the country I remember

(from october.)

it's autumn again. I always have approximately five used mugs milling about, and yet every walk into the kitchen puts me in the mood for another cup of tea. 

the kitchen's cold and the teakettle whistles
the J church rolls, and rattles our windows
there's no nostalgia here 
it's just now, baby, now

there are inadequate words for this year, for this autumn; we've all lived some version of it, anyway, and there are inadequate thoughts on all the things that happened, that didn't, that maybe will not happen again. I don't want to give it further time. it's time to leave it all behind and look forward to the things that are ahead.

it's colder this fall, and more sharply brilliant. the sunshine is brittle. I feel the always coming on, the always rising of the night—even the happiest days have a shadow on the edges. if I believed that's how it worked, I would be tempting the gods with these days' delight. 

this was a year of light and shadow, stark contrast and shattering. everything happened. I feel stretched in every way, and somehow still move, somehow still find joy in the morning. ready for a new year, though.

I know the beginning and end of the year are arbitrary markers, but I will be glad to begin a new one frozen and fresh. late, late winter nights I love to stand outside in the blue snow, breathing pure, cold december: clear my sinuses, clear my head, and climb into my warm, dark bed to sleep until the sun comes back. 

one day soon we all will be together

if the fates allow

until then we'll have to muddle through

somehow

so have yourself a merry little christmas now

only so many hours

I lost my 2020 planner at the beginning of march, right before I lost my sense of time & space & direction, so in my head it's still early april. consider, today was even tax day. but sweater weather is in two months, and I haven't done my spring winter-coat-dry-cleaning yet.

for being a year that held so much, it's almost the year that wasn't. so much has happened in my life, in my head, in my heart, I feel I've had less time to revel in the moments of each season. though maybe because a lot of moments haven't happened—and it's like I can't mark time the way I used to. for example, in 2019, I posted here twice: once in august and once in november, while for july 2020, here I am posting for the second time already because I clearly have nothing better to do than marinate in my own head.

all spring and summer smeared together and now it's coming on august. a weird august, because town won't be full of the incoming college students and crowded streets on warm summer evenings. 

here's my problem: I can't be happy anywhere. I went home the last week of march and stayed for three months—which was awesome. looking back, seriously, it was stellar. 

- working from home with fresh coffee in the morning

- leaving work early just because it's sunny out

- pg wodehouse books, walking around the block

- phone calls in the hammock

- atari games on the projector

- chickapig with a 12-year-old boy (so it just becomes a contest to see who can say "poop" the most)

- badminton, pool, badminton, pool

- grilled peppers and onions

- pool lights, loud music, late swimming

- back to the future at the drive-in with skittles and goldfish

- talking in whispers because everyone else is asleep

- driving all afternoon

- sitting by the river, watching the rain

the whole time wasn't idyllic, of course. work was a tough adjustment, everyone is dealing with different & conflicting stresses, but mostly I felt like I'd abandoned my city at the moment of crisis. what was I missing by being locked down, states away?

well, nothing, of course. being back is easier because I'm not worried about being the superspreader for my entire family, but I miss them every day. and mama's cooking, which is irreplaceable. and I am trying not to regret coming home to cambridge, because I regretted going home to louisville, and now I wonder why I didn't just enjoy it when I'd give so much to go back and live those days better.

going back is the crux of the issue: I miss the life that was, and I think I'm still grieving it, and searching for a place that will give me back that past. here, I miss taking the T. I miss having the air on my entire face when I leave the house. I miss deep breaths. I miss the crowds. I miss the office. I miss my desk and my beloved teammates. I miss fireworks shows on july 4th, miss spontaneous summer parties, miss standing shoulder to shoulder and not thinking twice about hand-shaking and hugging. for as long as I can remember, I've tied places to time, and carry this eternally disappointing sense that if I go back to a place I can recapture something of its spirit (usually wistful because of incorrect memories of joyful perfection). that makes it hard to know where to be, and hard when going there is so different now from last year or any year before: everything is different. once again I feel adrift and lost in time and space—I clutch at little shreds of routine, because otherwise everything is shifting sand.

besides the solid rock I stand on, all other ground is indeed shifting sand. funny that it's only taken a global pandemic and a terrible work partner and race protests and a heartbreak to remind me.

I am glad to be alive and safe and well (for the moment). I am glad I have friends who still call, still text, still write. I am glad we have resilient supply chains and sunny days and shared trouble. there is wifi and books and music and love, and the world is still peopled with wonders. 

slow down, you crazy child
and take the phone off the hook and disappear for awhile
it's all right, you can afford to lose a day or two
when will you realize—vienna waits for you?

the five-books challenge

what five books would you choose if you could only read five books for the rest of your life?

what if you were stranded on an island. maybe an island with a large horseradish-apple tree growing on it; maybe a little atoll somewhere with a sprinkle of stereotypical palm trees; maybe a third small island where remains an old stone table and a moulder'd cave. really, pick wherever for your hermit's history, but then pick your five books.

it's super hard, because they have to be deep enough to give you thoughts to think for, seriously, the rest of your life, and general enough to fit all your moods and life situations (...though if you're vibing with crusoe there may not be a lot of variability to your days after all). so I'm assembling various five-book-portable-libraries to make the choosing easier.

I've put together several packages—fast, nutritious, and convenient for the busy traveler who doesn't have the time to assemble her own list. pick one up today from an isle near you!

the serious reader: the person who wants a range of writing styles, emotions, and genres while keeping it classy

shakespeare

the ultimate poetry anthology (curated by me + harold bloom)

dickens's complete works

calvin's institutes

alexandre dumas anthology or complete works

the just for fun: the person who wants to spend her time lying on the desert island beach getting a tan with a desultory glance at a page, and maybe curl up with some light reading that evening by the stormy window with a cup of tea

lord of the rings

jane austen

I capture the castle

three men in a boat

room with a view

the state of man: the person who wants to spend her seclusion philosophizing on the society she left (in like, milan, along with her dukedom), the depravity of the human heart, and what has been done about it

oscar wilde collected works

crime & punishment

john bunyan anthology

the ultimate poetry anthology (still curated by me! + harold bloom)

[and maybe thoreau? am waffling on this last one. good variety but wonder if there's something better/longer. will take recommendations]

the poet: sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life! and mad world, mad kings, mad composition

[biggest personal challenge I'm facing at the moment]

non-fiction: for the person who wants to spend that desert island time improving her mind by extensive reading, but seldom looks into novels

[still working on this one]

- - -

the thing about imposed restrictions is that you have to be that much more intentional and creative within them, so I want to come up with the only-5 lists for kids as well (to read and to be read to). 

0-2

goodnight, gorilla - peggy rathmann

hondo and fabian - peter mccarty

the runaway bunny - margaret wise brown

either opposites or moo, baa, la! la! la! - sandra boynton

A, B, C: an amazing alphabet book! - dr. seuss

3-5

eeny, meeny, and miney mole - jane yolen

the story of ferdinand - munro leaf

george and martha - james marshall

surprises - lee bennett hopkins

where the sidewalk ends - shel silverstein

6-9

the king's equal - katherine paterson

one morning in maine - robert mccloskey

alexander and the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day - judith viorst

the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe - c. s. lewis

the oxford illustrated book of american children's verse - donald hall

10-12

the saturdays - elizabeth enright

frindle - andrew clements

tuck everlasting - natalie babbitt

holes - louis sachar

a child's anthology of poetry - elizabeth hauge sword

the question of course is: can you take the previous books with you into the next period of life? because I'm making the rules, I think so. these are books that grow with you, and assuming there is also society on these isolated islands, you'll want to give these books and their lessons to your children, too. while that sort of translates to more than five, I don't think it counts, since this isn't where you're getting your main thought food. also you have to build thoughts: you have to start somewhere to reach the big 5 in adulthood. and really, the themes are the same across the years—always considering that at some point, george and martha will not be what you turn to first on that sunny beach day or that thoughtful rain-swept evening.

but sometimes, yeah, you just want to read about split pea soup in slippers. it happens. even in australia.

books in the time of quarantine

last july, I stopped recording each book I read; this was a mistake. (I love having lists & documentation, because I can't remember everything & regret not having the record.) then, because I was trying to convince myself I did not have this regret, I didn't keep a faithful record this year either.

but it's never too late to start, and I'm looking back over the past few months to see what my covid-19 reading habits have been like: highlight version.

completed
never let me go, kazuo ishiguro
straight up took it from the little lending library by my house, because I haven't read this book in like six years. not quite as heart-wrenching the second time around, but we all know I was reading it for the last page. now I need to go back to remains of the day, which might stand time a little better.

on writing, stephen king
entertaining and funny, typical king. a little snobby, because to him writing is an inborn talent that can be honed but not made (and I am actually paraphrasing). at least that means his book is much less technical, much more enjoyable, and feels more accessible than a lot of writing 'manuals' (ironically enough!). but I'm a king fan already, so biased.

poisonwood bible, barbara kingsolver
mom has always used that "thyroid mary" quote and I wanted to finally just read a kingsolver. I did. not a fan of her writing style, but it was a compelling story.

all the lives we ever lived, katharine smyth
something about this caught my attention (and I was gripped by to the lighthouse once myself), so I tried it just between 2020 and covid. it was fine, maybe even good; going through some things at the time, though, and what I distinctly remember is this one paragraph:

"...embedded in Mrs. Ramsay's reflection that Paul and Minta will say 'we' all their lives, what is to me the most resonant of the book's observations about coupling: Marriage precipitates what may well be a splendid new entity, but its price is the supplantation of 'I'. ...To the Lighthouse is hardly an antimarriage novel; its portrait of the Ramsays reveals the heights of human connection, imperfect though it may well be. But it also recognizes that marriage is a loss, a sacrifice of self and its expression, and that, contrary to Mrs. Ramsay's beliefs—among them that 'an unmarried woman has missed the best of life'—solitude can be an act of self-preservation. 'She liked to be alone,' Lily insists, pleading her exemption from that universal law. 'She liked to be herself; she was not made for that.'"

the code book, simon singh
totally cool. I loved the breakdown of cryptography techniques and history, though I think he spent too much time on bletchley park, when you should just read turing's cathedral.

it starts with food, melissa hartwig
in prep for my last wh30. and what a saga that became

you look like a thing & I love you, janelle shane
my dezine book club pick. fun foray into artificial intelligence; shane's technical explanations were excellent in some places and I felt more confusing in others, but definitely gave me a better idea of the abilities and limitations of ML.

1Q84, haruki murakami
meant to read murakami for a long time (you have to read one, right?). gripping story; I see why people would love murakami, but I don't think I could read another one—it requires a big investment. maybe it's quarantine brain, but I am needing things that do not require a lot of focus and attention and time commitment.

leave it to psmith, pg wodehouse
I love wodehouse. this has been my favorite book of quarantine. it made me laugh literally out loud and it's one of his delightfully woosterian, complicated stories—blakeney-esque hero, hijinx, and lines like, "Beach the butler entered, a dignified procession of one." or, "A depressing musty scent pervaded the place, as if a cheese had recently died there in painful circumstances." orczy herself never reached these heights.

in progress
the D case, carlo fruttero & franco lucentini
this came recommended by a friend who knows I love dickens and who loved this book. we love dickens in different ways, I think.
until now, I've stood firm in my decision to never read the mystery of edwin drood because 1, he didn't finish the mystery and 2, depressing! no more dickens! but this friend was insistent I read the book, and I doubted myself. I should never have doubted. once again I am regret.

letters to vera, vladimir nabokov
some great descriptions. not as gripping as I wanted it to be—lacked the polished cleverness of his writing, although this was much more natural. obviously. also much more moany. they kind of remind me of napoleon's letters to josephine while on campaign hahaha

napoleon, andrew roberts
because I finished a catherine the great kick last summer & wanted to jump tracks. I also spend too much time in elizabethan england.

napoleon (2nd borrow)
it's a big book. currently waiting on 3rd borrow, since for some reason there's a wait list at the library.

astrophysics for people in a hurry, neil degrasse tyson
it's actually been a slow crawl for me. I need to be a better book picker or a more diligent attention-payer.

100 years of solitude, gabriel garcia marquez
audiobook, this one; because it keeps me entertained while I walk my boring, boring rounds of the neighborhood (I'm going to be entirely flab when I get back to boston, and should stop trying to make steps happen. I will never again be able to walk the entirety of the porter escalators. this is the end). I hate audiobooks, because I am a terrible aural learner, but this way I'm so focused on the storyline that I forget I'm walking. it's working for me.

never to be completed
design of everyday things, don norman (4th borrow)
I love nielsen norman and this is a classic, so we should have been the perfect match, right? but every time I got it checked out, I'd only make it through a chapter before it was due again—and finally gave up. I guess I will never be a legitimate designer.

& other
working through some puritan paperbacks as well—bunyan, brooks, & watson, the OG boy band, or maybe actually a law firm—and valley of vision, which I've never devoted enough time to before. it is a cold spring of refreshment.
- reformed baptist manifesto, barcellos
- infant baptism & the covenant of grace, jewett
- coronavirus & christ, piper
- end times made simple, waldron

I've spent some time combing through my old school books, now that I'm home, too: westing game is always gold, mara, daughter of the nile, which I don't even have to explain, even ramsay scallop because etienne's version of patient griselda is my favorite. it's been quite a mishmash; going forward I want to hardcore prioritize my reading so I'm not spending time on the peripheral or joyful (true story) when I could be reading something on my longer-term list.

like the elizabethan world, which I last cracked the week before quarantine started and am determined to get back to. the enlightenment & napoleon combined can't keep me down.

requisite quarantine feelings post

it's rainy twilight. I am vibing with the weather. and every time I write "vibing" I get autocorrected to "viking".

this is hard for me. everything is hard for me right now. I am not loving getting up in the morning. I put off going to bed because then I don't have to face the next day. nothing is in itself hard; it's just all so much the same, so many same little everyday stresses. it's like having teeny anxiety sand grains in my head, and the grit is getting to me.

usually—or used to be—reading helped this. but right now, I can't summon the emotional investment for fiction and have no mental capacity for anything else. also, all my current books are digital, and my inability to focus these days is exponentially increased by blue light, seems like. work is all screen, too. so I stare out the window constantly and miss large, integral chunks of conversation in meetings.

I am tired of zoom calls. I am tired of talking about the quarantine. I am inevitably the one who brings it up on zoom calls, which makes me irrationally irritated and then I wonder why no one seems to have a life to talk about anymore—ironic,* because I spend my days working, sleeping, and staring out the window, for the most part.

*I almost said "funny" but then remembered "hahahaha," and it made me sad to think of how we used to do that in the carefree summer of our youth

frankly, I'm even tired of the virus memes, because the time spent laughing and then sighing is getting disproportionately weighted towards the sigh.

when I was in school I liked to read sad poetry to cheer myself up. "it's lonely in the country, I remember" was a good refreshing tear-jerker at the time but now it's another way everything I read makes me depressed. memories of hopes that are not, bla bla, and it's clear that stickney never had to wear a mask in public by order of the state government.

it's spring. I thought winter's rains and ruins were over, and all the season of snows and sins. yet I am sitting inside, viking with the glum dim sadness, the petty dust my soon-choked soul to fill. with a heigh ho the wind and the rain.

the one thing bringing me joy these days is walking to BJ harrison reading leave it to psmith, and I honestly won't know what to do when that is done. walk to another wodehouse, possibly, a dignified procession of one.

feel how swift, how secretly, the shadow of the night comes on.
still falls the rain.
miniver coughed and called it fate, and kept on drinking.

greetings from the northeast

well guys. it's been a long summer.

autumn in new england is a totally different phenomenon than any other autumn any other where. colder, possibly; more beautiful, definitely. but boston is—a city of ghosts. it's rich: it's rich with history and people and lives upon lives, with the trees and the water and the seagulls on lazy wings above the streets and squares. boston wears autumn like a favorite old coat, and her pockets are full of stories.

the geese flew over my house today "trailing their legs and crying". I was shaken by it for the first time ever. something about the actual cold; the banging piece of siding on the house; the popping heater and the creaky floor; I suddenly had the idea that the geese fly out as the ghosts move back from their summer at the cape.

we also! we also, in the spring, my brothers.

...sutcliff is not for the faint of heart. I grow schmaltzy in my old age.
and I am getting old, too: I look forward to bedtime at 9.30 and tried to make a grocery list this friday night. was it for this I uttered prayers, and sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs?

growing up has been fun, though. a little stressful: there are a lot of big decisions to make that will only pay out later 401(k) I'm looking at you so I'm never sure if I'm doing the right thing, but living in the moment sure is a ride. last night I ate two kinds of gelato because I could.

this is going to be a really disjointed post because that's the way this whole summer has been, and I saw someone else do it, so now I have permission. another perk of being an adult: you can do whatever you want, you're like 21.

growing up. I keep using this term; I do not think it means what I think it means. what I've only been able to articulate to myself recently, trying to figure out why the heck I feel so old and young and lost, is this sense of disconnection to the familiar. some of that is moving; some of that is what I poorly tried to describe like a year and a half ago, when I said childhood felt like the same year circling with minute variations. I never felt different at each birthday, and so I never felt like much changed: my core life was the same, and our family did things how we did them, so I knew what to expect.

it's been weird and disorienting to realize I will never live at home again. it's weird and disorienting to hear my sister in delaware talk about her new life and things that I can't relate to—for kind of the first time in our lives, we have more different about us than we have in common. growing up we had that sister language that comes from sharing DNA and life and a ridiculously battered copy of mara, daughter of the nile #homeschooled, but we don't have that undercurrent of sameness anymore.

that's healthy. it's also weird and isolating. I've only just realized it. I've only just realized we'll never live in the same house together again, and it made me cry. I'll miss sharing so much life with her.

sharing life with people. so it's been a real three-hanky, but have I mentioned I love boston? I do. I love this city like I have never loved a city before, and I love hosting people here. please visit. I had friends last weekend and a sister flying in tomorrow, and it's been a thrill to show them my favorite places and explore new ones. there is always more to discover and more people-watching to do on the train.

people-watching on the T. everyone complains here period about the public transportation. well, k, but if you come lately from a city where you've had to drive yourself, it's kind of the cat's.

- there was the time a guy sat down next to me wearing a hat that said "TIM" in big scholastic letters. I studied him in the reflection from davis to central before I realized it was indeed a reflection and I was reading it backwards. this is why I did not go to MIT.
- there was the time I watched the woman next to me crop a photo of her wedding day for a new background picture.
- there was the time I watched the woman next to me furiously text her newly-ex-boyfriend. the argument wasn't winding down, but they were in the middle of deciding the relationship was over. (I wouldn't have read it but she was about a foot shorter than I am and standing underneath my arm.)

that's what people always complain about: the rush hour crowd. (pro tip: it's miraculously thinned out by 5.15, so don't rush out the door after work and you'll get home a lot faster.) I get it, because I too have had to stand uncomfortably near men who misconceive the power of their old spice.

- there was the time five of us—by us I mean women—were all holding on to that pole just inside the door, and a gentleman—by gentleman I mean large & visibly sweaty dude—pressed his way into the car and against the pole, and four pairs of hands moved in perfect synchrony off the pole and onto the horizontal bar above our heads. I just slid my hand up to be about level with his shoulder. and then, as if he thought they cleared the pole for him, he leaned in so his shoulder braced against the pole and grabbed the bar on the top: his body took up the entire pole that five people had once been using for support. and my hand went into his sweaty armpit.

but most of the time it's not bad. I enjoy watching the people with strict notions of personal space stare stoically at nothing while we all stand close enough to be accused of workplace harassment. but this is the train, and there are no rules here.

the T is an education in and of itself. between the couples and the arguments and the naps and the occasional importunate panhandler, there are also great grains of wisdom to be gleaned between stops.
- what not to wear: T edition. however, I do like to observe the really nicely dressed people and figure out what about them looks so great. autumnal earth tones ftw.
- I also do a shoe check—guys, girls. what are the youths wearing? I like to know. and what's looking particularly fly? those pointy-toed flats are joys forever. and I have lost my heart to the brown lace-up boots that reach the ankle. they're like so retro and so urban and so... gosh, classic and gregory-peck-ish.
- there was also that time when I swear I saw gregory peck's modern double walk past the doors & I texted my sister & she sent me this. now that I live in a City nathan pyle speaks to me on a whole new level. also, he was wearing The Boots.

and what are the people currently reading? the history of women voting to the kingkiller chronicles. there seems to be a pretty equal split of fiction to non-fiction, but more people definitely read on the way home from work than on the way to it. I also saw a guy reading hippie food the other day & now it's on my reading list. amazing how many people read real books here, not (just) on their devices. it gives me hope for humanity.

hope for humanity. everyone from my friendly southern town told me that "up north is different" and "people aren't friendly" as if I'd be like, ope better stay and thank you for your wise warning words of wisdom, friend who has only been to florida. also: hogwash. it's a different culture, but I kind of prefer it, actually.

in louisville, ignoring people was rude. you had to acknowledge acquaintances on the street, smile and nod to strangers, wave to basically everyone—and I didn't mind. it was great to feel like being part of a larger, friendly community. but sometimes I just wanted to freaking buy my groceries instead of having a therapy session with my cashier, you know? here, yes, it can be off-putting. sometimes I forget and smile at a stranger when we accidentally make eye contact; just this week I had an uncomfortable interaction with a server who thought I was flirting with her. it got worse when she either tried to put me at ease or flirt back, I'll never know, because I took my food and fled. whoops. my b. but the bar for pleasantries is so low that it's easy to maximize on the opportunity for pleasant social interaction—and melts my heart when I see others doing it. like offering a seat on the T or holding a door.

- no one holds doors here & that I definitely miss.

on the other hand, I love the efficiency. everyone stands to the right on the escalator—just like they always ask you to do "while on the moving walkway" at the airport: "please stand to the right, to allow those wishing to walk to pass safely on the left." people are okay with rushing. people are okay with wearing earbuds and staring out the window. it's fine to want to be by yourself, and I love that I don't have to have conversations with my commute-mates if I don't want to. ...I mean, even if I did want to, I couldn't because that is definitely #1 rule of fight club, don't talk on the train; but we do all share a moment of wonder—screens, books, newspapers go down and heads go up—when we leave kendall/MIT and come out over the water at charles/MGH.

even more about boston! because have I mentioned that it is the most amazing city in america? I did write my friend brian an ode to this place a few weeks ago.

you asked for boston news. boston is beautiful. I am so lucky to be here. I am living in the coolest part of the most amazing city in america and I could not love it more. every day is marvelous, even when the days suck—I love the cold and the leaves and the river and the crepe restaurant a few blocks away (a little farther than elizabeth warren, who lives one street over from me). there is so much history and so much style; so much brick and so much water, and beautiful gray rain and beautiful blue skies. I don't want to say I could literally be here forever, because you know me, and I'm still afraid of commitment; but figuratively, or at least for a long, long temporary, I never want to go.

come on: I get to see the charles every day as the sun rises. life is glorious. and some days do suck (though I swear, I've seen some nasty weather and the charles looks amazing no matter what, I have yet to see it ugly), but my friend michiel recently pointed out how refreshing it is when people don't complain. that has stayed with me. I want to look for more good things instead of dwelling on the bad—not hard to do right here, right now.

right here, right now. I'm settling in. I've been in my new apartment very nearly as long as I was in my last one, so I'm finally starting to let go and relax. I know I will be here for a while. it's okay to unpack.

that's been a hurdle my (wonderful) roommate eliza has tried to help me over. it's such a mindset left over from growing up moving every couple years: I think, oh, this is temporary, don't settle in. don't open all the boxes (especially the well-packed ones, gosh!), don't buy big & hard-to-move things, keep it small and simple and streamlined because you're just going to move on. I've struggled to feel like this new place was home, since I will be here for at least a year (hopefully more like two, though) and it's been good to unpack everything. everything. and get a library card. and buy a bookcase.

I did indeed buy a bookcase. this was my first furniture purchase ever. I love it. I put it all together myself, with my own tools & the requisite one direction throwback playlist. "she's not afraid" is excellent motivational music when one is assembling furniture. I can do whatever I want, I'm like 24.

and I got a library card! I feel so official: it marks me as a contributing member of this neighborhood and part of a community—more than my $115 mass DL ever will (too bad my free library card won't get me on an airplane). finally, too, I live in a world where I can walk to the library and I am so proud of myself for achieving so many childhood dreams.

and now it is time to put my many-caped trench coat on and my burnt umber pointy-toed flats (I wear them with everything) and buy some last-minute things in preparation for my sister's arrival. I am so excited to show her my city and the amazing new place that is my home—for at least a long, long temporary.

sweet thames run softly

The first time I read William Jay Smith's "London" it didn't strike me as remarkable, but I woke up next morning with the first two lines circling in my head. It feels like a sign when my mind starts memorizing things on its own.

So I went back and read it again, and that's when I decided to memorize the whole thing. It's a pretty simple poem with a straightforward structure that makes for easy recall, but as I took it in line by line, it's a pretty powerful poem as well.

"London" is rife with religious themes and inversion—destruction as judgement, the anti-paradise, myths and fate; it's almost medieval in its darkness. The repetition and odd meter give me Gregorian chant or Greek chorus vibes, channeling doom. The doom is fateful, inescapable; the city apparently exists in some kind of post-apocalypse, but is facing its final, immediate end.

The first stanza is an overture to the piece, beginning with a ghostly harbinger and a warning, that both echoes the Lord's Prayer and Weird Sisters of Macbeth. 

...Give us this day our daily bread, 

And lead us not into temptation,

But deliver us from evil;

For Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

The Weird Sisters themselves (of Double, double / toil and trouble / fire burn and cauldron bubble fame) serve to warn from, while instigating destruction. Straddling the line between temporal and spiritual, the Sisters present a temptation phrased in cautionary language—which means they’re messengers of fate, but also directing it by suggestion. “You’re going to be king” is a pretty seductive prophecy.

The tone of the whole poem conveys the sense of desperate hopelessness: “all are lost.” Smith is a master of double meaning—“lost” can be both the end of hope and the darkness of the soul; juxtaposed with Banquo’s ghost, the theme of temptation and falling from grace becomes that much more obvious. Banquo, as Macbeth’s foil, is uneasy with the Sisters’ words and resists the reward they offer:

“But ‘tis strange;

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,

The instruments of darkness tell us truths,

Win us with honest trifles, to betray ’s

In deepest consequence.” (Macbeth, Act 1 Scene III, lines 122-126)

Banquo’s caution is his doom; but of course Macbeth’s reckless, heady greed becomes his. Banquo’s ghost presages earthly vengeance for the terrified usurper, and no quiet rest for his soul.

Rest for the soul is what salvation is to purchase: redemption from sin and ultimately man’s fallen state. But “the ribs that rose and fell were barrel staves,” lifeless wood, stark and bleached on the shore. These aren’t the ribs formed from dust and made man; these aren’t the ribs that became woman; and Adam isn’t sleeping by the River of Life in the flourishing garden, but dead by a river that only wants more. 

The river is the main player in this poem. It is terrible in its presence, a force as fearful and potent as evil, and it takes. The river is Fate. There is no resisting it or swimming against it or undoing the damage it brings. It is chaos, disguised as direction.

The river is also “like a serpent”. Sinuous and sly, it infiltrates and poisons—mixing the water and sky, confusing, muddying, turning the world upside down. In the Biblical narrative, Satan disguised as a serpent came to Eve in the garden and promised great things: to know like God. All she had to do was one small act of disobedience, to take one fruit from the one tree God had forbidden. “But you will not die, as God promised,” the serpent said; “instead, you will know good and evil. Take and eat!” 

And the people ate, and they fell from grace. Not only did their souls die, they would no longer live forever, because good gifts from an evil hand lead to destruction. “Honest trifles” often do “betray ’s in deepest consequence.”

On the night of the king’s murder, Banquo—sensing that something is rotten in the state of Denmark   a disturbance in the force   just standing in the back, sensing something—says, “There’s husbandry in heaven; their candles are all out” (Act II, scene 1, 4-5). The sky is dark and quiet, before the storm breaks. “It will be rain tonight” (Act III, scene 3, 16). 

The whole setting here is dull and grim, some kind of futuristic medievalism, and using Macbeth for atmospheric context colors the poem with murder and cruelty and greed—and a certain hopelessness. With so many undertones of religion throughout the poem, does Smith use “the quiet sky” to suggest an absence of God? Here he is a silent divinity, at best, but one who perhaps never existed outside the potency of this dark river.

The insidious water, the serpent, brings ultimate destruction. From temptation to the final fall, from the weird sisters to the bloody hands, Banquo’s ghost promised and now Birnam comes to Dunsinane. I love this word picture, “Leaves from Birnam Wood were on the wind”: there is something so evocative about it. Maybe it’s the Swinburnian alliteration. Maybe because it reminds me, oddly enough, of the end of The Great Gatsby (‘leaves on the wind’ lines always make me think of autumn) where Nick says that “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” There’s also that beautiful—I’m sorry, tangent here—beautiful passage after the description of what could have been “a night scene by El Greco”:

“After Gatsby’s death, the east was haunted for me like that, distorted beyond my eyes’ power of correction. So when the blue smoke of brittle leaves was in the air, and the wind blew the wet laundry stiff on the line, I decided to come back home.”

Not at all am I saying the two are related, but it’s interesting that Fitzgerald would use Fall as a time of renewal, when life starts all over (and Nick is coming home and beginning fresh); but it lives in the context of death and ending and the close of the season. The brittle leaves of Birnam Wood were in the air, and they presaged the end. Also, it’s yet another definition of the word “fall”.

Fate has come to destroy with what it gives. It’s a continued inversion of biblical themes, where the “living water” (a symbolic name for Jesus) and the “river of life” (from the book of Revelation’s New Jerusalem) now become the water of death. In Revelation, the saints stand around God’s throne and sing “Holy, holy, holy” in a praise song for their redemption. Here it is a shriek of terror as an unforgiving force begins to consume them. 

Throughout Macbeth, Banquo serves as the conscience, a constant reminder of doom and consequences, but he also has a sort of triumph over death. Whether his ghost actually returns or that’s Macbeth’s personal conscience driving him crazy, Macbeth killed but cannot get rid of Banquo’s nagging presence. There’s an interesting religious parallel (since we’re looking for those): Jesus died and then rose, although his promise was hope and Banquo’s is despair. 

Unless you think I’m taking this too far, notice Macbeth’s language in Act IV, scene 4, 138: he refers to the ghost as “blood-boltered Banquo”. He is literally crowned with blood, and this “crown doth sear my eyeballs” (128). In conjunction with all the other Christian themes, it’s a remarkable coincidence that Christ’s death followed his own crown of thorns and blood. So we can back-interpret that Christ’s resurrection as a symbol of life is again subversively paralleled with Banquo’s half-return as a warning and a curse.

His presence as the ghost at the feast is the unpleasant past linked to a worse future, the writing—since we’re still talking biblical references!—on the wall. The figurative leaves from Birnam Wood, the wind as change, are excellent foreshadowing; the ghost has passed by and blighted the ribs of man. Life and hope are wrecked in the overturned garden. There is falling from life to death, and the hungry waves come closer, and the stars begin to go out.

The final verse may be my favorite, it is so powerful and ties all the threads tightly together. The jewels of Banquo’s crown, like Christ’s sweated drops of blood in the garden, have fallen—the candles of heaven are darkened.

In C. S. Lewis’s The Last Battle, there is a (very very long) passage describing the end of the world (that I’m going to reproduce here with no shame for the extra homework). When I was inhaling the Chronicles of Narnia at 10, this was a striking image for me that resurfaced when I was thinking about the stars “disappear[ing] above the city”:

Then the great giant raised a horn to his mouth. They could see this by the change of the black shape he made against the stars. After that—quite a bit later, because sound travels so slowly—they heard the sound of the horn: high and terrible, yet of a strange, deadly beauty. 

Immediately the sky became full of shooting stars. Even one shooting star is a fine thing to see; but these were dozens, and then scores, and then hundreds, till it was like silver rain: and it went on and on. And when it had gone on for some while, one or two of them began to think that there was another dark shape against the sky as well as the giant's. It was in a different place, right overhead, up in the very roof of the sky as you might call it. ‘Perhaps it is a cloud,’ thought Edmund. At any rate, there were no stars there: just blackness. But all around, the downpour of stars went on. And then the starless patch began to grow, spreading further and further out from the centre of the sky. And presently a quarter of the whole sky was black, and then a half, and at last the rain of shooting stars was going on only low down near the horizon. 

With a thrill of wonder (and there was some terror in it too) they all suddenly realized what was happening. The spreading blackness was not a cloud at all: it was simply emptiness. The black part of the sky was the part in which there were no stars left. All the stars were falling: Aslan had called them home.

Of course, in the context of Narnia, this is a bittersweet thing because while the old world is ending, there is the promise of one new and better.

That is absolutely not the case here. Nothing is getting better. Everything is only getting worse.

London Bridge is falling, falling, falling, 

Scaled, and crossed.

The stars are gone, the singers are silenced. Perhaps the world ends here. The Sisters, Banquo, the singers, the people—maybe they accurately predicted the end, but it’s still the end! Being right didn’t save any of them.

The Bridge falls, in an eerie echo of the nursery rhyme. … London bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down… Access to the city is now cut off. –Looking at a map of London, of course it only borders the river, but if that river were a snake, and that snake had “coiled upon each eye” around it (describing how it turns upon itself? Or circling back like the London Eye? See what I mean, the layers), the city would be stranded by the encircling snake. 

When the bridge falls, the river becomes the ruler. The bridge is “scaled”: a verb which here means an enemy action, climbing over, breaking through the defenses—but also, and more obviously, describes a snake. And the bridge is “crossed”: the city is infiltrated. This is subtle wordplay as well, since Christ died on the cross, but this ends with death; not resurrection. 

There is a distinct lack of actors in this poem: the singers narrate, the people cry, but nobody does anything beyond wail in the dark. Only the river “moves among them”. There is no power for good, only evil, and man’s fall is synonymous with man’s creation (if we take the rising and falling barrel staves to be the moment of his birth: it’s also the moment we realize he is dead). The crown—“of life,” the reward for tribulation, or in Macbeth’s case murder—brings and is a mark of death, and the cross that was supposed to bring redemption is a sign of the bitter end.

- - -

I really loved this poem when I started writing about it months ago, but it’s been a long summer and I’m kind of over it. Posting for practice more than anything else. It spoke to me where I was mentally then, and I’m somewhere else now.

…Reading Dostoevsky’s The Idiot so maybe that’s not exactly a great place. My mama always told me I was special.

stop holding out for a hero, part 2

since part one of the same, I've read betty friedan's the feminine mystique (past time, honestly. and I should have taken longer to go through it, but I read on the bus on the way to work and library due dates are short and I like to make excuses).

anyway, friedan.

"Where will it end?," she asks, about the stress and emptiness and 'disease' of the early-60s American housewife, who looks for vicarious life in her children and tries to find an ultimate feminine identity in sex.

I think it will not end, as long as the feminine mystique masks the emptiness of the housewife role, encouraging girls to evade their own growth by vicarious living, by noncommitment. We have gone on too long blaming or pitying the mothers who devour their children, who sow the seeds of progressive dehumanization, because they have never grown to full humanity themselves.

I am not a feminist in the current definition of the word; I agree 100% that women are fully human and deserve the full rights that men have been given for years -- and that double standards exist and that unfairness and oppression towards females has been common for years and that should be dealt with. but I believe this because I believe women and men are made in the image of God; that we, as His creatures, are "fearfully and wonderfully made" "a little lower than the angels, and crowned with glory and honor." so I value people and I value life; I value the amazing differences between men and women, and -- as long as we're talking about women -- I am in awe of the incredible strength and wisdom and ability countless women over the ages have displayed. women are a wonderful expression of God's creativity.

friedan's book is a little dated (to be expected!), and some of the cultural movements she highlights are somewhat past. her book is secular; I don't agree with her underlying humanistic worldview and her stress that housekeeping is inherently soul-killing (she literally compares it to a concentration camp) and therefore women need something outside the house in which to find ultimate purpose.

nah fam: I believe everyone's ultimate purpose is found outside the house, that our chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever. that outside purpose is eternal and will last even when all the outer human things -- from material wealth to human necessities to bare human dignity -- are stripped away because of human sin and sometimes unbelievable depravity. nothing can separate us from the love of God, which is personal, which was displayed in the ultimate humanity of His Son who died for each and every one of His children -- females included.

because God so valued people, I value people. the bible (despite what some may think) is an amazingly counter-cultural valuer of women and their abilities. and so I can agree wholeheartedly with friedan's practical application: women need to find their own identities and be their own people to not wholly lose heart. we are not made to have a "passive childlike dependency and immaturity" -- that is a weird and stupid cultural construct which absolutely mistakes real femininity!

Our society forces boys, insofar as it can, to grow up, to endure the pains of growth, to educate themselves to work, to move on. Why aren't girls forced to grow up -- to achieve somehow the core of self that will end the unnecessary dilemma, the mistaken choice between femaleness and humanness that is implied in the feminine mystique?

YES. I have felt the tension of this choice. -- not because somebody wanted to marry me, hahahaha -- because sometimes high school, college, work is hard and I imagine what it would be like to just be married and not have an outside schedule imposed on me; not have someone else's deadline to meet; stay at home and, yes, I'm so, so sorry, my hardworking mother, have it "easy". (lemme tell you, it ain't easy. I don't know what crazy I was smoking when I thought that. I've since realized how much work it is to run a home well, and I'm more scared of homemaking at this point than professional development.)

it's promulgated in the conservative christian world; stemming from a rightful value on marriage and children, but smothered in what's become traditional but not necessarily biblical mandates. to differing degrees in different churches, among different groups, of course, but when I picture vision forum I see a terrible emphasis on dresses and roses and tea and no higher education. there is nothing wrong with choosing any of those things, but they aren't biblical rules! and the stress on "girls grow up to be mommies" with no acknowledgment of the single state not only ostracizes the single women, it hurts the barren woman; it hurts the young mother struggling to be and do it all; it hurts the couple where the husband likes to cook and the wife enjoys changing the oil. the proverbs 31 woman is resourceful, frugal, prudent, hardworking, who can make money without giving up her femaleness, her wifeness, her motherness. I'm not talking about a woman with a full-time job that takes her away from raising her children (though there are also many perspectives there, even within the church), but is it wrong for a woman to "make linen garments and sell them"? by some Spirit-inspired interpretation, apparently not.

ever read raising maidens of virtue? remember the story about the girl in the grocery store, carrying a doll, stopped by some woman -- clearly secular, clearly hell-bound, because she's like wearing pants or something -- who asks her "what do you want to be when you grow up"? the girl responds, "a mommy" (with the requisite adoring look at her own (probably flowing-floral-dress-clad) mommy), and the Secular Witch sniffs dismissively, "yes, yes, but -- a doctor, a dancer, an astronaut; what do you want to be?"
the point of this story is to remind us that motherhood is the most valuable job a woman can perform; that femininity is found in being a wife and mother, fulfilling the role that God has designed for us, and isn't that beautiful?

again, YES. wifehood and motherhood are beautiful! but marriage isn't for everyone; neither are children (plz don't get caught up in the birth control debate here. for simplicity I'm only talking about barrenness: many women would love to have children and can't. do you believe in a sovereign God? then stop telling them motherhood is the ultimate woman's way. IT'S NOT).

if you hadn't noticed, I'm single. (my preachy soapbox rants may or may not have something to do with that.) there are times when I struggle with the near-idolization of marriage in the christian (and I'm thinking of my own beloved reformed baptist) church. telling girls that their ultimate role is to be a wife and mother is a lie and it will only lead to brokenness.

girls: your ultimate role is to love and serve the Lord in whatever responsibility, to whatever capacity He's given you. when you delight yourself in Him, He will give you the desires of your heart -- not marriage. not children. Himself. when He delights you, He will be the desire of your heart, and He will fill your emptiness the way no husband, no children, no career ever can.
"your emptiness." I said it. not because you're a woman and don't have a penis. you are empty the way all humans are, devoid of goodness, full of sin; if you are unsaved, you are dead to God and to His grace. Jesus's righteousness is your only hope, as a man, woman, or any other gender interpretation that you identify with, and His sacrificial death means that your sin has been paid for. you have full and free access to God through Christ if you go to Him and ask Him to receive you.

in turn, He will ask that you live your life for Him. what a small price to pay, for peace and joy and hope and eternal life -- with the One who loved you and gave Himself for you. you would turn down that kind of love?

and living your life for Him: that's your ultimate purpose, women -- men -- housewives -- stay-at-home dads -- career-people of indeterminate gender.

you lose your self to find it in Christ. this is the ultimate identity.

stop holding out for a hero

"...This sequence of life suspended followed by life intensified upon the entrance of the hero encourages female readers to think of their time alone as mere prelude, perhaps even a necessary prelude: if they wait long enough, the right man will enter so life can begin. This waiting robs women's time alone of meaning, save that of preparation and expectation." (emphasis mine.)

there isn't a lot to add onto wyatt's quote here. I wish more people would take this to heart -- myself included. society as a whole is so obsessed with relationships, and particularly women in relationships (guys definitely, but few people act like guys are incomplete if they're single). "but you're so [pretty! smart! I was going to include other attributes, but these seem to be the only ones people ever say]! ...I can't believe you don't have a boyfriend!"

1: you know, I'd always wondered if there was something wrong with me on the outside but now I can rest assured that it's something exclusively a part of who I am that's scaring off all potential partners. I seeeeee now: something in me is broken. good to know! even if I don't know what, because, of course, it's such a part of me I haven't even recognized it. I appreciate your concern. now I can be concerned, as well. 

2: "pretty!" vs. "smart!" people say the second when they're trying to be all you're-sexy-for-your-mind because "smart" isn't an outward attribute, right? so that's good, right? ("pretty" of course is petty and shallow.)tbh, I don't mind people calling me pretty or smart, and I'll even take both. the problem is that nobody ever says "but you're such a fascinating conversationalist!" or "but you're so genuinely interested in other people!" (heh, can't always blame your problems on other people. maybe that's because I have some personal growth to do in those areas. x)) 

no, it's that "smart" is an easy vague thing to throw out there, and honestly, guys don't seem to go for "smart". I had a guy call me "intimidating" once -- but not to my face. he told a mutual friend that's why he wasn't interested in dating me, and it just happened to make it back through the ol' grapevine. it wasn't because I'm some muscle mountain, I just used a few too many polysyllabic --   

I see. I see.  

3: I appreciate that these well-wishers are trying to convey a you-are-great-the-guys-just-don't-see-it message. but really, do the guys have to see it for me to still be valuable? do I need to have my prettiness, smartness, or all-around american charm recognized by the Seal of Masculine Approval before it's valid? < this isn't to be some entitled feminist rant. I'm genuinely asking you to consider. because no, I don't. you don't. guys don't. nobody needs anybody's validation to be worthwhile: we are all inherently valuable. 

 so when wyatt wisely comments that "this waiting robs women time alone of meaning," I feel it reverberate through my very soul. wait actively, if you wait at all. be busy. cultivate your worthwhile-ness, for the friends and family who surround you -- and for you. it's so freeing to go at your own pace, instead of work towards a nebulous "goal" of "but am I enough for the Not Impossible Him?" you'll never know. so stop trying and start living for what already is.

- 

wyatt, jean. a patriarch of one's own: jane eyre and romantic love. http://www.jstor.org/stable/463696

trying to become jane

scrolling through the list of suggestions provided by my library (supposedly based on my reading history and habits), I came across the clearly chick-lit cover of austensibly ordinary by alyssa goodnight.

I knew some things right away, like,
1 this was a real cute retelling of one -- or possibly all! -- the austen novels, and
2 it sucked.
judgy mcjudgerson, book by its cover.

I made a bet with myself and clicked on the book link, just to be met by this review: "Sexy, saucy, fun! Jane Austen would be proud!"

-__-

I rarely feel so much rage towards an inanimate object -- or inane reviewer, who probably doesn't even know the author misspelled 'ostensibly' to make a painfully meaningless title just to recall an author who would actually hate it. no, worse: she'd laugh at it.

I don't think of myself as a janeite, but I am well-versed in her work and hold the classic lit of the classic brit in great veneration. I am not above satirical derivative works; I am not above adaptions (LBD was brilliant). but this is a cheap shot.

this is a woman who has misunderstood the fundamental meaning of austen's work, and done the exact thing austen was protesting when she shaped her heroines -- and heroes -- in the quiet drawing-room.

for jane, it's not about the romance. it's about the development. romance is almost the macguffin to get the characters to become better people. the goal of the story is not a resolved relationship -- none of the heroines set out to gain one.

for jane, it's about the women! it's not about how they need/want to be married/going steady with a really hot guy. in jane's time, marriage was status and life was hard for a single woman, so she ends her novels with married (read: secure & happy) heroines. but it's really about how they grow and become real people with real voices, if only in their immediate communities. the fact that they couldn't be respected before marriage may be a failing of society jane herself didn't recognize or feel capable of combatting, but she's working with what she has.

goodnight's book & others like it just reduce women to sex and relationship objects. it's all about them finding their match -- instead of having or developing worth on their own.

no, jane was not opposed to novels and disagreed with their detractors. novels are fun. but her "novels are fun" message appears within the novel she wrote to make fun of an overwrought storyline (see northanger abbey). compare to goodnight's stupid paranormal diary. austen would write a satire of this, if she could make it through the book in the first place.

moving away from jane, goodnight doesn't understand how austen plots work. unable to draw a good character herself, she can't even understand how a good character operates. she draws on superficial similarities (single cate = single emma; single friend evan = single mr. knightley) when the real similarities would be in their relationship (cate, full of herself and her abilities, would try to make decisions for the people she patronizes; evan, fed up with her selfishness, would tell her the tough truth. instead, we get sex-crazed cate who wants to date someone -- ANYONE!!! -- and evan who plays a little hard-to-get & mysterious). emma & knightley show real love, growing to put the other's best interests first; every successful austen couple has their relationship tested by hard-truth-telling -- not by a one-night stand with a guy whose tousled brown hair (...honestly...) makes you weak in the knees.

some subpoints about goodnight's book:
- it's the mark of a weak author who has to use implausibility as a motivator. when you have to make up fantastical happenings to move your plot along, you have a poor plot.*

*I'm not talking about a fantasy story, where the fictional world is founded upon principles that don't exist in ours. those should still be consistent within themselves, but I'm talking about a story set in our world that has to use ***MaGiC!!!*** because the author can't figure out how to get the characters out of a situation without just deus-ex-machinating them out of it.

- the petulant "heroine" is given lines in an attempt at clever banter, but it's just not. it's not even amusing. it's just stupid, and anyone who thinks it's funny hasn't read enough actual good written conversation. ...hey, I know a good author for that! jane austen!

probably my biggest issue: the point of mr. darcy. is not. to. be. hot. I don't know what austen people are reading. yes, darcy is rich. darcy is handsome. also, darcy is proud. darcy is rude to the people he sees as beneath him, which would be everyone he doesn't know who is also poor and/or uneducated (in the social niceties or intellectually). darcy is kind of a stick-in-the-mud even at the end. and heck, he's super awkward.

I love him as a character; I love that austen takes typical human foibles and works them out of him through a similarly obnoxious (but slightly more lovable) character and helps them make each other better people. would darcy be my favorite hero if he weren't so cliched? perhaps (but srsly henry tilney u guise). THAT STILL DOESN'T GIVE HIM A BROODING SMOLDER.

true love has never been built on a brooding smolder, plus darcy doesn't brood; he is disgusted with the pleb. that's you. do you think darcy would smolder broodingly at you, reader of alyssa goodnight, or do you think he would mutter "every savage can read" as he looks to caroline for the only source of civilized, educated conversation in the room? if you read it and think you're lizzy, you're actually behaving like lydia. darcy would as soon call your mother a wit.

austen wasn't about sex. austen wasn't about sauciness for sauciness' sake. austen was about questioning the social mores to determine what is actually right? what is actually equal? why do we do what we do, and how can we be happy even within unfair constraints? she used relationships to show those things, and yes, to give us the neat, happy ending we all want to see. "sonny, true love is the greatest thing in the world -- except for a nice MLT, mutton lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is sliced thin and the tomato is ripe. so perky, I love that."

I think austen would be amused and horrified at this book, which reduces the theoretically well-educated and thoughtful cate to a man-hungry, emotionally immature kindergartner. goodnight -- while claiming, through cate, to be an avid fan and deep reader of austen's novels -- writes a novel that mistakes jane's real messages and mistakes the actions of jane's characters. cate has to "make her own happy ending" like austen's heroines?? none of them does that. not a single one is on the lookout for a happy ending (read: relationship!) and in fact the characters who are (LYDIA) are examples of what not to do.

relationships come as the heroines are ready, and we see a plethora of bad combos in the secondaries: marriage for convenience, not love (charlotte + collins), marriage for love with little respect (jane f + frank c), marriage for superficial attraction (mr. + mrs. bennet), marriage for material gain (willoughby + miss grey), just sex (lydia + wickham, col. brandon's niece + willoughby), marriage for immediacy (charles + whichever elliot sister he married & regretted because he likes anne better). the only relationships that work are ones built on mutual esteem and respect, and that sets the foundation for true love whether before or after marriage: the gardiners. the darcys. the ferrars. the tilneys. the wentworths.

there is sexual tension in goodnight's story. there is physical attraction. there is flirtation and "witty" banter (reminds me of marianne and willoughby, those eternal symbols of constancy and truth). but there is no mutual respect and esteem. there is no true friendship, which is putting the friend first by speaking the hard truth that they need to hear. you want to read jane austen fanfic? okay. honestly, that's personal taste, and we aren't all going to agree on what should or shouldn't be liked. but you can't call it in any way like jane austen -- and certainly not something jane austen would like -- just because some superficial plot points resemble one another.

plus that's such a weird use of "ostensibly."

- - -
huge disclaimer: I didn't read the book. I read the first two chapters (library sample), and then I read several synopses and reviews on personal blogs and goodreads. ...positive reviews, no less, by people who gave this book five stars for its hilarity and engaging fun (like this one). I can only go off my excerpt (and to me, trust me, it was plenty) and the summary of the plot provided by people who "can't recommend it enough". take my discussion with a grain of salt, and form your own opinion -- which is all any of us can ever do, really.

the darkness of the light

last post was such a nice, whole-blog wrap-up that I thought I was done. I wanted to be done: farewell, sweet blog, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. ...alas, real life cannot be neatly solved with a goblet of poison and a flick of the rapier. (rather, of course life can literally be dispatched with a goblet of poison and/or fancy sword work, but my point is this blog situation doesn't offer such a tidy conclusion.)

ALL THAT TO SAY: I never know how to come back when I decide I'm going to go and then change my mind. I am the definition of commitment issues. "YOU (you) don't really wanna STAY (no), but YOU (you) don't really wanna GO-oh" sort of thing. call me alexander.

my tangents, man. this needs to stop. let me get it together.

when I was smoll and still schooling at the home, one of the books that's lasted as a favorite was d'aulaire's book of greek myths. it's a huge treasure-trove of, ha, greek myths and I've loved them ever since whenever that was—a good ten years ago at this point. one of my favorite stories—so sweet, so sad—was the myth of hades and persephone. I loved the pathos of hades' loneliness, persephone's innocence, his sort of terrible, sort of creepily sweet abduction: a little hopeless, because how could she fit in with his realm? but of course he longs for life. it's selfish, but totally understandable.

it's terribly sad how much her mother misses and mourns her, and terrible that persephone is imprisoned and tricked into eating seeds from the underworld so she always has to come back. when I first read the story, I felt this indignation towards the typically selfish god who tricks others into giving him what he wants at their own expense. it was like phantom of the opera the way it almost ended, which is of course the enduring charm of PtO, because he doesn't keep her. buuuut nooooo for hades, and there's a reason nobody believes in the greek gods anymore. gee, I wonder why they broke up.

but as I got older, I felt a small tugging in my shipper heart for the two. what if persephone wasn't all that stupid, and didn't mind being queen of the realm—having a dark, quiet god who loved only her? he didn't seem so terrible. ...but I wasn't writing any fanfiction about it.

recently, I've come across some other books whose authors apparently thought of the same thing. (personally: not a fan. they just aren't that good, as far as I've skimmed.) it was an interesting coincidence to find carol tufts' poem "Hades and Persephone" yesterday; I was first indifferent, then intrigued, and it's now been entered in my poem-collection book where I keep all these precious things in one analog spot.

Ravishing, he rose at her from the gaping earth
like nothing she had ever beheld
blooming there before...

"ravishing" is an interesting word: 'to ravish' has unpleasant historical connotations of rape, but has been softened over the years to something along the lines of 'laid prostrate by'. you're taken over, enraptured; sort of how "thrall" used to be synonymous with "slave" but now "enthralled" creates a positive, less physical twist—you're taken with something to the point of serving it. someone or something "ravishing" is overwhelmingly beautiful; but there's still an undercurrent of darkness (darkness, haha, cuz this is hades) in google's synonyms: 'to ravish,' definition two, is to "enrapture, enchant, delight, charm, entrance, enthrall, captivate." it's not totally of the self, it's a little bit magicked. (also, notice the 'enthralled' entry. that was seriously a coincidence to my mention.) he takes her by surprise, and is oddly attractive to her.

and look, it's only been the first word.

I love how tufts uses "ravishing," "rose," and "blooming" in connotation with the lord of the underworld. he's dark and gloomy and cold and quiet and—not evil; not death; but not exactly good either. and here persephone perceives him through the language of light and flowers, the only way she knows (even though "rose" is a verb here. he still "rose...blooming there". I think tufts knew what she was doing).

his "bleak shadow" begins to wither all the life around him. oddly enough, this isn't terrifying. tufts doesn't make him an ombra-like spirit-sucker, he just appears and sadly kills everything he touches. hades feels resigned here, even though he's active in coming for the goddess. this might be from tufts' use of present participles: -ing words, a little less active than if "his bleak shadow / strangled the insipid flowers, / bleached the easy green from the grass". it kind of happens, and he's not necessarily trying.

the first clue that persephone isn't scared and doesn't mind is I think "Ravishing...". it's not "Terrifying, he rose at her...". if you take "ravishing" in the same sense as "strangling" and "bleaching," then he's not trying to attract her, which makes it a little less romantic. he comes to find persephone, kills the flowers he moves across, and happens to make her attracted to him—but it's never about her or what she wants. but okay, let's not go that direction just yet.

the second clue that persephone isn't scared and doesn't mind is his "relieving her of birdsong and bouquets". that may even be the third, if you count the "insipid flowers" he kills—if these are her thoughts describing the situation. she's mesmerized by this new kind of "flower", and all the world she's known till now is dull and something of a burden. did she think it was a burden before? did it only become a burden when he appeared? but at this point, he's ravishing, and that's all that matters in infatuation.

does persephone know he's from the Deep Dark Depths of the Realm of the Dead? is this a death-wish? is life too heavy, too rich for her? I was reminded of janet loxley lewis's "Austerity," whose narrator "Hated the life in the turfy meadow, / hated the heavy, sensuous bees." the beautiful descriptions of growing life—"birdsong and bouquets, / the rows of oats blowing silver in the sun"—are all of a sudden a responsibility persephone seems weary of. wallace stevens offers a similar commentary on death and life that slowly unfolds in "Sunday Morning":

She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.

and so instead of an aggressive hades swooping in and snatching up a terrified, helpless, innocent, life-loving maiden with a disney-like bird landing on her welcoming finger... we get a woman, tired of ceaseless life, intrigued, irresistibly drawn, suddenly captivated by a new phenomenon—who approaches quietly and sternly and "relieves" her of her living burdens.

"so she let him take her in his shrouding arms." if that wasn't a straight-up message that persephone wants to die, gosh, I don't know what you want to hear. still, there's an element of autonomy: he doesn't grab her, he embraces her, and she lets him. this is so gentle, so quiet; unannounced and unassuming. the "stricken garlands" slide from her and she disappears underground as a peacock wails and the earth closes over her head.

—two things here: more -ing words and peacocks.
I don't know what tufts is trying to convey with the constant inging, but one -ing word appears in every single line of this first stanza, and I think that's important. to me, the -ings frequently indicate an essentialness to their descriptors: hades is in essence ravishing. he doesn't try, he just is. his shadow is strangling, bleaching, relieving; his arms are shrouding. the peacock isn't necessarily always, in essence, "beginning", but at the same time, this first stanza is strongly reminiscent of a moment frozen in time, like keats's "ode on a grecian urn". keats uses -ings, too, because this is all constantly yet never happening—both at once.

that's the joy:

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
   Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And happy melodist, unwearied,
   For ever piping songs for ever new; 

and that's also the tragedy of this "Cold Pastoral": "Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, / Though winning near the goal" (both emphases mine).

there are more interesting word-choice parallels between keats and tufts here. take the first stanza (all bolding mine)(-ing! augh, it's contagious):

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
   Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
   A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
...
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
   What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

we've already seen that persephone isn't quite the "maiden loth", but we also know that in the original myth she totes is, and that tufts is taking some flights of fancy here with her poetic license. so the narratives provide an interesting comparison. keats himself is contrasting the raucous hilarity of the envisioned party with the silence of the image on the urn; tufts is changing the story of a terrifying abduction to a gentle, silent interaction between the personifications of life and death: the lovely life, wearied, welcoming death as a relief. (welcoming. see what I did there.)

also peacocks. in my extensive research of peacock symbolism (read: 30-second use of the interwebs), apparently for a time in greek culture, peacocks represented immortality. (thanks to the d'aulaires, I already knew the story of argus and his 100 eyes (it's a good story, look it up), but that doesn't seem to relate.) if that's the case and tufts knew it, the peacock wailing as persephone goes "down once more to the dungeon of hades' black despair" is an interesting feature—persephone, a goddess, is immortal, but as the representative of life she's just been taken captive by death (or at least the guardian of the dead. hades wasn't literally the grim reaper. work with me here). does the peacock remind us that she can't actually die, that giving up her living rule on earth doesn't mean she gets to abscond forever? or is the peacock just a sad, eerie note, crying where persephone was silent? it almost mourns for her as she goes beneath "the sealing earth." it's a grave.

the peacock's cry—the second indication of sound in the poem, after the "birdsong" in line 6—is at least a final reminder of the sounds of earth. beneath, it is silent

...As if all trilling nature had loosed
Its rush of sound from around her
And she found herself begin
To weep

aren't the words themselves a beautiful whisper? from the rolling -ings to this nearly -ing-less section, replaced with "sh" and "ou" and "s": papery, rustling. quiet. persephone, still alive, -ings her way through the last half of the verse: "turning," "making," "budding," "cloying."

the line "Turning her eyes / from his untried kindnesses" confused me for awhile; it's one of those lines I feel but am not quite sure I actually understand. I think it's a further example of hades' good-guy (well; not-bad-guy) representation. he brings her down and—silently?*—offers further kindness (beyond the 'rescue' from life and responsibility). she merely turns away and cries, as if "she grieved / for the temperate pleasures he had undone" but actually from amazement and relief.

*interesting note. these two never talk. is this lack of communication part of hades' misunderstanding that she wants to go? are they somehow incapable of talking to one another? persephone I would absolutely expect to make noise, but is hades only able to be—wait for it—silent as the grave?

persephone isn't "half-sick of shadows," she's thoroughly sick of the real deal, "the ceaseless budding / and flowering, the ripeness / cloying at desire." it's like too real to be real; always summer and never christmas would get old pretty quickly. except that it wouldn't get old, because it's always young. I sort of understand how she feels.

remember that part of Tuck Everlasting where tuck takes winnie in the boat and explains life to her?

"But dying's part of the wheel, right there next to being born.... If I knowed how to climb back on the wheel, I'd do it in a minute. You can't have living without dying. So you can't call it living, what we got.... I want to grow again," he said fiercely, "and change. And if that means I got to move on at the end of it, then I want that, too.... Can you picture what that means? Forever? The wheel would keep on going round and round, the water rolling by to the ocean, but the people would have turned into nothing but rocks by the side of the road." (pg 64)

persephone felt it in the always-living things around her; what is light without darkness? birth without death? what is persephone without hades? and here's an interesting line, "ripeness / cloying at desire." think back to keats:

More happy love! more happy, happy love!
   For ever warm, and still to be enjoy'd,
      For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
   That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd
      A burning forehead and a parching tongue.

keats's conclusion is that this frozenness is a blessing: the Bold Lover may always chase, but his love will always be fair. their physical passion will never die. it's not so bad, after all! persephone thinks otherwise. the constant budding and ripeness is cloying, too, and she longs for the cool quietness of death. as wallace stevens put it, "death, the mother of beauty."

Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?

to be forever the same is to be always incomplete.

I'll read into the poem a little bit here. "When at last he thought to offer" could be hades frantically (or as frantic as this quiet god gets) searching for something to make her happy. I like to imagine that here, in the darkness, he silently offers her the various inanimate fruits of his kingdom, suddenly placing them before her tearful face, and growing more desperate as he sees (what he thinks is) her sorrow for the world above. (love the grieve/believe word combo as well.)

now: it's the part of the story we've all been waiting for. hades offers persephone the definitive pomegranate. perhaps it's the most alive thing he can find in his underworld, and he hopes to bring a bit of her world to comfort her. pomegranates: in my extensive research of pomegranate symbolism (read: 30-second use of the interwebs), apparently these stood for some variety of life and death, immortality, and fertility—but this also appeared in the original, not just in tufts' work, so it really did mean something. the fruit symbol makes sense with a lot of the themes in the story and in the poem, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to piece those themes together, so I'm going to move on.

When at last he thought to offer
the split pomegranate, the clotted seeds
slick as beaded blood
in the sweating wound she made of him ...

this is the first time I'm genuinely disturbed. this is kind of graphic. not only does it feel subtly sexual, it also feels like something isn't quite right with our girl 'seph. cloying fruit felt overripe, warm, rotten, and the underworld felt cool and dry and safe. but all of a sudden it's wet and damp and she's sucking on a fruit that recalls the imagery of the "gaping earth" from the beginning. this doesn't feel wholesome anymore (I mean, if it ever did).

but let's keep it classy. hades is desperate to keep her. she made of him a sweating wound: is this his heart, broken and bleeding because of his love for her? let's say it is because I prefer that. my interpretation. you don't like it, you can go write your own.

... she brought his chilly hand to her lips
and sucked the musky fruit
enough to hold him those measured months
where he waited to possess once more
what had been lost to him --

"musky fruit." it's not fresh. it's not moderately alive. there is something very intimate about this action—she takes his hand in hers and uses it as a dish (almost like psyche cupping her hands to offer orual a drink). but she eats the seeds, and considering the words of the poem, it makes her something of an inside-out vampire: not death, feeding on lifeblood, this is life, feeding on deathblood. which is somehow a little insane and a little more creepy.

update: after letting this rest for a night and coming back—seriously, I can't stop thinking about this poem—I'm wondering if there's even more to the pomegranate. is it somehow this representation of hades? persephone makes of him a sweating wound, so the beaded blood is his, in a way. the fruit is musky, of the underworld; as he was "ravishing" and offered himself to her, now he offers her this fruit. that makes it seems like an extension of him. she eats these grains and they become both part of her and lost to him, although they also serve to bring her back ("As if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were to leave I'm afraid that cord of communication would snap. And I have a notion that I'd take to bleeding inwardly"). 

as persephone is life, feeding on death, so hades is death, feeding on life. spoilers: he's preying on her, too, with his embrace.

tufts' poem is full of inversions. of course, we have persephone who loves hades, here, and accepts his advances; persephone who hates life; persephone who wants to stay in the underworld, though he thinks she wants to go; persephone who sucks musky fruit "slick as beaded blood"; and she eats "enough to hold him those measured months / where he waited". I don't know—if hades could get only one musky pomegranate to try to make her happy, maybe she realizes all she has to do is make it through this bloody trial to stay with him. maybe she eats the pomegranate not with enjoyment but because she wants "to hold him those measured months" and this is the only way.

so what had been lost to him?

the grainy fragrance of the living world,

and how?

the flush loveliness of summer
fading in his famished embrace.

-ing. look at it. the living world, fading. fading because he embraces it.
to hades, the living world is as beautiful as the dead world is to persephone. he loves her light; she loves his dark. he didn't try to bleach and strangle, but he can't help it, and he brought her down to have some life with him—but for all he knows, she cries to leave. she begins to wilt herself, "fading in his famished embrace"; "why should she give her bounty to the dead?"
so here's another inversion: instead of the pomegranate being persephone's traditional trap to return, the pomegranate becomes hades letting her go.

hades, as god of the underworld, provided balance. he kept the dead in line, and the dead had to be or, like tuck said, "You can't call it living, what we got." but an eternity of death is just as bad as an eternity of life, if you only see one and not the other. it leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd.

We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk up on our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

persephone, in all her actions, longs for death: from accepting hades' embrace to eating the fruit of the underworld (which would seal her fate to remain). hades, in all his actions, longs for life, and the lost fragrance and beauty of the living world—which he can't help but kill. persephone herself fades in his famished embrace, and the pomegranate alone provides a heartbreaking compromise: they both must be alone to survive together.

update reprise (6 months later): I don't know if I agree with myself anymore. I focused a lot on hades in this analysis, but the poem is really about persephone. and the poem is really about persephone's devious trickery with hades: she "let" him take her, "ma[de] him believe", "made of him" "a sweating wound"—manipulates and lies to get what she wants. what does she want? she wanna ha she wanna ha "to hold him those measured months", and what if "hold" isn't a sweet in-her-arms but prisoner? she's keeping him wanting, holding him captive those "measured months" when she isn't there (because she could have eaten 12 seeds, right? but no, she was measured about the eating). persephone keeps hades imprisoned those months she's gone, making him long for her; but even when he has her, she's leaving, and leaving him always hungry for more. she fades from the ravishing arms, which become an empty, famished embrace.

and another update, in march of 2020 (yup, still thinking): added all the wallace stevens quotes. would love to incorporate them fully, but that would be complicated, because stevens is arguing against christianity, which would have to be contrasted to the greek mythology in a whole other section of thought & analysis. he has his own amazing imagery inversions—comparing a garish living world to silent funeral processions, offering wide water versus living water, and using change as an argument against eternity—that deserve to be analyzed on their own, not just as a lens to examine something else. 
all the same, keep it in mind next to tufts. 

*in trying to come up with a good title for this post, I thought of "the pomegranate compromise" and couldn't stop my mind from thinking "the pomcom" and that is making me laugh harder than my clearly sophisticated sense of humor is comfortable with.