#I actually really dislike this series because of it's portrayal of religion and stopped reading it because of that

[deathofamemer]

✨ 💕 💔 💢 all of them

✨ what draws you towards your hyperfixation? what is interesting about it?

lego movies: there’s just something so lively and fun about them... the world they exist in and craft throughout the four warner brothers lego movies is fascinating and complex and has a lot of nuance to it that makes rewatching the movies a delight just to catch little things that got missed the first time around! the characters are vibrant and lively and there’s not really any who fall flat (outside of the lego ninjago movie but the main lego movies are my focus), there’s a lot of tropes that i personally enjoy (particularly the meta stuff, i love meta humor), and the style itself is gorgeous and unique. using CG to mimic stop motion? that’s genius, and it makes for a beautiful set of films

danny phantom: danny phantom as a series is just a bundle of a trillion of my favorite tropes and the amount of content that can be created from it is truly overwhelming. part of the allure of danny phantom is actually the fandom, for once, because while it’s not free of issues, there’s a sense of continuity. there’s a lot of widely accepted fanon in there, including whole fandomwide ocs, and it’s really something spectacular. i’m a sucker for the supernatural and superheroes, and danny phantom mingles the two nicely.

greek mythology: greek myth is one of those things that just perfectly slides into the academic portion of my brain, tbh. it’s a vast mythos with colorful characters and epic stories and quirky anecdotes and scraps of information spread across history, and the fact that it can be collected and looked at and interpreted even today? it’s super interesting and good. for a mostly dead religion, it’s still fairly ubiquitous in society, and i love seeing all of the variations on each story, seeing what various places thought were fit to keep or discard.

pokemon: pokemon, as a franchise, is immensely soothing. you get to raise animals and befriend them and play with them, winding your way through the countryside, facing challenges and stopping strife. the characters are memorable, the pokemon designs are generally really appealing, and the lore is crafted in such a way that it feels like something you could examine for a long time. there’s a lot of heart in it, and it shows.

💕 tell us about one of your favorite characters and why you like them!

lego movies: you’re expecting me to put rex, aren’t you. i’ve given my diatribes on rex fucking dangervest enough, i’m talking about my original fave, gcbc. gcbc is a charming character with a neat concept, embodying the lego minifigs with two faces as a single character, providing some of the only positive DID representation i’ve ever seen. liam neeson’s voice acting for them is really stellar, and back in 2014/15, i read all of the gcbc-centric fics i could get my hands on. they’re just interesting to examine.

danny phantom: i’m betting you’re also expecting me to talk about danny’s evil future self because i’m a predictable shit, but NO i refuse. clockwork is one of my favorite fucking characters of anything ever, because he embodies the whole ‘father time’ concept in a neat way, transitioning from child to adult to elder as a constant cycle. he’s also clever and witty and makes a good mentor, showing consequences for actions without forcing danny’s hand. clockwork is just great, honestly,,,

greek mythology: everyone in greek myth is terrible all the time, but dionysus is really fun? he’s a male god who got raised as a girl, so like, trans rights, he’s equal parts party god and brain ruiner, he’s got a million conflicting portrayals that make him fun to examine, and he’s actually one of the oldest gods in the pantheon in terms of historicity. there’s more to him than meets the eye, for sure, and his myths are fun.

pokemon: i really love zinnia... she’s a badass dragon lady who’s super lively and fun, she kicks ass and knows she does, she nearly wrangles rayquaza themself in order to save the world... god i just adore her

💔 tell us about one of your LEAST favorite characters and why you dislike them.

lego movies: lord business don’t even fucking look at me i swear to god, capitalist ass bitch, abusive boss supreme, tyrannous dickmunch,

danny phantom: it’s kind of hard to place least faves? if i have to choose, though, probably gregor. he’s a one-off asshole liar trying to get into sam’s pants, gregor gets no rights.

greek mythology: HEY ZEUS QUIT BEING A DICK, YOU TOO KRONOS, AND GAIA—

pokemon: hey. hey ghetsis. hey lusamine. look at me. be better parents. fuck you

💢 what do you NOT like about your hyperfixation? is there something you would want to change about it?

lego movies: tlm2 was weaker than the first due to the change of directors, i’m happy that we got rex and watevra and mayhem, they’re all fun and great, but the characterization of everyone is really fucking off and emmet gets treated like shit when he doesn’t deserve it. my rage over rex’s fate is well documented, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. i think often about a hypothetical tlm2 that actually resolved things and kept people in character and featured gcbc for more than 5 seconds

danny phantom: butch hartmann can suck my ass AND DO NOT FUCKING TALK TO ME ABOUT LIVIN’ LARGE AND PHANTOM PLANET THOSE TRAIN WRECKS DO NOT EXIST IN THIS HOUSE

greek mythology: why did the ancient greeks like incest and rape so much what the fuck is your goddamn deal guys just chill out and suck a dick that isn’t your cousin’s

pokemon: i’m very fucking angy about the pokemon company trying to wring money out of people with swsh, everyone i know who’s played it has enjoyed it but the fact that there’s expensive dlc for a pokemon game like this, that you can never have all of the pokemon in the game, the fact that even one game is the cost of a double pack for the previous ones, it irks me deeply

#answer v #i have a lot of feelings all the time always #infectois

[marginalgloss]

unclean without and within

From time to time while reading Patrick O’Brian’s novels in the Aubrey-Maturin series I stop and search them for signs of late style. By this I mean the sense of an ending, or at least the feeling that there is surely more of them behind me than there is in front. I recently finished The Wine-Dark Sea, which is the sixteenth instalment in a series that began in 1969 and ended with the publication of a final (unfinished) volume in 2004. This one came out in 1993, with the author well into his 70s; almost twenty-five years after the first in the series. 

Yet such a progression of time is scarcely evident from the text: this is unmistakably the same writer who started out with Master and Commander and Post Captain all those years ago. If you were to read them back to back, they’d seem less contiguous than seamlessly continuous. It is not for nothing that some readers describe this series as really being instalments in one vast novel completed over the course of perhaps a third of a man’s lifetime.

This is not to say that there’s no change in style, no progression, no growth. To take an obvious example, by now the author has become much more dextrous when it comes to the handling of the naval jargon for the benefit of the casual reader. The books become more comfortable dwelling in the interiority of their characters, sometimes to unusual and oblique effect. And of course our heroes have aged a bit, but not much; for several books now Jack and Stephen are referred to in ways that suggest the onset of late middle age, but what exactly this means is never quite clear. Age, here, is like a layer of dust that settles quickly but can be blown away at a moment’s notice when required. Much like how the HMS Surprise itself vanished for several books before appearing with most of its old crew again, O’Brian is not above grinding the authorial gears, bending the rules of historical fiction to get what he wants at times. Such is the writer’s prerogative. 

I thought the previous book, Clarissa Oakes, was a rare misfire; by comparison The Wine-Dark Sea is very much a return to form. It finally details the completion of a journey which I think was first mentioned way back in The Letter of Marque. As if to compensate for the relative quietude of its predecessor, this is a story crowded with incident. There’s a couple of great sea-chases, an erupting volcano, a thrilling sequence in an ice floe, and a bigger than usual helping of Napoleonic banter and intrigue by land. We even get a trip way up into the Andes, and a terribly bloody battle with pirates (rarer than you’d think in this series). All of which is to say that at this stage in the books, there is still no sign of the author slowing down.

To detail the story would be somewhat besides the point here. The form of this novel is mostly given over to the picturesque; much like those earliest books in the series, it is a series of events loosely connected by plot but mostly engendered by chance. Perhaps the most interesting character in this instalment is Dutourd, a French captain mentioned briefly in the last book but only met properly here. He is a would-be revolutionary and accidental privateer, an apparently sincere idealist dedicated to setting up a new kind of society in whatever colony will have him and his gunboat. Naturally, Jack is fairly frank in his contempt:

‘From the first Jack Aubrey had disliked all that he had heard of Dutourd: Stephen described him as a good benevolent man who had been misled first by ‘that mumping villain Rousseau’ and later by his passionate belief in his own system, based it was true on a hatred of poverty, war and injustice, but also on the assumption that men were naturally and equally good, needing only a firm, friendly hand to set them on the right path, the path to the realisation of their full potentialities. This of course entailed the abolition of the present order, which had so perverted them, and of the established churches. It was old, old stuff, familiar in all its variations, but Stephen had never heard it expressed with such freshness, fire and conviction. Neither fire nor conviction survived to reach Jack in Stephen’s summary, however, but the doctrine that levelled Nelson with one of his own bargemen was clear enough, and he watched the approaching boat with a cold look in his eye.’

Stephen is a little more nuanced — and sarcastic — in his critique. After being asked what he thinks of democracy, he appears to avoid the question, pleading etiquette:

‘…we nevertheless adhere strictly to the naval tradition which forbids the discussion of religion, women, or politics in our mess. It has been objected that this rule makes for insipidity, which may be so; yet on the other hand it has its uses, since in this case for example it prevents any member from wounding any other gentleman present by saying that he did not think the policy that put Socrates to death and that left Athens prostrate was the highest expression of human wisdom, or by quoting Aristotle’s definition of democracy as mob-rule, the depraved version of a commonwealth.’

Between Aubrey’s stolid conservatism and Maturin’s cynicism, it is difficult to extract much which is admirable about Dutourd from O’Brian’s writing. Perhaps the best we can say for him is that he seems to have a genuine concern for the wellbeing of the men around him. But he is not a leader. Being genuine in this world seems to count for very little unless you have the capability to back it up.

Given the constant level of contempt aimed at Dutourd throughout, I wonder if it’s possible to salvage a consistent political perspective from these books. There’s a gentle but consistent conservatism, of course, that comes from the overwhelming faith throughout in the institution of the navy — a faith only partly related to the actual men who serve in it, and which has little or nothing to do with a sense of Britishness or national identity. The thing above all for O’Brian is the nature of the service, as exemplified by what it takes to operate one of the most complex engines of war ever designed. This, for him, is society; it is not an ideal society, but it is an immensely capable example of one. In Dutourd we see one whose only goal is to undo that society, and replace it with something decentred, nebulous, suspicious.

The pleasing contrast in the series always comes from comparing this conservatism to Maturin’s revolutionary liberalism, itself tempered with doubt towards all institutions. But as the series goes on it seems like Stephen’s most defining characteristic is that he has no faith in anything except himself. His concern for the welfare of his fellow man seems sincere, at least when a scalpel is in his hand, but it isn’t heartfelt; were he living on land, we can’t really imagine him working as a surgeon, either for profit or out of the goodness of his heart. He lives for the moments when he is alone in nature. And in that regard he seems like a figure who exemplifies a certain kind of libertarianism, one which is sometimes associated with the later years of the nineteenth and early twentieth century. Less Rousseau, more Thoreau. 

But Maturin’s gift, and his curse, is that he alone amongst the crew seems to possess a particular sense of aloneness. I love, for example, this little passage, from his trip into the Andes:

‘So it was: yet the western sky was still dark violet at the lower rim and as he looked at it Stephen remembered the words he had intended to write to Diana before he put his letter to the candle: ‘in this still cold air the stars do not twinkle, but hang there like a covey of planets’, for there they were, clear beads of unwinking gold. He could not relish them however; his dream still oppressed him, and he had to force a smile when Eduardo told him he had reserved a piece of bread for their breakfast instead of dried potatoes, a piece of wheaten bread.’

That pretty image followed, by the pang of self-awareness — the memory of a dismal dream, his faraway wife hung for some strange crime — and then that old O’Brian trick of breaking through with indirect discourse that gently mimics speech. ‘A piece of wheaten bread.’ 

One more thing I want to add. There’s something very peculiar about the fate of Martin here. I always found something feminine about his portrayal, perhaps in part because his traditional role in these books is to be Stephen’s conversational partner while Jack is indisposed. Theirs is a friendship in which intimacy seems to have been traded in for constant peaceful companionship. 

Eventually Martin becomes such a constant presence that he seems almost like a chaste spouse to Stephen. I don’t think O’Brian ever explicitly describes him as effeminate; but as a man, he doesn’t quite match up to the capabilities of his shipmates. Jack is perpetually uneasy with him, and I’m not sure it will suffice to say that he’s only suspicious of Martin’s authority on doctrinal matters. But the suspicion is strange, because it seems rootless. Martin isn’t outwardly threatening. He’s sensitive, observant, yet utterly hopeless as a physical presence compared to either of the leads. He’s perfectly pleasant, but not exceptional.

In this book, something odd happens. In Clarissa Oakes, Martin’s role as occasional companion appeared usurped by the titular woman smuggled aboard the ship. Now, it seems like O’Brian was looking for a way to get him out of the way, perhaps in order to set up a situation further down the line in England. Martin’s relationship with Clarissa becomes the instrument for bringing this about. Here is Stephen on the subject:

‘…Whether he has the disease I cannot tell for sure without a proper examination, though I doubt he has it physically: metaphysically however he is in a very bad way. Whether he lay with her or not in fact he certainly wished to do so and he is clerk enough to know that the wish is the sin; and being also persuaded that he is diseased he looks upon himself with horror, unclean without and within…’

Martin becomes desperately ill, and for a while Stephen cannot diagnose his problem. Eventually it turns out that, being tormented with guilt over an affair with Clarissa, he has poisoned himself with a desperately strong treatment for syphilis, derived from mercury. Here, perhaps, is what Jack had to be suspicious about all these years. We see this again and again in certain outlying characters in O’Brian’s world. They are tormented by a certain inner conviction, entirely irrational but thoroughly humane, that becomes not only a personal agony to the individual, but a true risk to the security of that precious narrow society.  

There is something uniquely sinister and sad about Martin’s condition here. It is as though he becomes here the ship’s equivalent of the portrait of Dorian Grey: he has somehow soaked up all the bad feeling, all the wickedness that was spread around during the Oakes incident. Ailments outside the physical have always proved entirely alien to Stephen, and so the only treatment he can conceive of is to send him on the first ship back to England. Instead of sending him to the bottom of the ocean, they send him home. 

#books #patrick o'brian #the wine dark sea