uglier, older, more pathetic version of Kitty. She is interested only in her children, while her husband has affairs and spends all their money. He is disgusted by her, because her quietly putting up with her husband’s ways is clearly repulsive, fake, subservient -- not a sign of true love, as in his own home. 

I haven’t covered everything I wanted to, but I am running out of room and steam here, nonnie, so I’m wrapping this up. Please feel free to ask for my opinions on Jonathan Franzen next week!

[uniquewastelandmiracle-blog]

It is 12: 46 a.m. March 2, 2017 I did not take the Nyquil. I still cannot stop crying. It’s 12: 49 now, and I am 21 crying and crying. My eyes ache. I’m hungry. I already felt terrible because I spent since 8 p.m. I spent trying to understand the simplest form of Music theory from Edinburg University. Coursera really is a gift that I’m too mentally incapable to use to its fullest potential. Aside from knowing the shaft and semitones are, and abbreviations used within like EGBDF and FACE, I’m dull beyond hope. I spent four hours trying to learn a skill I was truly passionate about, and still am for some reason, and did not make any progress. I spent four hours trying to jot down a melody on an online music software and I failed miserably. At one point I nearly felt embarrassed, like I was being watched by a group of people who were silently watching me, but I knew they were watching at how pathetic I was at making music, and trying to grasp how I was this challenged.

Remembering Max Martin say in his early twenties that he had no idea what the hell a producer was or what one did, that he spent day and night trying to figure it out does make me feel a little better, but not better enough. I promised I would never harm myself again. No more cuts. No more pills. No more attempts. I would really have stooped low, even for me, to start carving my skin in my twenties. That’s some shit I left behind in my teenage and elementary years. No more. But then there’s the news. It always breaks my heart to hear of those certain things that take place. I know no one will ever read this, and yet I’m still petrified to open up. I feel like I’ve been mocked for the way I feel about certain things so much that its not even worth talking about it anymore. It’s just something that lingers on in the back of my head till it pushes itself forward sooner or later and the next thing you know its 12:59 a.m. and I’m bawling my eyes out wishing I had an ounce of contentment in my life.  

I’m trying very hard not to let anyone make me feel silly for the way I feel. I’m crying out of empathy, hopelessness, and frustration. If only I could play god for one fucking day and wipe out every form of evil on this planet. Fucking sewer rats, all of them. I’m friendless, and crying all by myself in the middle of the night with snot constantly running down my top lip as I wipe it over and over and over and over again. It’s like being thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty all over again. I should just do it and get it over with. I’m scared of life. I’m also scared of death and I’m stuck in the middle of deciding which one will bring me more peace and calm me the fuck out. I do have a cool uncle and this cool cousin who I’d terribly miss. I don’t think I’d miss my mother at this point. The woman who claims to see me as her number one priority but leaves our most heartfelt talks to play Stepford wife to a husband that abused her daughter for years. The woman who can cook like a pro, and clean like a champion but never has given me the slightest interest in my own interests. The same virtuous woman who can draw, paint, design, speak four languages, do henna, dance, teach, knit, stitch, sculpt, bake, and maintain her physique like its second nature to her but must force herself to listen to my ‘problems’ and give me fifteen minutes of her time. Right in the middle of us talking, he calls to her and without a warning she’s gone out of my sight and won’t be available, my own mother, in my ‘my’ home for hours to come or even till tomorrow. At least in India my mother was actually my mother.

I feel worthless. I convinced my self over the past year that I was an alright gal with something decent to offer to the world but today that feeling is not there. I feel completely useless, unintelligent and hideous. I don’t feel like attempting to write another song, or listen to Edinburg’s music theory videos, or playing around with the Midi. I don’t feel attempting vocal warm ups or covers. In fact, there is only one thing I feel like attempting.

But there is not a single soul out there that would love the rodent as heavily as I do and have. The little cherub has never licked anyone else besides me anyway. Who would every caress him, cuddle with him and sleep beside him the way I do? Who would hold him so close that you can hear the life through the meat of his little body and feel your heartbeat and your favorite family member’s together? I can’t do anything that would hurt myself, because overall it will hurt him, and the little rabbit is turning only three on March 19. A gentle, over emotional, anxiety filled Pisces like me. I knew this little episode of self-hatred, anxiety mixed with depression and panic was coming. I started doing things that should’ve given me clues but even I can’t recognize my own indirect behavior. I stop brushing my hair and stopped eating healthy.  I have not done cardio for weeks now and I have no cleaned my drawers and organized my closet like I do. I started letting myself go in little ways. I started looking for my old contacts to help me self-destruct. But I’m fine as long as no one can tell right?

I am rambling on and on. I stopped crying but my heart still hurts. I’m just another, over emotional young girl that’s just being ungrateful yea? No. I don’t think so. For years I have felt extremely alone. I’m just some emotionally crippled bitch that pities herself a little too often to the world of men and a few women perhaps too yeah? My tears almost returned. I’m too alone. Too out of touch with my identity, if I even have one. Too away from home and the people who make me feel like I’m at home. I’m too far away from my passions and my ability to help oppressed people and creatures. I’m too far from anything I want to have, create, or give and no matter how good I claim my intentions to be, I can’t reach happiness. The top of my shirt is wet from my tears from before. My stomach is rumbling because I’m fucking starving. I’ve got no appetite. I don’t want chocolate or pizza. K actually maybe pizza.

And I’m not even mad at whatever celestial little fucker is out there because of what happens or doesn’t happen to ME. Nope. I know I am damn blessed, even when I’m sobbing so hard because I don’t understand why I can’t grasp basic music theory and how I’ll find a job to support myself. It’s what you’ve done to others. I’m not even talking about my family!  “God”, if you’re out there, I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done to the people of color in the past. You’ve made every single one of them suffer. You didn’t leave any one of us out! Fair play fucker, fair play indeed. Reading about the ‘contributions of men’, the colonization, the raping, stealing, plundering lands that belonged to the default peoples of the land, bombing the life out of them for sources you can exploit, the sex trafficking and tourism….Its illogical at this point to even believe that there is good out there, that there is someone out there that is ‘god’.

What god makes people kill in its name? What god allows all these crimes against women, against the children, against Africa? What god let’s Nazis in 2017 gain presidential power? A bad god. Fuck you god, I hope you fucking die. The people’s ignorance, evil, intolerance has made me almost as intolerant of them as they are in general. Religion is the fucking devil. All that rape, crime, oppression of women, texts written by fucking men, rituals that make no fucking sense, false sense of morality, I’m through all of it. I’ve decided from today on wards I will never step in another temple again. Going to temple made me realize how false religion is. The Indian Americans at my temple are nearly all wealthy, educated, well rounded but so disgusting. They all hate each other and talk about each other behind their backs, all of them. They all are judgmental, kiss ups, that are about materialism and prestige. It irks me to talk so bad about the people who are descendants of my own nationality, but these first and second generation immigrants are a disgrace to Mother India. They don’t act like the real Indians in India. Where there is genuine hospitality even in the street vendors and among rickshaw drivers. I have never been able to identify with the 2nd generation of Indian Americans that I’ve seen come and go in the temples I’ve been to. They are nothing like the Indians in India, I mean aside from their looks I suppose, almost nothing else is similar. Not the same amount of culture, nationalism, understanding and deep appreciation of our strengths and abilities- none of it. 

So what did I learn about myself after writing 1700 words? That I’m an atheist, piece of shit that rambles on so much, everyone must think I’m annoying and that’s why no one talks to me. And that when I want to fucking die like right now at 1:47 a.m., I can’t because I’ll feel bad for my cousin, her father who is my uncle, and my pet rabbit and yes I suppose my mother. Everyone else doesn’t mean shit to me anymore. I am going to go take a piss and then cry myself to sleep. Maybe I’ll get lucky and won’t wake up.