:: spooky short story time ::

yesterday morning, I read washington irving's the spectre bridegroom.

if you have any experience with washington irving,

um.

I don't know how to end that sentence. especially since my entire experience has been the legend of sleepy hollow (but of course) and rip van winkle (no duh). I really have nothing to say about irving, except that I found sleepy hollow appropriately thrilling (and there's a really long, rambling story about it from my childhood which I will not relate); and also that for school a few years ago, I got a big-kid illustrated-for-coloring version of rip and enjoyed it immensely.

spectre bridegroom… I really liked it. it's similar to sleepy hollow in its satirical, slightly sarcastic "this is a ghost story, be frightened. ha, what a dummy" way, and it was obviously supposed to be predictable, which added to the charm. also the last line made me crack up, and that is always a good thing in a story. …unless it's, you know, not supposed to.

this, however, is supposed to be sarcastic, and therefore I quite enjoyed it. heh :)

:: oh the humanity ::

we all can agree that sir walter scott wrote good books, right? and that he was the author of several classics? and that his books could rightly be called "literature"? okay.

can we come to a common consensus about debbie macomber, too -- that she writes cheap romances? can we agree that none of her books will be remembered in fifty years (at least not for their quality)? and that what she writes cannot be called "literature"*? okay.

this makes me want to punch someone.

… and they call themselves "the literature network"?!

the irony is killing me.

*by "literature", I mean "good". "of quality", "worthwhile", "improving". not "words on a page that you can read if you have the ability and inclination". 

:: a damp symbolic interlude ::

today is snowy and blowy and cold. I feel compelled to read great works about spring.

...okay, so it's not exactly about spring. but it is about amory blaine, and that works, too.

- - -

The night mist fell. From the moon it rolled, clustered about the spires and towers, and then settled below them, so that the dreaming peaks were still in lofty aspiration toward the sky. Figures that dotted the day like ants now brushed along as shadowy ghosts, in and out of the foreground. The Gothic halls and cloisters were infinitely more mysterious as they loomed suddenly out of the darkness, outlined each by myriad faint squares of yellow light. Indefinitely from somewhere a bell boomed the quarter-hour, and Amory, pausing by the sun-dial, stretched himself out full-length on the damp grass. The cool bathed his eyes and slowed the flight of time -- time that had crept so insidiously through the lazy April afternoons seemed so intangible in the long spring twilights. Evening after evening the senior singing had drifted over the campus in melancholy beauty, and through the shell of his undergraduate consciousness had broken a deep and reverent devotion to the gray walls and Gothic peaks and all they symbolized as warehouses of dead ages.

- - -

:: woman in white ::

back in december I bought the woman in white at barnes & noble because I remembered really liking it. it took me a while to get around to ACTUALLY reading it because, y'know, life, but I managed to get a chapter in here and there and I have finally finished it. WOO.

first impression: I liked it just as much as I did the first time. maybe more. 

second impression: I really don't like laura fairlie.

the woman in white is a huge, sprawling novel that takes several narrators and lots of explanations to convey the plot. the story is basically this: walter hartright, a struggling painter, takes a situation in the country -- teaching two young women to draw -- that promises good pay. the night before he leaves london, he meets with a mysterious woman who needs his help. the incidence would have been forgotten, except for some chance happenings (and a striking resemblance) once he's installed in his position that make him wonder if there was more to her than a poor mental patient -- and if there is more to this family's history than they know. 

    so walter, with the aid of the older sister, sets out to discover what this woman's story is, finding more questions along the way (and, in all honesty, more answers than he'd bargained for). oh, and if you didn't guess it, he falls hopelessly in love, but of course you guessed it. what would a victorian story be without a little star-crossed romance??

it's pretty thrilling, and it's a sort-of gothic-but-actually-not drama. as the introduction says, "a novel we may have thought, given its evocative, potentially spooky title, would be a Gothic tale of supernatural terrors and pale wraiths turns out to be a novel simply of sensational plotting, family treachery, and absolutely nothing paranormal."
   what I really incredibly enjoy about this story is the unpredictability. sure, there are some more or less predictable characters or occurrences (guess what? marian is the strong woman character, and she is all the way through the book), but the pith of the story -- what is sir percival's secret?! -- isn't your run-of-the-mill petty scandal. when I first read woman in white, I assumed that his secret was an affair or something like that; oh, he embezzled some money, and now he's afraid he'll go to jail. the twist was fresh and pretty inventive; that's what I really appreciated.

on to laura fairlie. let's begin with walter hartright's description of her.

Mingling with the vivid impression produced by the charm of her fair face and head, her sweet expression, and her winning simplicity of manner, was another impression, which, in a shadowy way, suggested to me the idea of something wanting. At one time it seemed like something wanting in her; at another, like something wanting in myself, which hindered me from understanding her as I ought. … Something wanting, something wanting -- and where it was, and what it was, I could not say.  

 that's it? that's IT?? what is this woman, a puppet?? again, the introduction.

For Laura, of course, the incompleteness rests in in her lack of control over her own destiny; for the reader, however, it lies in the partial development of her character, a lack of volition, a lifeless complicity to play pawn in others' plans for her, no matter what they may be. 

TRUTH. she spends the entire book vapid and lifeless, making no decisions, having no opinions of her own. she relies solely on her half-sister (and walter, later on), apathetically submitting to injustice and essentially enabling her victimization. the one time she shows any spark of life is when… a character... tries to force her to sign something. 

'Scruples!' he repeated. 'Your scruples! It is rather late in the day for you to be scrupulous. I should have thought you had got over all weakness of that sort, when you made a virtue of necessity by marrying me.'
      The instant he spoke these words, Laura threw down the pen -- looked at him with an expression in her eyes, which throughout all my experience of her, I had never seen in them before -- and turned her back on him in dead silence.

the rest of the book, she is a passive, obedient observer, with few emotions and really no character. she is the exact opposite of marian halcombe, who has all the resolve and resolution of a man, and whom I actually like. in fact, marian is my favorite character in the whole book, and her distinct unlikeness to laura might say something about the kind of characters I like. ones who do something.
    
    laura fairlie is a small complaint, though. as I consider the rest of the book, it might turn out to be a positive thing; a symbol and a layer of meaning I've missed in a shallow overview. like, anne catherick's insanity gives her resolution; her foil laura is technically sane (though she can't even prove that) and cannot make her own decisions. laura and marian are opposites in everything: looks, money, personality, character. marian is more masculine, laura is more feminine, to the point where one marries and the other does not. 
    …you know, this is fascinating. I'll keep thinking about it.

the rest of the characters -- count fosco, his wife, sir percival, mrs. catherick, marian halcombe, even pesca -- are complex and fascinating. the different narrators are interesting (although some pose a believability problem: how the heck did you get him to write this?), and the varied points of view drive the story on. 
    I might be coming back with more on woman in white. for now, all I can say is -- it's a great story. read it.  

:: it's one of those nights ::

All the comfort, all the worship, all the wonder, 
  All the light of love that darkness holds in fee, 
All the song that silence keeps or keeps not under, 
  Night, the soul that knows gives thanks for all to thee. 
Far beyond the gates that morning strikes in sunder, 
  Hopes that grief makes holy, dreams that fear sets free, 
Far above the throne of thought, the lair of thunder, 
  Silent shines the word whose utterance fills the sea.

(from Epicede)

:: in defense of myself ::

I kind of threw that little short story out there, not expecting anyone to read it, and kind of hoping no one would. it's one of those personal things -- you don't realize how much of you it is until you give it away. 

   honestly, I know it's crappy writing. I sent it to my writing teacher as this extracurricular critique and she said there should be more dialogue (and I don't remember if she said, or I just felt this vibe, "DON'T WRITE SO MANY PASSIVE SENTENCES!"). 
   still, also honestly, I love it. maybe it's that 'curse of knowledge' thing (psych, guys. take AP psych, it's the best thing you'll ever do) -- I know what I mean, and I can't separate that from what I actually say, while you just read the words and miss any underlying meaning that my brain supplies for me. the prose is really heavy and dull and awful, though (not to mention some terrible sentence construction, sorry 'bout that). I know I tried way too hard to add these ridiculous layers of meaning, and I laid it on thick. the prose really reflects that, and probably the themes come out and whack you in the face like the B in "suBtle". 
   I try. I really do.

but back to that "I love it" thing. I do; and when I think about it, that's probably because 1. I love the poem. always have, always will. (if you cut out a few words, you can fit it to the tune of 'shenandoah'. don't ask me how I know.) 2. I developed this woman; she is like me; she is unlike me; she is a part of me. I know her. 
   this woman is complex. this woman is completely shallow. yet the shallowness is complex. 
   she liked attention and the idea of a romantic attachment outside of her rank. (remember, I had to read into the poem. in that, I don't think she's quite this bad: it's more of an indifference -- as far as love goes -- towards him, and he realizes, when he dies, she'll be a little sad but it won't affect her that much. oh, poor boy, she'll think "a little sadly," [emph. mine] but more complacently than anything else. in my story I added a lot of stormy emotion that isn't … really … accurate….) she liked that the dude was all, "I love your pilgrim soul and the sorrows of your changing face, yo" but didn't honestly care for him. he's not so brash as to ask that she leave her money/family/status for him, but she considers it and decides, nah, material stuff is more important to me. when he finally realizes, it's this sort of arthur clennam/flora experience: ajskjgjdkjaklf you are NOT what I thought you were. so -- in my story -- he leaves. he says, you're not worth it, and I can't stick around forever. I've got a life. 
   except that he dies. (don't make me cry.) when she realizes he's totally, irredeemably gone, I think she also sees he was more important to her than she thought and she regrets it; but...
   here is the core of what I meant.
   even in her regret -- perhaps true sorrow -- over his death, she still selfishly blames him and refuses to see her fault in it. the last clue I threw in there (tried to throw) was her angry half-thought: "why had he not, in those gone, bright days --". why had he not. not "why did I not". 

   I tried to have a theme of dryness running through: desiccated memories, dusty house, withered woman. the memories come rushing like a torrent of water. (and that is such a cliched phrase it makes me wince.) she's so lacking in love that she's dried out and bitter; she really hates those mountains because they remind her of what she loved about them -- their transience -- and what he loved -- their endurance. they remind her over and over of her true self; what she loves is still the shallow, petty, romantic sighing over "the true best that might have been"… but really couldn't. she didn't love him, she didn't love them, she didn't love anyone but herself. and now she's old. and now she has nothing. and it's her own fault. 

   I hate this woman. her pettiness, her drama, her short-sighted views and her selfishness. my writing teacher said it would be better with more dialogue; as far as writing goes, yes. but my point in writing it without spoken words (not just to echo the poem, which has only one line possibly spoken) was to emphasize her loneliness. she has no one to speak to; she will remain in quiet misery until the day she dies.
   
   perhaps it's presumption to add so much to yeats's meaning, and he's obviously a better writer than I'll ever be. he conveyed his version of the story in 12 lines. that rhyme. my only excuse is that I LOVE YEATS, so if he's turning over in his grave…I'm sorry! this is just my little tribute to you and the lasting impression your poetry has left on me.

:: when you are old ::

[based off a poem by william butler yeats]

- - - 

A withered woman sat before her fire in the season of cold; the season of lost hope, when sunshine seems an everlasting impossibility. She was not so very old, but she gave the impression of extreme age as she sat hunched over the flame – silent; gray; full of sleep even when her eyes were wide open. Her whole attitude was of one who had seen much and was tired; very, very tired.
   The past years were not what had wrought so much change in her – only of late, with the cold wind and the ever-present drizzle of rain, had she stayed in the warm library, nodding in her chair by the fire, head bent towards the flame. Perhaps she was dreaming of the spring. She had always been active, even through the summer; but with the coming of autumn, she had not ventured far off the porch, and would just sit, gazing into the shadowy distance, alone.
   A change had come upon her, suddenly, and she drew more into herself as the shimmering days wore themselves out into cold, clear nights. She was usually silent now. Before, she had looked for adventures: in books, in places, in people – to read, to see, to discover – to know and understand; but not now. She knew too much.
   When her husband died, she had abruptly sold his estate and moved back to the home of her girlhood – her father’s home, here, in the country – just last spring. With two old servants, she had come and attempted to reopen the dusty, cobwebbed manor. The two succeeded in a few rooms necessary, but, giving the rest of the house up to its desiccated, timeworn memories, now merely went about their regular pursuits – to arouse as little as possible the old ghosts of the estate. But she could not forget.
   Only last spring…. The misty mountains that she could see outside her old window had called her back from the world of people. Long had those mountains been her friends when she was young, long had they been in her dreams when she was older, but she discovered that the old memories did not rest easily on her shoulders. She no longer looked at the mountains – either mist-shrouded in the morning air or hazy blue in the afternoon. The only times she sought them out was in the deep night, as if unable, in the darkness, to separate who she was now from what she was then. Once, she rose from her bed and looked out at them; and there, with the window open to the cool, late summer night’s air, the crickets creaking out a final goodbye, and the last green leaves on the changing trees, she could no longer hide from the truth or shut her eyes to the tears.

   It exhausted her. She could no longer fight the pain. When she started awake in the morning, a sweet, bitter memory was left – a small, nagging tiredness… She held herself together during the day, but, changed after that dark night, she grew quieter, more subdued, attending to the routine, the necessary, and no more.
   She was very, very tired.

   Now, the mountains could not be seen through the veil of rain. It ran in trickles down the windowpane, but she had her eyes fixedly on the fire. Softly, she sighed.
   She stiffly straightened her back and, reaching into a little cranny on one of the many bookshelves, took down a small leather book. Cradling it gently in her hands, she opened it. It creaked softly and let up a puff of dust and the smell of old leather and dried ink. She smoothed the pages and slowly read; as she dreamed, her eyes grew softer than they had been for many a year. And they had been soft once...

   As on a torrent of water through a dry riverbed memories carried her back through the years. She saw herself in this house, so full of laughter and the far-away tinkle of glasses; warm fires in bright rooms; books of poetry and adventure; guests, suitors who came in the evenings for food and drink and talk in the rich old house with so much lighthearted coming and going. She had flitted among them from room to room, full of a glad grace, careless of the dark world outside her bright dominion.
   Life had seemed so full to her, with the music and dancing and compliments every night. Oh, there would be the ultimate choice between all of those who courted her so assiduously; but she wasn’t yet nineteen, and why should it be now? She would shrug it off, sure they would keep – those who came with their titles, their money, their looks and little flatteries.
   It was not much, in her mind, whether their love was for her or what she possessed. Their willingness to please was gratifying – false or true was of no consequence. Each one was willing to devote his time to her; such devotion to her beauty was pleasing… And so she convinced herself that she couldn’t really tell, after all.

   Almost recalled to the present, she sighed. Attentive, handsome, they couldn’t be what she really wanted. None of them knew what she –
But for one. He knew. She realized this now.
   His mind was quick and keen and he loved the same things she did. The others had no care for herself as herself; she knew, though she pretended. But he cared. Her heart thrilled at the heavy spice in the autumn air, the snowflake’s icy glory, the green meadows and sunshine of summer. He understood. Long had she loved the changeable beauty of the mountains when the last rays of sun fell upon their heights; he, too, loved their transient moods, veiling their endurance with the fluctuating seasons.
None but he loved to live the stories in the old works; none but he loved poetry as she did, the beat of the words calling to his heart as they called to hers, making her weep with their desperate, awful beauty. He saw the deep shadows in her eyes, her changing face. He knew and cared. The others? They would have been willing to leave her if she faded – as they did. Time had suddenly worn itself away; she let herself go to the fate she was born to, though pushed from her as long as she could.
But he would not have gone. It was not for her beauty that he loved her, but for her pilgrim soul and its sorrows. If only…
   And yet he had left her, never to come again. Once she had dreamed of a majestic return, a glorious culmination, a joyous farewell and beginning. If only he could have seen it, this vision they did not share. But perhaps he saw, as he looked at her – with eyes tired from hoping, from waiting. The days shortened. He never spoke his love aloud; he could not – or would not? Were they not what society had made them? Was that not an impassable barrier?
   No.
No – she would not leave what she had, and his love felt it. Late and long she had battled, but could never finally let go. Even for him? her heart would ask. Even for him, it would dully answer. If only they could reverse! Undecided, she chose, refusing to reject him by preferring another… until, with a despairing, calm finality, all hope of his returning was gone. She woke – on an oddly bright morning – to the fateful truth that his love could never live again.
   In calm desperation, she married. Late it was, but she and her husband both knew that this was merely an arrangement; her youth past, she had delayed choice too long and he alone was left out of the many that had been. Deep down, she knew that he was the best she could then hope for; when he succumbed to mortality, the best was her groping return, alone, to the house of her younger days. But the true best…the true best had almost been! If only she had wisdom enough to know real worth! Why had he not, in those gone, bright days –

   A log popped, starting her from her reverie. Closing the book, she replaced it. Then, bending down beside the glowing bars, she poked the fire into life. She went to the window, moving slowly, and opened it.
   The rain had paused. Into the stuffy room a slight breeze came, carrying the smell of damp earth. Far above, a cloud moved and the moon shone down; the mountains glittered in the distance. A few stray stars sparkled between the ragged clouds in the calm night. He was there: up beyond the stars she loved to watch. Remember what it was to know he felt as you did? her memory whispered. Closing her eyes against the sudden pain, she could still see the stars in her mind’s eye. His face was forever hidden amid those stars, his love always to pace those enduring mountains – which they had loved together. But, bitterly, love had fled.
   It overwhelmed her. Dropping her head against the sill she murmured for him, “How love fled!” How she had pushed it from her, how she had destroyed all hope, how she had rejected riches, and how her knowledge haunted her.
   For the last time, her tears fell…

Swiftly and abruptly, she shut the window and turned her back on the mountains. Blurred through the pane, they were memories she could never fully hate nor fully love. She sank back in her chair before the fire, and as she stared into it, she heard the wind pick up and throw more rain against the glass.
   The drizzle began again. The fire rose and fell.
   Tired. She was very… very tired.

[something inspirational here]

new years posts are always inspirational. I'm a rebel, so -- well, it's actually that I'm not inspirational. anyway, it is the new year, and I stayed up until 12:30 last night watching the twilight zone. now I'm beginning 2014 with a brownie and coffee, hurrah!

while I file my FAFSA and stress over the deadline for my studio art application.

happy new year.

- - -

what I read last in 2013:

- 'the sound of trees'
- 'reluctance'
- 'the daisy'
- 'when you are old'