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 >:)

:: nancy, part one (chs. 39-40) ::

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.