:: 2013 in books, sort of ::

I love talking about myself, and I found a really fun list of questions to answer, thanks to this blog. here is the little button-thingy, because it adds to the aesthetic interest. hooray! ...but I didn't actually do the link-up, fyi.

so here goes: 20 questions about BOOKS -- et moi. also, je ne parle pas français, je just pretend. (maybe with google translate, but maybe not. I'll never tell.)

1} my overall favorite book this year

I kind of feel like giving up already. THIS IS ASKING TOO MUCH OF MEEEEE!!!! crud, I don't know. seriously. guhh.
   but I guess since I won't be graded on sincerity, probably my favorite book this year was les miserables, brick version. it was fantastic. or maybe --
   I know I'm not supposed to do this. I just can't help it. maybelanternbearersordune. (does saying it faster count as less cheating?)

2} favorite debut

um, I think the only book I read this year that was published this year was kirsten miller's the darkness dwellers (aka kiki strike #3). in that case, that would have to be my favorite, which sucks because #s 1 and 2 were awesome and #3 was not. oh well.

3} books I reread this year

oog. a lot. I'll list five I reread because of their "favorite" status.
- a room with a view, by e. m. forster
- the lantern bearers, by rosemary sutcliff
- count robert of paris, by sir walter scott
- the sherwood ring, by elizabeth marie pope
- baby, by patricia maclachlan

4} favorite covers

chaim potok's the chosen.

john knowles's a separate peace.

the cover pictures were actually taken by the same guy (marc yankus). I love his style. it's almost as good as the books themselves.

6} self-published books I read this year

meredith allady's friendship and folly and amy dashwood's only a novel. both are fantastic books, and meredith allady is one amazing lady. and amy. amy's awesome, too. hi, amy! (I can't resist. LBD is just that quotable.)

7} books that gave me a massive hangover

in a good way? les miserables. dune. less good? vanity fair. mill on the floss. horribly? brisingr. I couldn't stop ranting.

8} best standalone

just to shake things up, I'm going to say rebecca, by daphne du maurier. I swear, that book is one of the most-forgotten but most-deserving-of-classic-status ever. I really love it. (does the fact that the almost-as-good hitchcock movie exists make it not a standalone? because laurence olivier might have had something to do with my appreciation. just saying.)

9} biggest books I read this year

les misérables has made this list too many times already. (or is that not possible?) war & peace; vanity fair; gone with the wind.

10} books I followed for the hype, then loved

this hasn't ever happened. next!

11} most disappointing

definitely the darkness dwellers. WE EXPECTED SO MUCH, and then... oh, I can't start. I'll never stop. grrrrrrr.

12, 13} favorite leading-male and -female characters

winnie foster (tuck everlasting). aquila/dolphin (lantern bearers). but drem (warrior scarlet) and philip hepburn (sylvia's lovers) could both compete for that position. ...now that I think about it, so could andrei volkonsky and natasha what's-her-face (war & peace). quite the decisive person, am I not?

14} best romances

prince andrei and me. sir percy and me. courfeyrac and me. that IS what you were asking, isn't it?
   no??
   oh.
   well then.
betty vanderpoel and james saltyre (the shuttle), for one. count robert of paris and his wife brenhilda (count robert of paris). drem and blai (warrior scarlet). alan and esther (bleak house). danny and maggie, haha (nothing to fear). lucy and george (a room with a view) (did you know I did their wedding invitations?). narrator and max de winter (rebecca). francie and ben (a tree grows in brooklyn).
   okay. I need to stop. right now.

15} books that hit the DNF list

to tell the truth, the first book I ever recall not finishing (finishing is a point of honor with me, even if I hate the book) was this year.
   the sound and the fury by william faulkner. it signified nothing to me.
   seriously, though, I couldn't. it was too much to wade through, too few clues, and too little value to finish. so I didn't.

16} out-of-my-comfort-zone books that I read

dune. I generally avoid sci-fi, fantasy stories, but I heard really good things about it -- like from my dad. so I tried it and loved it. and hated it. ...it was one of those. I'm planning on reading it again, though (just not the sequels. kill me to death. once was enough!).

17} author I read the most

this year? probably rosemary sutcliff. I am an insatiable sutcliff fanatic. however, dickens (duh) and tolstoy could probably compete. and wilkie collins. henry james? elizabeth gaskell? ... I haven't counted.

18} top 5 books I'd recommend based on 2013

- war & peace
- p. g. wodehouse x)
- silver branch (the whole trilogy is... well... *sniff*)
- the woman in white
- murder of roger ackroyd
funny thing is, I could recommend each author, too. and also emmuska orczy, whose awesome books have really helped me through some hard times (like "I'm having a breakdown because there aren't any more sir percy books! WAAAAAH!" with "...wait, there's a sir-percy-was-based-off-of-him story? AWESOME!"). thanks, baroness. 

19} how many books did I read this year?

I don't know! I can't answer this one. at least 50.

20} a book I'm hugely excited for in 2014

I don't know if it's coming out in 2014, but if it is... the next mysterious benedict society book. SQUEE. and, also "if", the next incorrigible children of ashton place. I love those, too.

crikey o'blimey, guys, that was one long post. sorry.

if you scrolled to the bottom to get a nice summary... long post short, I LOVE BOOKS. may you, too, enjoy the literature that comes your way :) 

:: comparisons, contrasts, and copic markers ::

merry christmas!
this is completely unrelated.
I've been thinking about crime & punishment and les miserables and the characters and how they are similar and how they are not. some stuff that occurred to me:

javert and porfiry
they're both policemen; they both hold duty above all else, and that duty takes them to hunting down criminals -- criminals for whom you happen to have sympathy and perhaps even some affection (I shall refrain from mentioning rodya here. oh whoops. haha).
   however, javert's sense of duty blinds him to the spirit of the law, and he forgets mercy in justice, leading him to despair when he is shown mercy by the man he swore to punish ("this. I. swear by. THE STAAAARS" - norm lewis. the best). porfiry instead shows mercy, not turning in the confirmed murderer, and in doing so shows justice: rodya, tortured by the knowledge of his guilt (punishment #1), turns himself in (punishment #2) -- although rodya does find redemption and peace through these punishments (with a little help from sonia. d'aww).

speaking of whom.

fantine and sonia
two redeemed prostitutes.
   both are portrayed as victims of society (no comment), but -- in the world of the book -- are pure in heart; despite their outcast status, they desire the right thing.
   both end up being the 'guiding light' for men who feel trapped by their own dark pasts ("you were my guiding light..." - ramin. the best). fantine gives valjean her daughter and therefore new purpose; sonia gives rodya her service, her life, herself, and therefore new hope.

jean valjean and rodion romanovich raskolnikov
criminals, condemned by the law and by society (once they're discovered. which is not right away). one hides his crime and is, honestly, tortured by his conscience (though he would disagree); the other hides his crime by becoming a philanthropist... but both redeem themselves fully by turning themselves in: the first, to save his soul (and sonia, in a way), the second, to save an innocent man (the second time he's arrested). the first -- rodya, if you haven't gotten that yet -- is persuaded in part by the policeman's mercy; the second's mercy persuades a policeman to depart. from this life. ha ha. so that didn't really work.
   one ends up dead and in heaven. the other ends up alive but going to heaven. and essentially they all live happily ever after.

speaking of which.

dounia and razumihin
they are perfect together, don't you think? she's beautiful and awesome (see part 6, chapter 5). he's only like the most wonderful guy ever and the best best friend possible (see entire book).
   oh, this kind of got off track, didn't it.
we could contrast their relationship with enjolras's and eponine's.
   which is nonexistent. THE WAY IT SHOULD BE.

well, I hope you all had a very merry christmas. I did. I got some copic markers for christmas and I'm in love with them.
   just thought I'd share that :D
...and have a happy new year, too. remember, this is the last week of christmas music before everybody starts complaining about the cold and listening to the beach boys.

:: reason no. 12,695 ::

...that everyone should read dickens, in two words.

eugene. wrayburn.

"'you hear, eugene?' said lightwood over his shoulder. 'you are deeply interested in lime.'
'without lime,' returned the unmoved barrister-at-law, 'my life would be unilluminated by a ray of hope.'"

- our mutual friend, ch. 12
(charles dickens)

:: this is depressing, don't read it ::

in my real life, I've been kind of down. I know it only really surfaced in the last post, but... yeah. 

I've been writing all this sad poetry and stuff, partly because that's what heroines in books do, and I'm doing my best to be a heroine (a la northanger abbey, chapter one). ...it's pretty weird when you think about it, so don't think about it.

I cannot seem to find anyone else who is interested in what I am interested in. old books. dead english people. yes, there are some interesting/fabulous blogs out there about similar things -- the victorian era, or books in general, or old things -- but none of them are what I'm looking for. people then have some quirk: "I WILL READ NOTHING BUT FANTASY" or "I've watched every single period drama out there and now I will tell you about them" or "let's talk about the one musical to rule them all LES MISERABLES and the other one PHANTOM and the other one WICKED and now let's shriek like agoraphobic lobsters". 
   DON'T GET ME WRONG. it's not that I don't have those moments (except the fantasy one. I don't really enjoy fantasy.) (okay, and I don't really love period dramas; some, but I've only seen a few.) (...I guess that leaves... one... category. awkward). it's that I like to discuss things, and as great as this blog has been for airing my opinions, it's hard to have a one-way discussion. 

I'll just admit it. I was hoping to stumble across/get stumbled upon by someone who liked the same things I do, and we'd connect. like, you like dickens, I like dickens, shall we discuss the character development of dora spenlow while quoting our favorite lawyer eugene wrayburn? but that hasn't happened.

and the upshot of all this long-windedness is... I'm lonely. 
   loneliness does not lend itself to dynamic writing. if my posts are falling a little flat, I'm sorry. I don't feel carbonated any more. ...when your stupid jokes are so stupid they're just stupid, that's when you stop. I'm stopping.

I'll be back ...probably... when I'm feeling a little less cranky. bah humbug.   

:: now I only know I am, that's all ::

poetry has just fit my mood lately. this past year has been challenging in so many ways: important deadlines, relationship issues, growth in grace, cloudy ideas about the future. I end up awake late, staring out the window feeling a little nostalgic (I get wistful when it's midnight), wishing life could slow down so that I could work through this stuff without feeling rushed, and wistfulness lends itself spectacularly to many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, soooo... of course my answer to this is to stay up later. especially with work in the morning.
   but read I do, and then beautiful lines echo in my head all day. lines I can't quote, because they won't fit, they sound pretentious, and no one else would get them. "in the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love... I'm sorry, what were you saying?" that sort of compounds my feelings, which prompts up-late-staying the next night; and so it goes.
   
   I want a break from My Life As Of Now. I want to enjoy the holidays without any responsibility; without the knowledge of a february deadline for a portfolio that I technically haven't started yet and dread compiling, without the scholarship needs when I don't know what to do and am not sure even how to go about doing it. 

there you go. my stress in a nutshell. time holds me green and dying.

poetry has just been a good escape; death and loss and broken hearts are just soothing to my wounded soul, I suppose. "april again in avrillé, and the brown lark in air; and you and I a world apart who walked together there..."  
   I know, it all sounds petty and pathetic when I write it out. I need to hit myself upside the head and think through this clearly. honestly, what's the worst that would happen if I didn't get this portfolio submitted? well, february 15th is the priority deadline. my stuff would still get looked at, at some point. let's say I suck; and they write me a mean letter telling me to flush my artwork and materials down the toilet because I'm obviously cut out for a toothpaste-capping job at some podunk factory.
   that would mean I either go somewhere else, less selective, for a BFA, or I drop the idea of being an artist. I'm sure I have other... talents... somewhere around here.... I mean, I at least have other interests, and I'm sure I could find something to do in college. really, really super-worst comes to worst, I take another year off figuring out what I want to do (but ugh, that sounds so awful. I don't think it could ever come to that). 
   
things really aren't that bad. I have a fantastic job, long-term plans and dreams, a great family, and a new 1d album to enjoy. not to mention plans to eat waffles (!!!) and watch fiddler on the roof next day off (did I mention I have today off? I do. it's been great). 
   sorry for the sorting-out complainy-fest. a year from now I'll look back and laugh at myself for being so worried about nothing.
   ...and then probably go back to stressing out about the finals I have coming up, or something. isn't life just like that.

:: end of the golden words ::

Over the land there lies a long shadow,

westward reaching wings of darkness.

The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings

doom approaches. The Dead awaken;

for the hour is come for the oath breakers:

at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again

and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.

Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them

from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?

The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.

From the North he shall come, need shall drive him:

he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.

I know I said I didn't like free verse. yeah, well, there's an exception to every rule (...except this one. har har. couldn't help it). I need to stop trying to analyze why I like things -- it's so hard to put it into words, I can't put it into words correctly anyway, and it sort of spoils the thing for me since I generally like it because it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

   there, I admitted my motivation for most things. warm fuzzies. woot. 

   besides, what if you get a kick out of good poetry not because of warm fuzzies, but because you like practicing the goose-step to its meter? ("the assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold...") or what if you need lyrics to rap? (can I give you a suggestion? try taylor swift's "love story". rapper's delight, no joke, and I like hot butter on my breakfast toast.) this is really not for you, in those cases.

   I guess, then, this is pretty exclusively for me, which means I will ramble unintelligibly. you're basically listening to me talking to myself. 

   if you don't mind eavesdropping...

   

  a lot of the poems in return of the king are free verse, but they're fierce and determined. I can see aragorn saying them with an "it is not this day!" look on his face. ...or éomer, if it's éomer. :T

Out of doubt, out of dark to the day's rising

I came singing in the sun, sword unsheathing.

To hope's end I rode and to heart's breaking:

Now for wrath, now for ruin and a red nightfall!

it's a strong man's lament for his sister. I want to cry for the sweetness. it's as good as pippin's "steward of gondor" song, if you can believe that. (and I love pippin.)

   then comes legolas, thinking of the cry of gulls, and again we know the fellowship will be broken one day -- not just parted.

Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui

In the green fields of Lebennin!

Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea

The white lilies sway,

And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin

In the green fields of Lebennin,

In the wind from the Sea!

"And then softly, to his own surprise, there at the vain end of his long journey and his grief, moved by what thought in his heart he could not tell, Sam began to sing." 

   how sweet.

In western lands beneath the Sun

the flowers may rise in Spring,

the trees may bud, the waters run,

the merry finches sing.

Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night

and swaying beeches bear

the Elven-stars as jewels white

amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey's end I lie

in darkness buried deep,

beyond all towers strong and high,

beyond all mountains steep,

above all shadows rides the Sun

and Stars forever dwell:

I will not say the Day is done,

nor bid the Stars farewell.

the songs are a contrast, themselves. they not only speak of contrasts, but they often come at dark times when singing seems out of place. I love how tolkien blends them into the narrative pretty seamlessly. 

   to note it for a moment, the narrative rises to its climax soon after sam's song. they make it to mount doom; gollum does indeed have one last part in the story; frodo and sam wonder what stories will be told that they will miss, now that they're here "at the end of all things"; and that is how gwaihir finds them. 

   the fellowship is reunited. the fellowship is broken. cue "into the west". 

"'To the Sea! To the Sea! The white gulls are crying,

The wind is blowing, and the white foam flying.

West, west away, the round sun is falling.

Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,

The voices of my people that have gone before me?

I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;

For our days are ending and our years failing.

I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.

Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,

Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,

In Eressëa, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,

Where the leaves fall not: land of my people for ever!'

And so singing Legolas went away down the hill."

   

   in honor of tolkien, I read the story that originated the "west of the moon, east of the sun" phrase. I love how it rings with the feeling of farewell, the idea that 'where I am going, you cannot come' -- a parting that is such sweet sorrow I can't stop reading it... and the "road goes ever on and on" motif is a beautiful one.

Still round the corner there may wait

A new road or a secret gate;

And though I oft have passed them by

A day will come at last when I

Shall take the hidden paths that run

West of the Moon, East of the Sun.  

and the series ends. 

The road goes ever on and on

Out from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

Let others follow it who can!

"Then Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin, and last of all Sam, and went aboard; and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped away down the long grey firth; and the light of the glass of Galadriel that Frodo bore glimmered and was lost. And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise."

- - -

I guess that sort of turned out of an "LOTR poetry discussion" into a "ramble about LOTR everything".

   oh well. staying on topic isn't why I started this blog. I wanted to think more about literature, and this definitely helped me think. 

   I would suggest, though, if you want to think: don't read this, go write your own thoughts. it's quite a wonderful experience. :)

:: more words of gold ::

*I must pause in this lovely re-reading of tolkien's poetry to say that this post will be extremely overshadowed by some personal sorrow of mine: jacoby ellsbury has gone to the dark side. we now mourn him; and this will absolutely affect me for quite some time. thank you for understanding.*

the songs throughout lord of the rings have an added layer of sadness because most of them are laments.
   I've only just realized this. but if you think about it -- if 95% of the poems are sad, the others will feel sad since they're written in the same style (although the meter and message vary greatly: another amazing tolkien talent).
  let's think about sad things for a while.

'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.

His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought.

His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;

And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.'

'O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze

To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'

(just like boromir, ELLS IS DEAD TO ME. I know my sister will be singing a lament over him, herself. she's in literal tears right now. darn you, jacoby, making my sister cry!!!) 

   aragorn's songs are the best. read this poem out loud in your head (you know what I mean?). the meter is odd -- definitely not a standard meter -- but it is so compelling.

Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!

West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree

Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.

O proud walls! White towers! O wingéd crown and throne of gold!

O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,

Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea?

I will skip several of the next passages, since I'm not a fan of free verse, even if it's tolkien speaking through treebeard. ents forever; "pip and merry hug trees" and so do I, and all that, but I'm not an entwife, so I'll skip that section. "to isengard with doom we come!"

   

   "'Healing I found, and I was clothed in white. Counsel I gave and counsel took. Thence by strange roads I come, and messages I bring to some of you. ...

"But dark is the path appointed for thee:

The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea."

...

"Legolas Greenleaf long under tree

in joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!

If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,

Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more."'"

what can I say? the foreshadowing says it all. it's heart-rending how the happiest part of LOTR is the first few chapters, and then it all goes downhill. (like how that stupid guy was awesome in the postseason and then he "had" to go to the evil empire because they offered him a huge contract and he's a horrible person and worse than youk!!! oh I hate them both! jacoby ellsbury, you SUCK!!!!)

The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.

Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,

Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

the whole story has a finality about it: each occurrence seems to mark the ending of something, something that can't be recovered. boromir will never live again; frodo will never be the same. any sweetness and any hope still has a taste of that finality.

 Tall ships and tall kings

Three times three,

What brought they from the foundered land

Over the flowing sea?

Seven stars and seven stones 

And one white tree.

a hopeful prophecy, perhaps -- but trees grow old eventually. even elves do not live forever.

:: of words of gold ::

I used to get really irritated when I was reading a book and the characters would quote something and it would

                                                                                   appear

italicized, centered -- like these lines are here.

it drove me nuts. usually I didn't know what the quotation was even from, so it made me feel dumb on top of that. 

   my annoyance with inserted poetry changed when I read lord of the rings. (maybe I should say I found an exception to the rule.) I fell in love with tolkien's poetry; it's so wonderful I sometimes flip through the book just reading the songs, and, hokey though it may be, I really do enjoy the musical because THEY QUOTE THE BOOK and I can't resist it when people do their research.

   um, I didn't mean to quote lbd again. sorry.

today I want to just wallow in amazing meter and beautiful words for a little while; though there's so much poetry here that "today" is about to mean "tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," which I trust will not creep in its petty pace from day to day, since this is poetry we're discussing.
   ah, the joys of participation! 

read it. seriously. 

- - -

some of the only poetry I've discovered that I can just slip into is what tolkien included in lord of the rings. you don't have to be in the 'right mood', you can just start reading. his words are like music; further, he conveys the idea of a tune without it. take the elvish songs: they are delicate, clear, otherworldly, but they are only in verse. the tune you feel? it's just words. 

O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!

We still remember, we who dwell

   in this far land beneath the trees,

Thy starlight on the Western Seas.

the marching songs ("we must away! we must away! we ride before the break of day!") and the nonsense songs ("O! water hot is a noble thing!") and the sweet pondering songs ("and whither then? I cannot say") all add to the feel of the moment. perhaps it's tolkien's constant use of contrast that makes his LOTR poetry so moving: open and closed, hot and cold, dark and light. 

O! Wanderers in the shadowed land,

despair not! For though dark they stand, 

all woods there be must end at last,

and see the open sun go past....

but then again, he has nonsense verses quite devoid of meaning, and they're great. I do sometimes wonder if (for example) the bombadil chapters were just for the poetry. because honestly, do those two/three chapters add much to the story but amazingly-metered verse? mmmno.

   speaking of amazing meter, though: the martial, strong-beat verses are fantastic, stirring and exciting (think of the "do you hear the people sing" drumbeat). ...but somehow they're always bittersweet. 

Gil-galad was an Elven-king.

Of him the harpers sadly sing:

the last whose realm was fair and free

between the Mountains and the Sea.

His sword was long, his lance was keen,

his shining helm afar was seen;

the countless stars of heaven's field

were mirrored in his silver shield.

But long ago he rode away,

and where he dwelleth none can say;

for into darkness fell his star

in Mordor where the shadows are.

many of the poems in the series are sad -- "as are all the tales of middle-earth" -- but they are all the more beautiful for that sadness; his mini-epic poems are breathtaking.

Long was the way that fate them bore,

O'er stony mountains cold and grey,

Through walls of iron and darkling door,

And woods of nightshade morrowless.

The Sundering Seas between them lay,

And yet at last they met once more,

And long ago they passed away

In the forest singing sorrowless.

the tale of beren and tinúviel is one of my favorites; but also the "flammifer of westernesse". there's just a wildness about it -- flowing lines, the alliteration -- that I love. 

    one thing that strikes me about tolkien's poetry is his ability to capture a sweetness and a sadness: almost melancholy, a nostalgia, perhaps, which transforms ordinary, relatable things into something slightly elevated and slightly magical -- and we go right along with it. we live that journey with the fellowship, and feel all the more noble and courageous for it! and it becomes so much harder to let go when the time comes.

I sit beside the fire and think 

of how the world will be

when winter comes without a spring

that I shall ever see.

For still there are so many things

that I have never seen:

in every wood in every spring

there is a different green.

I sit beside the fire and think

of people long ago,

and people who will see a world

that I shall never know.

the use of language to convey an atmosphere is an ability all great poets have. dare I say it's one that distinguishes the great from the mediocre? compare the words and cadence of the elf-songs to the dwarf-chants. the heavy echo of the words are like the stones the dwarves themselves hewed. 

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

...versus:

When dawn came dim the land was lost,

The mountains sinking grey

Beyond the heaving waves that tossed

Their plumes of blinding spray.

there are a few smatterings of verse that I've left out, but this has been almost all of the poems in book one. the last one (that's not in elvish) is galadriel's song as the fellowship is preparing to leave lothlorien. the musical's song "wonder" draws quite a few lines from the book, and mostly from this song. both are beautiful.

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:

Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.

Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,

And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.

Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,

In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.

There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,

While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears.

O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;

The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away.

O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore

And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.

But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,

What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

HAPPY THANKSGIVING Y'ALL

go eat turkey and cranberry sauce!

and give thanks with a grateful heart :)

:: back and there again ::

hahahaha. I slay me.

my job (tea parlor, remember?) is going amazingly well, and it's great. fantastic. wonderful. stupendous. I mean, next week I have to dress up like a princess. what's not to like?? 

*ahem*. however well my job is going, it's taking a lot of my time (really because I'm still in training), so I'm shamefully neglecting these writing responsibilities. like, last night, instead of posting something -- I got home, took a bath, and watched roman holiday.

yeah, I like gregory peck better than you. who doesn't. (that's a rhetorical statement: one to which the answer is obvious.)
   I have nothing more of real value and content to say. ...happy thanksgiving! may you always dress like a princess. 
   seriously, it's ridiculous how much I'm looking forward to that. 

:: the hot zone ::

ever heard of marburg? well, it's a virus, and until I read the hot zone by richard preston, I hadn't either. here's an excerpt explaining it. 

"Marburg is one of a family of viruses known as the filoviruses. Marburg was the first filovirus to be discovered. The word filovirus is Latin and means 'thread virus.' The filoviruses look alike, as if they are sisters, and they resemble no other virus on earth. ... In Germany, the effects of the Marburg virus on the brain were particularly frightening, and resembled the effects of rabies: the virus somehow damaged the central nervous system and could destroy the brain, as does rabies."

also, marburg kills one out of four people who get it. 

creepy, huh? 

surprisingly, the hot zone isn't about marburg, but a specific outbreak of another virus, a new, previously undiscovered "sister" strain. 

"Marburg was the mildest of the three filovirus sisters. The worst of them was Ebola Zaire. The kill rate in humans infected with Ebola Zaire is nine out of ten. Ninety percent of the people who come down with Ebola Zaire die of it. Ebola Zaire is a slate wiper in humans."

so what happens when a man from the african wilderness goes to the big city for treatment, crashes and bleeds out in a roomful of people -- with a deadly virus that is airborne and untreatable? or when a shipment of monkeys arrives in washington, d.c. and begin to die and people don't find out it's a strain of ebola until too late? what do you do? (well, we're all alive now, so nothing too bad could have happened, but the possibilities are terrifying.)

   the hot zone is about both the scientific and personal sides of the contraction of these viruses. richard preston covers the stories of several inside people; well-known victims, first-hand witnesses, and one man who actually survived, layering science and facts with objective viewpoints and a pretty fast-paced narration.
   beginning with the first in a train of victims, he describes "charles monet" as he gets ebola and dies of it. the rest of the book follows nancy and jerry jaax -- a married couple in a biological unit of the army -- and their part of the mid-80s outbreak, interspersed with other sides of the story: who and what led to the culmination of it all at the reston monkey house, and the scientific dangers and political undercurrents swirling around that final "hot zone". at the climax, a level 4 biohazard operation is kicked into effect as monkeys are dying, covered in blood, and... we couldn't stop it. 
  quite the book to read at midnight.
  richard preston's short, terse sentences add a lot of tension to the storytelling. the interspersed scientific facts really helped me understand the underlying causes (as far as we know them) and added a layer of horror, since this actually happened, and actually does scary things to people. it's not just some what-if fantasy story: we really don't know how it spreads -- though it appears to spread in every way possible, from blood to breathing -- nor do we know how to stop it, since we don't even really know how it does what it does.
   it is a riveting book.

as far as warnings go... there is some language. not a lot, but it's definitely there. neither is this a book for the squeamish: there are some graphic descriptions of what the virus does to the human body (if you can't handle the wikipedia page on vomito negro, don't even start this book. an [uncredited] excerpt is here, if you're still unsure). fascinating, but gross. 
   the hot zone might inspire nightmares and fears of worldwide pandemics. it might inspire disgust and horror. it might inspire relief, or a fear of airsickness bags forevermore. if you're courageous enough to read about all the horrific things this parasitic virus does to the animal called homo sapiens, be prepared to be awestruck that such variety exists in our world and for thoughts of, "what would I do if that were me?"
   and enjoy the ride. it's not every day that you can come into contact with such fascinating, deadly diseases, nor the realization that modern science doesn't always have the answers. 
   yes, it must have originated from somewhere in kitum cave; but where? how does it spread? and... what would we do if it came back? 

:: another word ::

conglobe:  to assume a globular shape; to form into a ball
     verb, from latin: con + glob (us) sphere + are,  infinitive ending

pronunciation: ...seriously? (con-globe). yep.

"Darkness profound covered the Abyss; but on the watery calm, His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspread, and vital virtue infused and vital warmth, throughout the fluid mass; but downward purged the black, tartareous, cold, infernal dregs adverse to life: then founded, then conglobed like things to like; the rest to several place disparted, and between spun out the air, and Earth self-balanced on her centre hung."
     john milton 

:: I've got da, da, da inside my head ::

my sister reread a tree grows in brooklyn the other day. she reads that book about fifty times a year, I think.
   she was thoroughly disgusted by the idea of a movie, and in talking it over with me, came up with a fantastic idea. well, wait: she was disgusted by the idea of a movie directed by anyone other than us (I'm sure you have those). we thought it would be a hoot to dream-cast ATGIB, and it was fun -- though discouraging: no one alive is stupendous enough to play neeley, I swear -- but her fantastic idea was the music.
   every good movie needs an even better soundtrack. truth probably universally acknowledged. ATGIB is great for music because 1. music is such a huge part of the book; 2. early 20th-century music is still familiar today -- and accessible; 3a. its several 'title tracks', if you will, are perfect for background music; 3b. also for adding symbolism and layers to the storytelling. (besides, how can you go wrong with "molly malone"?)   
   we got so into this that we actually made a song playlist on grooveshark ("for francie" :') ) which we listen to when we feel especially like thinking about neeley and ben and... well, yeah, neeley and ben. which is frequently. heh.

here is our fantastic song list. we have it dramatically arranged elsewhere (duplicates for plot climaxes, and cetera), but I've cut it to the short and sweet. my posts tend to drag on for too long, anyway :)

- "molly malone" (emerald isle ensemble)
- "sweet adeline" (weezer)
- "annie laurie" (john mcdermott)
- "when irish eyes are smiling" (bing crosby)
- "sidewalks of new york" (joe newman)
- "you're a grand old flag" 
- "o holy night" (andy williams)
- "molly malone" (dubliners)
- "annie laurie" (phil coulter)
- "I didn't raise my boy to be a soldier" (bill carrothers)
- "auld lang syne" (scottish fiddle orchestra)
- "silent night" (brian culbertson) 
- "when you wore a tulip" (alex welsh)
- "I'm sorry I made you cry" (frank sinatra)
- "k-k-katy" 
- "mother machree" (101 strings orchestra)
- "till we meet again" (doris day)
- "my wild irish rose" (the starlite singers)

we actually included another version of "molly malone" at the end, but I'm not sure who performed it. (if you, too, want to experience ATGIB in music, follow this list and add your favorite version on the end.)

my hair is in dire need of a wash. that's also just an excuse for me to end this post, because I've run out of factual and on-topic things to discuss. 

*abrupt end*  

:: in which, I get a life ::

I've seriously been posting like a crazy person for the past, like, two weeks. because I was focusing on oliver twist there was enough material for me to write like heck and I can't resist posting when I have a ready-to-go draft just sitting there under my 'posts' tab; but this is all going to change.
   why? I got a job.
   yes, a job. please pick your jaw up off the floor.
this isn't going to significantly cut down on the time I have to read/blather about what I read, I'm pretty sure, but I'll be pretty tired so my posts will probably become less frequent. ...although I just got home from my first day (at ze tea parlor! woo!) about an hour ago, and here I am, so who knows.

a really great book I just read last week, if anyone is interested: the shuttle, by frances hodgson burnett (also wrote secret garden and a little princess). it's got an american heroine and a british hero (OH YEAH) -- kind of your typical turn-of-the-century story in some ways, with the all-capable woman who has strength of character and purpose, an evil villain who is seemingly unstoppable, and lots of really sappy unliterary parts that are essentially fluff (it's like woman in white for kids).
   I am so comfortable with myself that I can admit I read fluff sometimes for the sheer fun-ness of it all. okay? and this is sweet fluff. not like cotton candy, which has zippo nutritional value; no, this is like cracker jack because it is sweet, has some nutritional value (POPCORN IS GOOD FOR YOU LA LA LA LA I'M NOT LISTENING), and a little prize hidden in the box. ...that last one doesn't exactly count. the shuttle is kinda... predictable.
   oh, and this is also a small box of cracker jack. the kind that you pig out on, finish in an embarrassingly short amount of time, and then realize if you had any more you'd probably throw up. ...was that too graphic?

anyway, it was totally enjoyable. it really speaks to that "if I were a millionaire I would go around sprinkling wealth on the poverty-stricken and grateful" wish that resides in my heart. I lived vicariously through bettina vanderpoel and was happy, until the end when I had to stop.
   *sighs for hard lot in life
   also, it's available free through gutenberg.org, if you're interested.

well, I'm going to see our town performed tonight, so I need to go get ready.
   hm. five-thirty here in kentucky. -- you get a good rest, too. good night.

:: and what happened after (chs. 52-53) ::

truth be told, the last two chapters of oliver twist seem like an epilogue to me. the wrap-up is really in the few chapters before (see last post. I have reasons for my titles), and these last two are just and-here's-what-happened-to-everyone-after-they-calmed-down-a-little.
 
chapter fifty-two is called "the jew's last night alive"; well, um, yeah. that pretty well sums it up.
   I know it could seem like why do we care what happened to fagin at his trial? he's going to die for his crimes, and that's good, but so what? I also know I was going to try to read this as if it were my first time; but you know, that's so hard and I kept seeing new things in the book all because it was my second time through. ...sooooo, knowing the essentials of the chapter meant I could focus more on the writing (which is amazing and descriptive and powerful and I loved it!). it really brings together the themes of dark versus light that -- I realized -- have been there throughout the book.
   yes: the 'darkness as death/life and goodness as light' idea is painfully obvious and I would look smart and literary if I picked something a little more subtle. life/death, light/dark... original, right? this isn't one of those 'universal' themes you find in, like, every good book, you know? you've never read any other books with those themes going on, have you? *coughcough heartofdarkness lordoftherings crimeandpunishment coughcough* nope! didn't think so!
   however, universal doesn't have to mean trite and clichéd and stupid; I mean, it's universal, so we can all obviously relate in some way, or such international writers wouldn't pick up on it by themselves (polish joseph conrad, english j.r.r. tolkien, russian fyodor dostoevsky). 
   
   some very general outworkings of this theme that I noticed: 
   most of the evil that occurs is done under the cover of darkness. when sikes kills nancy, he tries to get away from the light -- "[The sun] lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to shut it out, bit it would stream in. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it, now, in all that brilliant light!" oliver, when recovering from his injury at the housebreaking, recoups in the spring and summer; all things are "glad and flourishing" and the countryside is "steeped in sunshine". now, fagin is condemned to death, and he both longs for and dreads the light: longs, because the dark is oppressive, evil -- but the light means he is all the closer to death.

        To be hanged by the neck, till he was dead -- that was the end. To be hanged by the neck till he was dead. As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. They rose up, in such quick succession, that he could hardly count them. ... Some of them might have inhabited that very cell -- sat upon that very spot. It was very dark; why didn't they bring a light? The cell had been built for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vault strewed with dead bodies -- the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil -- Light, light! ... [several pages omitted] ... Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already assembled; the windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, and joking. Everything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in the centre of it all -- the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death.

chapter fifty-three: in which everyone lives happily ever after but the bad guys. hooray!
   one note on charley bates's new leaf: I was all for him when he tries to turn sikes in. if I don't think about it too hard, it doesn't seem utterly sudden, unexpected, and out of character (quite as it would be if it were the artful, or something).
   and everyone else is exactly what you'd think. 

        It is a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to rally [Mr. Grimwig] on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of the night on which they sat, with the watch between them, waiting his return; but Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and, in proof thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come back, after all: which always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humor.

so we come to the last pages of oliver twist. 

        I have said that they were truly happy; and without strong affection, and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things that breathe, true happiness can never be attained.  

:: endings (chs. 49-51) ::

there are a lot of unanswered questions and loose threads around right now. rose and harry are parted forever; mr. and mrs. bumble have made it possible for the atrocious monks to hide something that should be brought to light (and it can't be a good thing for oliver); noah has betrayed nancy to sikes and fagin, who have murdered her; sikes's guilt is driving him insane -- and back to london; mr. brownlow knows something that he's not telling; and it's (mostly) wrapped up in these next three chapters.
   oh boy. *rubs hands in glee*

:: chapter forty-nine ::

monks arrives at mr. brownlow's house (by mr. brownlow's machinations). unable to safely escape, monks is forced to answer some hard questions, and we get some answers.

        'It is because I am your father's oldest friend, young man,' returned Mr. Brownlow; 'it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were bound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred rejoined her God in youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man; it is because he knelt with me beside his only sister's death-bed when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would -- but Heaven willed otherwise -- have made her my young wife; it is because my seared heart clung to him, from that time forth, through all his trials and errors, till he died; it is because old recollections and associations fill my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts of him; it is of all these things that I am moved to treat you gently now -- yes, Edward Leeford, even now -- and blush for your unworthiness who bear the name.'

things are beginning to make sense.
   mr. leeford (sr.) was forced into an early and ultimately unhappy marriage; they separated, after edward leeford, jr. (now monks), was born; sr. met a man with two daughters: one almost twenty, and the other two. mr. leeford and the older daughter fell in love, but he didn't tell her about his still-living wife; she "trusted him too far," and the "offspring of a guilty and most miserable love" was... oliver. (the woman whose picture he resembled must have been mr. brownlow's fiancee: mr. leeford's long-dead sister.) called away to rome on business, mr. leeford died leaving no will, and therefore all his property went to his wife and legitimate son, monks.
   mr. brownlow, becoming interested in oliver after rescuing him -- and losing him -- set out to find monks and learn the truth. he proves now that he knows the whole story.

        'I did not,' replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; 'but within the last fortnight I have learned it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the gain to you at her own death. ...You repaired to the place of his birth. There existed proofs -- proofs long suppressed -- of his birth and parentage. These proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your accomplice the Jew, "the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin."'

that lack of will? monks's mother destroyed it in favor of her son. now, with the proofs of oliver's birth parents gone, he can't claim any inheritance.
   the narrative switches here, and we return to fagin & co.; but dickens isn't done with monks. we'll hear more.

:: chapter fifty ::

toby crackit (the flash), mr. chitling, and a new guy named kags are all upstairs in a scummy part of town, scared out of their wits: nancy's body was found, and they're all wanted by the police. bet is in the hospital, fagin's in prison (and so is noah), but charley bates and the rest are skulking and trying to stay out of sight.
   and then sikes shows up.
   they all loathe him, but nothing happens until charley comes in.

        'Let me go into some other room,' said the boy, retreating still farther.
        'Why, Charley!' said Sikes, stepping forward, 'don't you -- don't you know me?'
        'Don't come nearer me,' answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer's face. 'You monster!'

risking his life, charley jumps on sikes (not so smart) and calls for help, giving away the murderer's hiding place (much smarter). although he's been a pickpocket and criminal, charley wasn't so bad; and his revulsion towards sikes seems to indicate a stronger character in him than before -- does he see where his petty thievery is leading him? is this indicative of a break with his current life?
   sikes attempts to escape: tying a rope to the chimney, he's going to jump down to a ditch below and run from the vengeful crowd -- but his overactive, guilty imagination causes him to slip, and the rope tightens around his neck. "He fell for five-and-thirty feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand."
   his dog jumps after him, trying to reach sikes's shoulders. "Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, dashed out his brains."
   how awful. just; and therefore awful.

:: chapter fifty-one ::

oliver is returning, with all the good guys, to the town of his birth and early years;     

        ...and here was Mr. Grimwig, all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering to eat his head -- no, not once; not even when he contradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and maintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once, and that time fast asleep.

the next day, everyone else shows up.
   like, no, seriously, everyone. ...well, just about. the final big reveal is here.
   mr. leeford died in repentance and sorrow for the shame he caused oliver's mother, agnes; he left a letter to her, a letter to mr. brownlow, and a will. he left an 800-pound annuity to his wife and son, splitting the remainder between agnes fleming and their child: unconditionally if a girl, but, if a boy, only if that boy never "stained his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong." mrs. leeford burnt the will, and kept the letters, training her son to hate his father and half-brother; to hunt down the child who is oliver and bring about his ruin.
   the ring and locket mr. leeford left for agnes, bought by his son off mrs. bumble, are gone; but the bumbles are not. true to form, "'I always loved that boy as if he'd been my -- my -- my own grandfather,' said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. 'Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver.'"
   when mrs. bumble refuses to acknowledge her transaction with monks, the "palsied women," who "hovered" back in chapter 24, are brought in. they had listened and watched at the door when young agnes fleming died. mrs. bumble admits to her part.
   anything else? well... what happened to the other daughter -- agnes fleming's young sister? oliver's aunt? also thought of as the illegitimate child, who refused a certain harry maylie because of her base beginnings?
   ta-da: rose maylie fleming! connections, connections. this is dickens at his finest and most predictable.

        Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged, in the long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears: for even grief arose so softened, and clothed in such soft and tender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain.

everyone is happy! ...but not quite. harry maylie the bold and brave and lovable is back, and asking rose once again to marry him. what stands in the way? rose. I honestly have to say she loses some in my esteem here. we all know rose is the typical pure, beautiful, perfect dickens heroine; in my opinion, she's manageable at face value, in small doses. but this?...seriously, no girl ever in a million years would think that way.
   oh well. it gives harry the chance to shine forth in all his gloriousness, and the chapter ends with sweetness and tears.

        'I mean but this -- that when I left you last, I left you with a firm determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine.... This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage: such relatives of influence and rank: as smiled upon me then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest county; and by one village church -- mine, Rose, my own -- there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and here I lay it down!'

*  *  *

        'It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,' said Mr. Grimwig, waking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head.        Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could offer a word in extenuation.        'I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'for I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be.'        Mr. Grimwig lost no time in taking this notice into effect upon the blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the doctor and Mr. Brownlow. Some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best authorities consider this downright scandal: he being young and a clergyman.

MR. GRIMWIG IS AWESOME.
DICKENS FTW.

:: nancy, part two (chs. 41-48) ::

I have decided what I think.
   nancy's goodness lies in her selflessness; we like her because she does good to others.

nancy is not righteous, but she is pitiable in her darkness. her helplessness and hopelessness are frustrating -- and sad. she has (she had?) so much potential, but dragged into this pit of filth, degradation, and misery, she's lost any ability or desire to be saved herself. nancy's exertions for good are all to keep others from being like her, and she does it at immense personal risk and pain. yet she won't do it for her own good, to escape!
   and things aren't looking up.

        But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and that was one of the chief ends to be attained. 'How,' thought the Jew, as he crept homewards, 'can I increase my influence with her? what new power can I acquire?' Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure her compliance? 'I can,' said Fagin, almost aloud. 'She durst not refuse me then. Not for her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall be set to work. I shall have you yet!'

this is the beginning of the end. just as winter winds litter london with lonely hearts, things cannot go well for nancy -- she is in too deep.

chapter 46 reveals her as a courageous, loyal woman: despite her terror, she keeps her appointment with mr. brownlow and rose, and she refuses to give her companions up, since they have stood by her before... which makes the next chapter all the more heart-wrenching.

the end of chapter 47 is the most intense, disturbing, and powerful scene in all of OT; possibly in all of dickens; possibly that I've ever read.

        The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon the upturned face that almost touched his own. She staggered and fell: nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief -- Rose Maylie's own -- and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer of mercy to her Maker.        It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer staggering backward to the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and struck her down.

chapter 48: Of all bad deeds that, under cover of darkness, had been committed within wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that was the foulest and most cruel.

yes. oh, yes. how horrific, how foul, how cruel!

I pity nancy. I pity her hopeless life and inability to change; I ache for her despair; I cry that she is brutally murdered. I burn for revenge on sikes -- the tears I (really do) shed for her dark fate, grow cold and turn to tears of hate -- and all I want now is for all these execrable men to get the punishments they deserve for their villainy.

        Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of that agony of fear.

there is no greater revenge than mental torture on earth... and after death.

- - -

to break from the heavy topics, there are a few highlights I want to pull out from these chapters unrelated to nancy.
   noah and charlotte arrive in london, married and looking for ... "work". wink wink. noah gives fagin a preprepared name -- morris bolter -- but when fagin has a "job" for him... "'No, no -- none of that. It's not in my department, that ain't,'" he says, "backing towards the door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm."
   bolter? indeed. how apt.

you know I can't resist comic relief, and I felt it was necessary to end this post on a lighter note.

'Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'he does not mean what he says. 'Yes, he does,' growled Mr. Grimwig. 'No, he does not,' said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he spoke.      'He'll eat his head, if he doesn't,' growled Mr. Grimwig. 'He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,' responded Mr. Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor. Having gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom.

the pieces are starting to come together, as well. can you believe we're almost done? only a day or two more (*restrains self from bursting into unrelated song*) and OT will be over.
   that's okay, though. dickens wrote 13 other novels >:)