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tunastime · 9 months

Text

no place for strangers

in which BigB realizes that there are a significant number of difference sbetween him and his friends, and in which BigB decides he doesn’t really care that much.

(2333 words)

A portion of the night sky, night for only a fraction of time, is blotted out by the shape of two dark, mottled-grey wings.

He supposes he's a little jealous of that, the wings, how they shed loose feathers, how they flutter and swish and practically make no noise at all when extended. He's a bit jealous of Grian, known Watcher, much more powerful, hands twisted in the reigns of his own creation—the games. He's as much a pawn in this one as he has been in the others. But unlike BigB, he's hungry. The killing doesn't do it for him. Neither does the dying. Grian’s new—the Watchers don’t let him stay full. They chastise him for a million things and make sure he suffers, and at this point, BigB watches it happen. There isn’t much left he can do. He does less Watching and more supervising.

Maybe he's jealous of Pearl, with thin black and gold wings like a moth, ears wispy and pointed up toward the sky. The way her drooping eyes never dim, the way they both glow, silver and gold. She’s got it just as good as him, doesn’t she? Secretive and distant. Away enough to matter but not enough to cause a fuss.

But maybe he isn't. Isn't there something lurking behind his eyes when he stares at his reflection too long? Wouldn't redstone glow in his presence? Wouldn't the forest go silent and the earth hold its breath as he waited, as he watched? Wasn't there the purple remnant of where he once stood?

It doesn't matter. BigB stares up at the messy splotch that is Grian against the night sky and sighs something profound. He tried to understand him. To love him. But Grian is a widow, and everyone that loves him suffers the same. They just have, actually. Joel and Jimmy. And now Grian perches and watches and BigB watches him and there's a muted sting behind his eyes as he does. Grian doesn't turn. But his wings flutter.

"Good to know that some things stay the same," BigB says, cutting through the warm night air with a voice he hopes matches it, but he isn't sure. Grian hums, mostly questioning. His feet stay planted. BigB starts to scale the wall.

"Don't know what you mean by that," Grian questions. He turns his head slightly to the sound of BigB climbing the ladder to the top, but doesn't do much else.

"You," BigB huffs. He rests his hands on the top of the wall, pulling himself over the flat edge. He swings his legs over, and his heels bounce against the cobbles. It’s an uncomfortable resting place. He watches Grian shift from foot to foot, and wonders if the same cobbles are digging into the soles of his feet, the same way they dig into the underside of BigB’s thighs.

“Me?” Grian parrots. His eyes flick over to BigB, quick, but not so quick that BigB doesn’t catch the nervous glint of them. He rests back on his hands. The rough rock presses back against his palms, cold and uncomfortable. Luckily, the air around them is thick with humidity, heat, and a faint metallic smell. And the hum of cicadas. Their drone blocks out everything else, except the words bouncing around in BigB’s head.

"You're still no good at the emotions thing, are you?" he asks. He tilts his head as he says it, cocking it to one side as he looks over at Grian. He watches Grian’s nose wrinkle, the beginnings of his teeth baring back, as if he could bite and make anything more than an impression. BigB almost laughs. He gets it, he really does.

The thing about Grian is that he’s not an easy shape to love, and an even less easy shape to hold. Like every bird, he fears being caged, and arms are no more than a cage, and someone holding his heart is no more than a cage, so he can’t sit still, even now, even on the edge of a wall. BigB watches his wings twitch. They’re gorgeous, but there’s a sharp line through them where the flight feathers should be. They’re not much more than deadweight. Anyway—where was he? Right. Grian. Impossible to love, impossible to hold. A widow, of sorts. The words tumbled out of Scar’s mouth one time, scorned and scoffed. Grian was no more than a widow mourning the first partner he took—Scar—trying to find someone who fit the hole but wasn’t him.

But Grian kills. Who could say it was even his fault? Scar. BigB. Jimmy. Joel. Everyone he tries to love, in any shape, dies. He’s forced to starve. He’s forced to feed a higher cause.

BigB can see Grian’s calloused fingers from here, at least the pale shape of them, balanced over his shins as his wrists drape over the sharp edge of his knee. He studies him in the dim lighting before he looks away, feeling something curdling in his stomach. BigB knows his time is short. Unremarkable. And normally forgotten. That doesn’t really bother him, though. He knows the importance of his impression, here. But he wants to tug this string, just once. He knows where all the strings lie—even his own, unfortunately. Maybe that’s the one thing he knows better than Grian—he’s aware of the outcome before it happens. He doesn’t have to stop to wonder what his odds are.

“That’s not nice,” Grian begins, and BigB shrugs. The cicadas stop singing. BigB’s voice cuts through the night like a knife, cool and even.

“I’m just being honest,” he starts. He watches the stone of the clock tower for movement, eyes flicking over the shape in the dark. “Jimmy and Joel just died and you’re already trying to replace them.”

Grian huffs. He sounds indignant, almost twinged with hurt. “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

BigB raises his eyebrows, tilts his head again. Grian catches his eye for a second longer, this time, and his eyes are dark and wide. His jaw is tightly set. He looks like, at any moment, his lips might curl back and expose blunt, powerless teeth. BigB wonders what that might feel like—surely unpleasant, to have someone bite down on you with the intent to do harm, but he wonders if Grian could kill him on purpose and if it might rid him of anything. It might make the smell of guilt worse, actually.

“I think you do,” BigB says.

“Enlighten me, then,” Grian grits out, teeth closing around the words with a sharp snap. “Since I can feel you trying to figure me out.”

“Not me,” BigB says. Grian shuts his eyes, pinching his eyebrows together, before he twists his body around, fast enough to hear the slight pop of his spine as it cracks. BigB can feel the hair rise on the back of his neck as Grian searches, eyes scorching the earth for any sign of—

“Pearl—”

BigB hums, but it sounds more like a laugh.

“You’re just no good at it,” he says after a beat. Grian resettles, but his wings stay fluffed, body tight with tension. He radiates energy like a coil tightly wound. BigB can feel it seeping into the seams of him, and shifts as it prickles over his skin. He leans back on his hands a little further, hoping they can carry the weight. He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know what that means, BigB,” Grian sighs, short and through his nose. His hair blows into his face. “What d’you—” He sighs again, cutting himself off with a wave of his hand.

He seems annoyed about the whole prospect of their conversation. It’s not unfounded, honestly. BigB did just climb up the ladder and start unpacking years worth of issues in front of Grian, trying to dig at the soft, bleeding center of the thing. He’s pretty sure Joel’s blood is still under his fingernails. He’s not sure if he saw it all happen. He definitely didn’t see Jimmy’s body hit the ground. Lucky, that. He’s not sure if he could watch people so used to flying be unable to use their wings when they needed it most. He thinks he might’ve seen Joel in the moment before Jimmy disappeared—Joel who was never one to let fear and grief trump anger. Or maybe the anger was his grief, like it was Tango’s, or Scar’s. Not that he saw much of that, either. Stories, mostly, things that get passed around a dim campfire at the end of the world.

Jimmy was probably just a near-lifeless body in Joel's arms, right before he was gone. Poor guy. Grian didn’t even get to them in time before it was too late. He was too late for Joel, too. Joel was ash before Grian could even make his mouth into the shape of his name. BigB wonders if they got a grave. Grian was good at building graves, so he’d like to think so. It only made sense. Grian seemed to get over it faster when there was something to mourn to.

BigB takes a second to think, pressing his tongue between his back teeth. The air is quiet around them, still, like it, too, holds the tension in Grian’s spine, like it might be twisting it taut.

“You just don’t understand how it works, you’re not good at grieving, and you’re not good at the whole grief thing, either.” BigB shrugs again, shoulders lifting just enough to be visible. He’s still not watching Grian, as much as Grian isn’t watching him, aside from the hum of them both, something wholly inhuman brushing shoulders with something that craved humanity more than anything else in the world, but could never figure out how to get it.

“You don’t get it.”

“I do.” Grian starts.

“No, you don’t,” BigB turns toward him, finally, furrowing his eyebrows. “Grian, dude—you’re faking this whole human thing to begin with, and it’s not working—”

Grian whips around to face him. His face is sharp, jaw set. “Stop—”

BigB waves him off. His voice, unlike Grian’s, stays level, twinged with annoyance, rather than anything else.

“You don’t understand what you should be guilty of, but you’re feeling it like it’s like…rotting something inside of you but you still don’t know why, and jeez, Grian, you’ve made it a crime for you to feel something.”

He sighs, waving his hands around as if it could help bolster his point any further. He feels something ache in his chest—something aching to explain it in a way that Grian could understand, in a way that he wouldn’t just fight. Grian visibly bristles, feathers on his ears rising, the red and yellow tips of them stark in the night, even in the lantern light.

“You’re on this planet too, you know, you’re allowed to let yourself feel. Messy and gross as it is. I mean, they died, man, is that anything?”

Grian swallows. BigB doesn’t watch the bob of his throat, or the way his feathers are still raised in alert as he jerks his head away. He follows Grian’s line of sight down the clock tower, where Bdubs and Cleo are talking. Bdubs looks over after a second. BigB feels a cold line run down his spine, but refuses to break his gaze. There are no sounds now, not even of his own heartbeat.

“No,” Grian manages.

BigB relaxes. Something of an easy smile finds his face, softening the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw. He shakes his head. Grian shies away from him, but his feathers lower, and his posture sinks. He finally lowers himself to a sit, throwing his legs over the side of the wall. His hands cradle in his lap, and he stares into the palms of them. BigB remembers them as calloused, cold, and hard to hold properly. But he’s sure someone out there enjoys them.

“You’re a really bad liar,” he laughs. Grian shakes his head. His voice is much quieter as he speaks.

“I don’t care. I don’t care.”

BigB turns his head. There, for a short moment in the moonlight, he watches the shape of Grian’s left shoulder turned toward him. They rise and fall as he breathes, shudder when he sniffs and sighs, move as he shifts his body, likely feeling those same, cold, hard cobbles pressing into the soft back of his legs. He sees where the back meets the wing, where the wing relaxes down and where feathers brush stone. He sees where they rest against the cobbles, half held and half upright, as if he wants to be ready to leap at a moment's notice. As if he doesn’t know that he, too, would die on impact. BigB reaches out, settling one soft hand on his shoulder. Grian tenses, but does not jump.

“‘S alright, buddy.”

Instead, Grian deflates. BigB runs his thumb over the side of his shoulder, a friendly, comforting thing, as Grian leans back to his hand. His posture sinks to the touch, muscles weakening, wings folding back and down. Every molecule of his body, and BigB almost feels this in the air, grows heavy and tired at the subtle comfort. Grian draws what he can from it before he speaks. His voice sounds even, now, and tired.

“I miss them…” He starts. He swallows. “I missed you, too. I missed Scar.”

BigB sighs, giving Grian’s shoulder a long, warm squeeze before he lets go. Grian sways but catches himself on his hands. His body stays curved into itself.

“I know,” BigB says. “But you’ll never be over it if you never break that cycle.”

Grian shrugs. The steel starts to slip back into his voice, firm.

“I will when I win.”

BigB smiles.

“Maybe,” he says. He’s not sure he can see the end of that string yet, but the results don’t exactly look promising. “Who knows what’s in the cards?”

#bigbst4tz2 #bigbstatz #bigb #grian #limlsmp #limited life smp #limited life fic #limited life #mcyt fic #mcyt #fics #text #:3 i love bigb so much #i dont know what possessed me to write him but i plan on doing it MORE #MORE BIGB!!!! MORE THINGS ABOUT HIM #HE IS SO SPECIAL TO ME!!#this was also called 'no place for strangers' i'll probably link the ao3 when it gets posted

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houlebubo · 1 year

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One day I'll probably do a 40-minute video essay on this topic, but the internet's misinterpretation of "Death of the Author" is just a real shame.

I frequently see the concept brought up in relation to a certain terf author. People attempt to 'separate the work and the author', but that is frankly not how it is intended to be used.

"Death of the Author" is supposed to be a tool for literary analysis. That's all it is. It is not a theory by itself, nor a political stance or a way to judge morality.

It is a tool to encourage readers to interpret the content of a text authentically, but you should use it critically, and be aware of why, how and when it is relevant. It is not an excuse to ignore context or paratext, as both of those should also be considered in a proper analysis.

The tool was developed during a time when the discourse was more favourable towards an author's intention rather than a reader's interpretation. People used intention to dismiss other readers' analysis of texts, using diary entries or letters by dead authors to counter less mainstream takes of canon texts. It was a period where the 'goal' of literary analysis was to uncover a text's true meaning. The original essay was a short controversial counterargument but the conversations it sparked over the following decades have led to the scale tipping more in favour of interpretation. It has also led to a 180 of the original problem.

Killing the author has the potential of empowering readers and encouraging deeper. Maybe even uncovering biases the author wasn't even aware of! However, (mostly outside of academic circles but not always) people are misusing the concept and use it to dismiss context and racist dog-whistles as well as discourage readings that rely more on subtext.

In simple terms we have gone from a mentality saying "AHA, I have evidence and it said you are wrong" to "AHA, it doesn't matter and therefore you are wrong". Neither is constructive in a conversation about art.

If you use the death of the author effectively while acknowledging intention and context you actually add a lot of nuance to your analysis, and doing so can demonstrate your analytical abilities. You will be able to distinguish what the text is saying plainly, what is said between the lines, and if the narrative effectively handles what it originally claimed. It is an effective 1-2 punch. Let me give you an ultra-short example:

On the surface level, '50 Shades of Grey' tells you that it is a sexy BDSM story. Throughout interviews and promotional material, E. L. James frames her story as a female-empowering book. But by critically examining how the books handle themes of consent, privacy, agency etc. we can argue that the narrative doesn't live up to proper BDSM conduct and that the protagonist is not empowered, and is instead displaying an unhealthy relationship. If we take the analysis further we could make an argument about what this says about society at large. Does it normalise boundary-breaking behaviour? Could it make someone romanticise stalking? The thesis statement is all up to you. (disclaimer I have not actually read these books, don't come for me, this is an example)

Here is what we just did: I presented a surface reading of a text. I presented the most likely intention of the author. I then argued for my interpretation by looking at literary themes and context. I used the conflict between Jame's intention, and my interpretation to illustrate a conflict. 1-2 punch. I am not killing James, I consider her opinion and intention to strengthen my argument, but I don't let her word of god determine or dismiss my reading. In just 3 simple sentences I use a variety of resources from my toolbox.

When people weaponise the author's intention it can look like this:

"Well, E. L. James said it is a female power fantasy, you're just reading too much into it" <- dismissing context and subtext by using 'word of god'. Weighing intention above interpretation.

"Does it really matter that E. L. James didn't research BDSM before publishing, can't it just be a sexy book?" <- dismissing context, subtext as well as author intention and accountability. Weighing their own interpretation and subtly killing the author

Simply exclaiming "I believe in death of the author" (which I have heard in Lit classes) means nothing. It's nothing. Except that you want to ignore context and only indulge in the parts of the text that you find enjoyable.

In the plainest way I can put it, the death of the author is supposed to make you say: "the author probably meant A, but the text and the context is saying B, therefore I conclude C". Don't just repeat what the author says. Don't just ignore context. And allow the feelings the text invokes in you to be there and let them be something you reflect on. The details you pick up on will be completely unique to you, the meaning you get will be just your own. You can do all of these things at once, I promise it doesn't have to be one or the other.

There has to be a balance. Intention matters. Interpretation matter. Watch out and pay attention. Are you only claiming the author is dead or alive when it serves your own narrative?

When you want to ignore an author ask why

When you don't want to read a book because you don't condone the actions of the author ask why

Examine how you dismiss arguments and how you further conversations.

#literature #lit #uni #death of the author #i don't write long tumblr posts what the fuck is this #i take constructive criticism but be nice about it #English is not my first language there are probably a ton of mistakes and weird things in this #analysis #i'll probably delete this thing #but i'll post it for now i guess because I have been writing on it for too long

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