:: and the tension builds (chs. 33-40) ::

rose maylie is dying. 

mrs. maylie's words in the face of this anguish are a sweet reminder of the truth: of trust we can take comfort in, even "when troubles assail us, and dangers affright".

        'I have seen enough, too, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared to those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there is a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy. God's will be done! I love her; and He knows how well!'

we pause, for tears to fall. but then...

        Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep; and they both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered. 'What of Rose?' cried the old lady. 'Tell me at once! I can bear it; anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!''You must compose yourself,' said the doctor, supporting her. 'Be calm, my dear ma'am, pray.' 'Let me go, in God's name! My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!' 'No!' cried the doctor, passionately. 'As He is good and merciful, she will live to bless us all, for years to come.'

and tears fall again.

*wipes eyes and laughs a little embarrassedly* I always get worked up at the sentimental parts, you know that. 

   but, as dickens himself notes, "it is the custom on the stage: in all good, murderous melodramas: to present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the layers of red and white in a side of streaky, well-cured bacon"; and so we move on from rose's sickbed to... blathers and duff. 

   classic british policemen. 

   gotta love them.

   I think they are summed up -- though you have to have the background of the previous chapters -- in the doctor's comment. 

        The sides and brinks of the ditches, were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the ground for hours before.        'This is strange!' said Harry.        'Strange!' echoed the doctor. 'Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make nothing of it.'

*pauses for laughter to die down*

changing topics once more, we come to ... monks. (dun dun DUN)

   the man arrives in the scene, on the page, known as "the stranger", until he announces himself -- as the same one whom fagin desired yet dreaded to meet back in chapter 27. we've already met him and seen some of his darkness; here we are confronted with the suspicion of more, of sinister, evil designs on oliver. as he was introduced at first, his outward appearance was all we saw, but not the 'who'. now we again see the outward manifestations of his scheme, but not the 'why'.

    chapter 38 is a marvel of suspense, mystery and intrigue. I love it. this was when I realized that OT wasn't Just Another Persecuted Orphan Story: there's something else going on here, and everyone is involved in it. 

   
   chapter 39: nancy reveals some shocking information about monks. why is he so set on destroying oliver? 
   apparently this penniless orphan has some kind of money coming to him... and monks is oliver's older brother.
   whoa. 
   
   see, isn't dickens incredible?  

- - -

I've been doing a block of eight chapters at one whack (really because the first installment was eight chapters; I had read that far when I started writing. no other reason for the odd breaking points). buuuut I have so much to say about chapters 39-40, focus on nancy, that I'm splitting this section into two posts.

   hey. that only means more time on dickens. 

:: the development continues (chs. 25-32) ::

it kept coming back to me: why do we feel so much for nancy? why is she so sympathetic? I don't think it's just because the girl has played a bigger role than, say, bet (and could I please argue that bet is nancy's counterpart?).
   after a lot of thinking it over, I came up with some vague notions stemming from my own feelings about her and organized them as best as I could into some semblance of order.
   and sorry if you expected some insightful revelation.

nancy is constantly mistreated -- by sikes, by fagin, by society. a prostitute/mistress, "respectable" people won't relate to her; fagin knows what she is, and despises her guilt as he admires her sharpness; sikes has her loyalty, and knows it, using her as he uses his dog -- to order about and kick when he feels like it. abuse always inspires pity, and add to that the rest of her circumstances. who wouldn't feel for someone in a situation like that? reason number one in her favor.

despite this horrendous treatment, nancy has flashes of sweetness and humility, treating others (SIKES) much better than they treat her.

      'Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill,' said the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.       'No!' cried Mr. Sikes. 'Why not?'              'Such a number of nights,' said the girl, with a touch of woman's sweetness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to her voice; 'such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the first I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't.'              'Well, then,' rejoined Mr. Sikes, 'I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girl's whining again!'

I feel for her, expending herself for ingrates and wretches like this; that's another reason.

she expends herself for oliver (number three). we all root for oliver, the poor, falsely accused, down-and-out, innocent orphan. nancy's endeavors on his behalf -- taking blows, risks, and... well, we'll get there -- for this boy move us to like her. she obviously feels about him like we do, so we identify with her.

identification is reason four I feel for nancy (and maybe you do, too). she is relatable. she pities the men in prison, about to die. she cares about oliver (however much she may hate it): standing between him and violence, warning him of danger, hoping he escapes. unlike the others -- whose brutality is disgusting, and in no way sympathetic -- she has feelings.

        'Oh, lady, lady!' she said, clasping her hands passionately before her face, 'if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me, -- there would -- there would!'

nancy has been led into a life of sin (everyone feels for a victim -- five). "I thieved for you when I was half as old as this!" she says in chapter 17 (about oliver, to fagin); "it is my living, and the cold, wet streets are my home; and you're the wretch that drove me to them long ago; and that'll keep me there, day and night, day and night, till I die!" she isn't content as a criminal, either; she'd rather be living a pure life, out of the gutter. if she were hardened, we might be careless of her fate. it is her despair that makes me feel sorry for her (reason six).

        'Lady,' cried the girl, sinking on her knees, 'dear, sweet, angel lady, you are the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and sorrow; but it is too late -- it is too late!'

those are slightly muddled, overlapping reasons. I hope the point is clear enough: nancy isn't a villainous character. if these reasons don't ring true, we still -- even inexplicably -- root for this young woman to come out on top, despite her past and even her present.

   her despair (take the last quote) brings up another question: why is she so hopeless? why doesn't she just take rose maylie up on her offer to escape?
   I've often wondered what it is that makes women return to abusive relationships. nancy's position is perhaps different from other womens' today; but her answer is no less heart-wringing.

        'When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,' replied the girl steadily, 'give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths -- even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers, everything to fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffin-lid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank all our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady -- pity us for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a comfort and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering.'

oh, nancy... we do pity you.

:: lots of quotes (chs. 17-24) ::

there are three varying-truth styles of narration that I've noticed in OT: the heavily sarcastic descriptions of mr. bumble (and the 'parochial institutions'); sly, veiled references to pickpockets, housebreakers, and prostitutes, without ever using those words; and the transparent language used of and by mr. brownlow & household. it adds so much to the feel: the self-deceiving, hypocritical, self-righteous mr. bumble and co., the suspicious, underhanded speech and dealings of london's criminal sector, and the upright, trusting, righteousness of the well-off gentleman and his family.

         The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh at the pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however. ... 'Stow that gammon,' interposed the robber, impatiently. ... 'Don't put on an injured look at the question; you've done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.'

(even the criminal argot adds a layer deceitfulness to their speech. isn't that fabulous?)

(mr. brownlow:) 

       'I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, for ever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.'

you're already familiar with mr. bumble (excuse me while I gag) so I'll spare you further examples, though hypocrisy -- or in a broader way, pretending to be what you are not -- is a big part of this book. mrs. mann pretends concern for her wards. fagin sucks up to/tolerates sikes. nancy hides her softer side. mrs. corney fakes sweetness. mr. bumble [insert action here]. later on, between monks and noah claypole, no one is what they say they are; even some unsuspecting good guys suddenly have new identities. ...or maybe I'm the unsuspecting one.
   further (and sad) insight into hypocritical people:

        'He's an out-and-out Christian,' said Charley.        This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; for there are a great many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes's dog, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance.

to get back to the plot -- the end of chapter 24 is mysterious, sad, suspenseful, and unsettling ("hovering"? gross). what better way to end this post, hmm?

        'Stone dead!' said one of the old women, hurrying in, as soon as the door was opened.        'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away.        The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone: hovering about the body.

:: character (chs. 9-16) ::

        There were the faces of friends, and foes: and of many that had been almost strangers: peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty: calling back the luster of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay: and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.

this isn't a particularly moving part of the book -- you want moving, read the description of richard carstone's last moments and miss flite's birds -- but it really shows the lyrical quality of dickens's prose. he can be succinct, capturing the essence in a few descriptive words; but he can also write amazing descriptive passages that add rich detail to the scene (I'm thinking of the slimy thames-bank description in david copperfield). I'm trying not to use the word 'character' too much, but the description really does add character to his set-up. it makes for a very rounded reading experience :)

and speaking of description. the introduction to my copy notes that when dickens first started work at a blacking factory as a young boy, he "settled the hash of another little drudge who was inclined to resent the newcomer putting on airs as the 'young gentleman'" -- this other boy, as dickens himself wrote, being "'Bob Fagin; and I took the liberty of using his name, long afterwards, in Oliver Twist.'"
   there is something about this that shocks and disturbs me. to know someone worthy of having his name applied to any evil character? fagin may not stand up to sikes (or, later on, monks; although I'm pretending I don't know that yet) as the epitome of a depraved, cruel character, but his attempts to undermine oliver's innate honesty and, yes, gentlemanliness, only worsen when you imagine that from a real person. (...not to mention the imputation of character. what does fagin the jew imply about the real one?? crazy that dickens wasn't ever sued :p)

bill sikes is introduced in chapter 13, and it is stunning, on re-read, to see how much of his character is revealed by the first paragraph. of course, there isn't any subtlety about this guy, either in his behavior or his description: he is set up to be a villain, and if you could see him on the street his character would be just as noticeable as dickens makes it in print. his entrance is a microcosm of the rest of his actions throughout the book, however -- he enters loudly, violently, in the midst of conflict, and stirs up hatred immediately. even his legs are telling: "the kind of legs, that in such a costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them." there is something so powerful and real about sikes that I'm drawn to these passages even while I'm repulsed by the man they portray.

on an lighter note, I found two fantastic book-related quotes.

        Oliver [came]; marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.
         'You shall read them, if you behave well,' said the old gentleman kindly; 'and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides, -- that is, in some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.'

and last, but not least, is mr. grimwig and his exclamation. "[statement of opinion] or I'll eat my head" is this gentleman's favorite expression (occasionally substituted by a thump of his cane). believe me, this hilarity will continue to surface over the rest of my submersion in OT, so remember it. especially since I'll be punctuating a few of my own assertions this way.

what sinister scheme do fagin and sikes have in mind for our boy? what part will nancy play in these oncoming persecutions? who was the woman in the picture who oddly resembled oliver? can he be vindicated in mr. brownlow's eyes? will we ever find out?!
   of course. it's dickens, silly.

:: but I digress ::

ladies and gentlemen, I take a brief moment to post an "essay" that I wrote for a scholarship (I have to post it here to enter. don't ask me why). most likely I won't win, and in that case I apologize for the boringness and my horribly unattractive capitals. if I do win, then you can say you knew me when, and I will even sign your framed copy, if you'd like. 

- - - 
I am eighteen years old, and I haven't ever owned a TV. My parents never got one after they were married, so I've grown up without television - but with the advent of online media, I have relatively unlimited access to movies and TV shows that I wouldn't otherwise watch.
  In preparation for my major in graphic arts, I spend a lot of time on the computer learning software, where the easily accessible entertainment becomes a huge distraction: the television mystique, combined with no commercials and a ready availability - I think, "I'll just finish my project later..." and I can waste hours in passive media absorption. Television is extremely interesting; but it pulls me away from my responsibilities, now that it's easy to reach.
  TV is bewailed* as a time-wasting, obesity-increasing, brain-ruining source of entertainment, one that increases health risks, heart problems, and other death-inducing effects.** Fifteen years ago, at least you had to be sitting at home to contract them; now, anyone with an internet connection can watch Big Bang Theory, making every free moment a race to keep up with every visual entertainment possible - at the grocery store, in between school periods, riding in the car. More people will be watching TV more often, and any problems related to staring at a screen will be worsened as millions capitalize on every opportunity to amuse themselves.
  The incredibly convenient access to television also means less social interaction, something everyone needs for personal growth and maturity. We constantly check our phones for social media updates; what if our favorite TV show's next season just premiered? Now we can watch it wherever we are, even if that means ignoring those around us. 
  The increasing availability of television and movies is making it harder for even tubeless me to focus on real life; the easier it gets to submerge myself in fantasy, the harder it will be to return to a banal reality - one filled with job problems, weight problems, health problems, relationship problems. For all that digital entertainment seems to proffer, it leaves me with nothing: my shrinking life threatens to suck my living dreams into limbo, as I desert them for the elusive promises and fleeting pleasure of imaginary - but now infinitely attainable! - worlds of moving pictures.  

*<http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/inner-source/201110/your-unhappy-brain-television>
**<http://www.theguardian.com/science/2010/jan/11/watching-television-increases-death-heart-disease>
- - -

wish me luck!

:: synopsis (chs. 1-8) ::

warning: this will not be tailored for all readers. there will be spoilers, and a lot of them.

        oliver twist is, in essence, the story of a few years in the life of an orphan boy. orphaned at birth, brought up in a workhouse, maltreated, wrongly accused, faced by enormous roadblocks, oliver ultimately overcomes/is rescued and is given the good fortune he deserves. (I said there would be spoilers.) boiled down to the most basic of basic plots, OT sounds pretty dull and preachy; and that's what I expected the first time I read it.
        boy, was I wrong.
        this was dickens's second novel, and it was stunningly popular (especially after naysayers had predicted that he was a one-hit wonder with pickwick papers. he was only 25). it really is an amazing work -- but his clever and cutting satire is very darkly humorous, because the same wordplay and scenarios that amuse are also shocking in their portrayal of the 'workinghouse poor'. "if they're true;" but they were. dickens had experienced these things firsthand. many of his stories feature children, struggling to survive in a world of scavengers, both young and old: because he himself had lived it.
        here's an excerpt from chapter 1:

        Upon this, the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be 'farmed', or, in other words, that he should be despatched to a branch-workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders against the poor-laws, rolled about on the floor all day, without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny: quite enough to overload its stomach and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself.

once again, I find myself laughing at his dry, sarcastic statements, only to catch myself as I realize the horrible conditions he is depicting.
        I am constantly impressed by dickens's ability to capture a personality or persona in a few words. the self-righteous and selfish workhouse officials, their cruelty and uncaring attitude towards the destitute -- he conveys it so simply, yet so clearly.

        'Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!'        There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.        'For more!' said Mr. Limbkins. 'Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?'        'He did, sir,' replied Bumble.        'That boy will be hung,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. 'I know that boy will be hung.'

his initial depiction of fagin is one of my... can you say favorites?: the "greasy flannel gown", "matted red hair", and grin "with toasting-fork in hand" bring to mind some sort of devil in the flesh, the living embodiment of the dark side of london.

as oliver goes to sleep, though he's been treated better -- and given a more filling meal than ever before in his life -- you have to wonder if he would have been better off at the sowerberrys'. sure, there he was beaten and starved, but wouldn't that be better than here, in the power of someone so sinister? if this is a first-time read (and I'm pretending it is) we can only wait and see :)

courage, haddock. on to chapter nine!

:: let's read some dickens ::

october is the perfect time to read.
        the weather is cool enough for hot drinks.
        the trees are gorgeous.
        poetry becomes more beautiful.

I understand that while I am, quite unusually, not in school and have uncommon free time, others are struggling with october's concrete reality of school hitting like a ton of bricks (or should that be "a ton of cinderblocks"?). that said, you have to take a break sometime, and how better to spend it but improving your mind with extensive reading? ...words of wisdom from mr. darcy. whaaaat. *ahem*

what to do with the time you take off to rest your brain from all that schoolwork -- when the tea is steeped and the cookies are out of the oven? come do a read-a-long with me! I'm reading oliver twist, by charles dickens, and I'll try to do a recap of what I read every few days. this brilliant idea occurred to me today, so I've actually already read the first eight chapters; tomorrow I'll try to give some general thoughts before really starting.

oh, man, I'm so excited. I haven't read this book in a very long time -- but this was my first real dickens, what smacked me over the head with the realization: good literature isn't that bad! ...ha ha. I know, right.

:: beautiful rain ::

(start a sad song now, and read this post while it's playing. your experience will be greatly enhanced.)

I've been living in longfellow's poem "the day is done" all afternoon. this is the poem I wish I'd written. it's one of those that you read, and each verse gets truer and truer and you know exactly what he means and you wish you could have met him so that you could say how much you appreciated it.

maybe because today was california-rainy. maybe because it was actually pretty. maybe because I had caramel apple cider, so it felt cozy and not depressing; but these two stanzas kept coming to mind, and I know just what he meant -- I've felt this unspeakable bittersweetness before, but I've never been able to put it into words. he can. he does.

I see the lights of the village
        Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
        That my soul cannot resist;

A feeling of sadness and longing,
        That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
        As the mist resembles the rain.

"...and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles the rain..."

:: a slight change of pace ::

I've seen this "30-day song challenge" trending on quite a few blogs lately, and I was like SWEET, MAN, LET ME AT IT. but I realized as I listened to other people's songs that it really only means something the person doing it. I mean, I enjoy seeing what other people like, and I do listen to their songs.
        most of them.
        most of most of them.
        ...but even if someone else listened to the entirety of each of my songs, it wouldn't mean the same thing to them as it does to me. and let's face it, 30 days of imbedded youtube songs would be a bad idea because it's 30 days and that's just too long for a blog technically about books.
        even so, I couldn't resist going through this song list and posting a few. feel free to come back later and skip this music-fest. (please don't judge my antiquated music choices. I know, some of these songs are from, like, 5 years ago.) (kidding. my favorite summer band is the beach boys. I'm still stuck in last century.) (guys. enough with the hipper-than-thou looks. it's called "vintage".) 

- current favorite: "prairie town" by the wailin' jennys

- makes me happy: "on top of the world" by the carpenters
        it just reminds me of kidhistory's 'healthy food'. see minute 2:25. haha.

- makes me sad: "never-ending road" by loreena mckennitt
        apparently she wrote this after her fiancé drowned in a boating accident. it's heartbreakingly sweet and sad.

- I dance to:
  "best song ever" by 1d (watch until the credits. not as creepy, way funnier.)
  "calcutta" by dr. bombay (great dance music. slightly amusing to watch. very hilarious english.)
     
- from a band I hate: "call me maybe" by carly rae jepsen
        I got so tired of hearing this song ALL OF 2012, GOOD GRIEF. she opened for the jb concert my sister went to by singing "your heart is a muscle". ...I know. I know. plus, I just find her personally obnoxious. (note: the best thing about this song is the last 2 seconds of the music video. HA HA serves you right for giving your number to a complete stranger! didn't your mother ever warn you about this??)

- no one would expect me to love: "all around the world" by justin bieber
        no, I'm not a belieber or even big on jb. I just really enjoy the song.
     
- describes me: "melody" by kate earl and "independence" by the band perry
         I do "play songs back-to-back until I go to bed". and there is one line from "independence" that is so me: they say I'm crazy / a little loco / most of my friends will live and die in this zip code / that might be for me / but until I go / how am I ever supposed to know? (...which reminds me of this poem.)     

- which I listen to when I'm feeling angry nostalgic: "life in a northern town" by dream academy
        (I changed #20 because I don't listen to music when I'm angry. is that odd?) this song has always been the epitome of nostalgia for me. even when I was 13. isn't there a law somewhere that you can't feel nostalgic until you actually have a reason to? :)

- makes me laugh:
  "rugs from me to you" by owl city
  "self-indulgent ballad" by scott garnham
  "lady come down" by colin firth & rupert everett (*laughs inordinately*)
                                 
- to play at my wedding: "more" by bobby darin

- favorite song this time last year: "till I hear you sing" by ramin
       that last note: he held it for 14. seconds.

(I'm not used to using youtube for music; I'd highly recommend using grooveshark.com. just about every song on here is find-able there, and you can listen without the added video. I really don't like video+song when I only want song.)

:: how to be happy ::

okay, I promise nothing. e. e. cummings doesn't promise anything, either, but his poem "anyone lived in a pretty how town" offers some insight. 
       "anyone lived" is a sweet love story and a commentary-on-life, following a guy named anyone -- and noone, the girl who loves him. 
       anyone is rather a free spirit. he isn't like the other townspeople: he's lighthearted, he sings and dances ("...through life, swaying and sweeping, and always keeping cool..."). for this childlike delight, "women and men" care "for anyone not at all." this describes their behavior in general: they don’t care for anyone (the man) nor do they care for anyone but themselves. life moves in a circle -- sun moon stars rain -- as they plod along, sowing and merely reaping what they sow. I think the poem is supposed to begin in spring -- which might even figuratively represent anyone’s age. he is young. his life is just beginning.
it’s summer; anyone has grown. children are the only ones who understand him, because they haven’t lost their wonder of life yet; for that reason, some guess that noone "loved him more by more". but they grow, and like the people before them, forget what childhood was like. 
as the year progresses, noone continues to love anyone, to "laugh his joy" and "[cry] his grief". his ‘any’ becomes her ‘all’. time passes; others marry (as do they?) but others are willing to say their "nevers" and let go of their dreams, only dreaming while they sleep. 
why are children so "apt to forget to remember"? who knows. it is a secret that "only the snow can begin to explain"…but it happens. autumn passes; winter comes.
anyone dies.
noone, out of all the people, stoops to kiss his face, and "busy folk" -- who rushed, having other things to do -- buried them side by side. yet even in death these two "dream their sleep": the opposite of the madding crowd, who "sleep their dream". noone and anyone were happy, because they loved and because they hoped, in a way that none of the townspeople could ever understand. 
once again, it’s spring. "women and men(both dong and ding)" reap what they sowed; they live, they die; they don’t realize what they’re missing. and the cycle continues.
sun moon stars rain.

--

e. e. cummings was, I believe, making a point about the way we tend to live. somewhat of an outcast himself (at least, a man who polarized people), he could probably relate to his character, anyone -- who lived his life being himself, something cummings strongly desired to do. isn’t it true, though, that we tend to always be busy, always doing our duties and completing our tasks, without any consideration of the wonderful things around us? "sun moon stars rain"... when was the last time you sat outside in the sun, just letting it warm you? have you gone outside at night just to look at the moon? do you ever marvel at the beauty of the stars, or looked out the window at the falling rain? if cummings’s point was that we don’t slow down and appreciate life enough, I think he was right. there is too much to see out there for us to live life with our eyes shut.        

:: quote of the day ::

“I won’t say she was silly, but I think one of us was silly, and it wasn’t me.” 

- wives and daughters, ch. 35
(elizabeth gaskell)

:: la vie en rose ::

a woman happily in love, she burns her soufflé. a woman unhappily in love, she forgets to turn on the oven.  

soufflés have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with lydia+george's party invitations, but you know. love quotes. jackpot, right???

and a close-up of an extremely red picture. my life is literally la vie en rose, I guess.

in 1803, which could ostensibly be the year this book was set in,
tuesday actually did fall on the 16th. I have done the RESEARCH.

 and I guess they run away to america on a zeppelin, with everybody singing like mad.

isn't it romantic...

:: no coward soul is mine, by emily brontë ::

No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity!
Life -- that in me hast rest --
As I -- undying Life -- have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts: unutterably vain;
Worthless as withered weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by Thy infinity;
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy Spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and moon were gone,
And suns and universes ceased to be,
And Thou wert left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void:
Thou -- Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

- - -

wow.

:: on reading well ::

I have been thinking (a dangerous pastime, I know).

        I mainly read fiction. most of it old and "classic," but it's still fiction. that's not to say that fiction is useless or can't be good or won't teach you anything worthwhile about life (I think there is great benefit in reading [good] fiction. that is why I do it); but there is so much non-fiction out there that I haven't read, merely because... well, I'm lazy. I think about what I've already read, and I'm complacent. I feel sort of above other people who "don't like to read" or "think dickens is too complicated" and I'm like, oh yeah, do you want me analyze that passage for you? (pride is a separate problem of mine, which I do not feel I need to go into at this moment.)

        

        anyway, these amazing non-fiction books that I haven't read -- because they sound boring or I just don't want to -- are wide horizons that I have not explored, and I'm pretty undereducated in that (huge) category. I definitely had to read other-than-fiction in school, but I never pursued it farther, and I think I need to push myself in that direction. reading more non-fiction will develop the diligence and perseverance I sorely lack; it will make me a rounder person; and it will further educate me. I mean, I'm already intrigued by malcolm gladwell, so it can't all be that bad. 

        these are things I've been thinking about the past few weeks, really feeling the need to branch out a little, and then reading walden I found this. (have I mentioned I really like thoreau?)

A man, any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of; -- and yet we learn to read only as far as Easy Reading, the primers and class-books, and when we leave school, the "little reading," and story books, which are for boys and beginners; and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a very low level, worthy only of pygmies and manikins [sic]. 

         THIS IS TRUE. I've actually noticed how some books make my thoughts expand, how I connect more the more I read, and it really has affected how I perceive the world. this is why I love reading. I love the intellectual exchange in my head, between the author and the characters and me: how it makes me consider myself, my life, draw on their (albeit imaginary) experience, live somewhat vicariously through them, and get a different perspective on living. so how much am I missing by ignoring whole genres of books where the author speaks directly to me without the facade of characters? I think I like walden because of thoreau's thought process and reasoning; so I've deprived myself of stretching and exercising my mind because I am just too lazy to exert myself. (I immediately recall my psych book on the brain: "use it or lose it." what have I done!) 

        lately I've fallen in love with learning ("what 12th grade taught me" you might say), and this just inspired me to learn more. seriously, who ever regretted gaining knowledge, insight into the world and the human condition? has anyone ever said, "I wish I'd spent less time learning and more time entertaining myself"?

        I want to expand my reading material and enrich my mind: process and think and grow. 

To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem. It requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole life to this object. Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written.

sure, that means it's work. but I think you get out of it what you put into it. 

:: the return of the native, yo ::

I being the native, returning. 

yeah.  

important things first: MY VACATION WAS ABSOLUTELY SPLENDIFEROUS. I love the beach, and kitty hawk is amazing, and it was the off-season so everything is empty, but it's fall so the weather was spectacular. OBX FTW. 
        we got in at 2 am last night, and this morning we had doughnuts, which is always a good way to begin a day which has loads and loads and loads of vacation-hangover laundry. ugh. 
        seriously, I detest laundry. having 11 people in my family means that we do at least 2 loads a day, and guess who gets to fold that? the children, of course, and which child is the most responsible and diligent? the oldest, of course, which is coincidentally me. so when we get ready for trip, we have to do approximately 5 million loads in the preceding few days -- to pack -- and then about 10 million when we get back (somehow our dirty clothing proliferates during the trip). yeah, I have a lot of laundry on my horizon. 
        I can't complain, however, because when I do my mom reminds me that if I don't want to fold I'm free to run around the house naked so I don't get clothing dirty in the first place. you know how some moms sweetly remind their children to be thankful for the clothes they have, "count your blessings," "be cheerful," et cetera? well, my mom likes to snicker and give us a clothing-optional spiel that we can't really reply to, and calling her bluff would be... well, that's not really a price I'm willing to pay. 
        so I fold. 

        I did read some on the trip -- some rereads (the hollow; elephants can remember [both agatha christies]; and almost halfway through walden) and some first-time reads (christy and an l. m. montgomery short-story collection). agatha christie I always recommend, catherine marshall I am definitely not into, l. m. montgomery is fun but not worth a ton of attention; walden... I truly enjoy thoreau, actually, and I've been thinking a lot about it over the past few days. this will soon spill over into posts about sitting alone on pumpkins rather than crowded velvet cushions and chanticleers crowing merely to wake neighbors up. be warned. 

        by the way, did you know thoreau was really into his neck beard? I know: a neck beard. dude, it's gross. ...why the heck are guys into facial hair, anyway? CHICKS DO NOT DIG FACIAL HAIR.*
        I have a lot of stuff I need to do today and talking about guy problems and thoreau's beard** is not really on the agenda. here comes that demmed laundry. I'm off! 

*except on aragorn and boromir. exempt from facial hair laws, they may do whatever they want.
**if you image-search him, don't say I didn't warn you. this is what nightmares are made of, and you will never unsee it.