#Bathsheba or the Interior Bible

[derangedrhythms]

What I love is: the proximity of the invisible.

Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts; from 'Bathsheba or the Interior Bible', tr. Catherine A. F. MacGillivray

#hélène cixous #stigmata #bathsheba or the interior bible #other writing #u

[motifcollector]

What are we present at? At a mystery. At a solemn representation. This is not the crucifixion. This is the Passion according to Rembrandt. Mourning and Transfiguration of the Ox.

Hélène Cixous on Rembrandt's "The Slaughtered Ox," in "Bathsheba or the interior Bible" from Stigmata: Escaping Texts, trans. Catherine A.F. MacGillivray

#hélène cixous #rembrandt #art #art history #literature #on art #currently reading

[wolverton]

Blackness isn't black. It is the last degree of reds. The secret blood of reds.

(Hélène Cixous, from Stigmata: Escaping Texts; "Bathsheba, Interior Bible")

BLOOD, DRYING

by wolverton

M | Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter | WIP | 7/16 & 28.5k

SUMMARY

Molly tasted faintly of mint and mostly of the eggs she had already taken a forkful of right there in the kitchen. Will wondered whether she could taste Hannibal inside his own mouth the way he did. If she could, she did not say. She never did say anything, really. (Enjoy a front row seat to the shitshow of epic proportions that is Will Graham's short-lived marital life. Sit back and relax as he navigates the complexities of love lost, betrayal, and the passage of time. Observe his total inability to escape memories which haunt relentlessly, unforgiving flashbacks, and—to top it all off—an unceremonious and wildly ill-timed comeback of his whilom tendencies to see and hear things which aren't really there. Or are they?)

(NOTABLE) TAGS:

Missing Scene(s), Hallucinations, Mental Instability, Mental Anguish, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cannibalistic Thoughts (see ao3 for more!)

Note #1: No set posting schedule, but updates fairly frequently (approx. once every ten days or so). There'll be a very short hiatus after chapter 7, as it'll round off the first half of the fic (considering the division into two acts). The posting of the second half will commence when I outline/plan it out in its entirety.

Note #2: The posting of the second half has commenced.

↓ CHAPTER SNIPPETS / TEASERS ↓

ACT ONE

CHAPTER 01: Scarlet

Leaned against a counter, Will cradled a warm mug in his hands, savoring the rich scent and the steam that gently caressed his face. Eyes open, eyes closed, slow blinks matching the deep, steady intakes of breath. His chest expanded, trapping a little bit more warmth each time; warmth emanating from the coffee, from the stove, from the pan sizzling atop it, from the single ray of sunlight seeping through the tiny window above the fridge pleasantly warming the upper part of his left cheek. He could almost ignore the deafening buzz of blood rushing past his ears. Could almost ignore the bitter bile in the back of his throat. (It mingled disgustingly with the aftertaste of some obnoxious brand of activated charcoal toothpaste with a dash of mint that Molly had bought in a vain attempt to undo the effects of coffee overconsumption and decades-long nicotine addiction.) Yes. A lot of things could be almost-ignored for a few rare moments; Will would take what he could get.

CHAPTER 02: Vermilion

The shirt was borderline blindingly white as he put it on, sliding each arm into its sleeve, shrugging it on, and buttoning it up. It made him look even paler, fucking fluorescent (just like those lights he’d feared facing), and it was… utterly unflattering. Yes, maybe most of his old ‘white’ shirts have gone a little eggshell, a little merino, but at least they didn’t make him look as ghostly as he generally tended to feel. Maybe most of what he’d consider his Nice Clothing was a little worn and frayed around the edges—but at least they didn’t make him look as though somebody put a bow on the rattiest mutt in the pound and tried to pass it off as a show dog. God, he sounded just like daddy. Will smiled wryly at the thought of what Will Graham Sr. might as about this. Some choice words, no doubt; he’d work himself into sweat at the thought of purchasing a replacement for something that didn’t even have a hole in it. (And even then, he knew how to mend; taught his boy, too.) But, daddy would never get out of the habit of going through life with a single suitcase-worth of personal possessions, even after so many years that he’s been decidedly less nomadic and with a roof over his head. In fact, Will expected that the suitcase in question would remain unpacked—or packed ahead of time, depending on how one decided to look at it—forevermore. Will did have a terrible habit of following in his old man’s footsteps—but, not today.

CHAPTER 03: Crimson

Hannibal considered this for a moment. “You must understand that I know only as much as you know. If I had to take a crack at it, as you might put it, I am an external manifestation of an inner conflict.” He looked pleased with that deduction. “You must look inward for answers, Will. Deep, should it be deemed necessary—I know not how hard you have worked to bury me.” Will felt, suddenly and perhaps unrightfully so, slighted. Perhaps less so slighted and more so deeply shaken and thus almost offended by the way Hannibal carelessly peeled away the layers of skin and deflection and suppression he’d worked so hard to pile on, to blot so much shit out in attempt to remain sane, to gain the ability to start anew, to survive (and how well was that going for him?) He had to remind himself that this Hannibal was in fact Not-Hannibal, incredibly fake actually and totally not real, still entirely in Will’s head despite appearances (appearances being that he’d escaped the confines of Will’s skull.) He paced, as he was really good at that, and he took deep breaths, at which he was only decent, and glared at the man-shaped nightmare with the hatred of a thousand suns, privately hoping all that derision packed into a single look would cause the other to combust, or perhaps melt away. This did not happen. Hannibal only appeared vaguely amused, judging by the slight quirk of his lips. Could he read Will’s mind? He couldn’t, could he? He was inside Will’s mind, which was a cause for worry, and Will only prayed that Mind-Hannibal had limitations.

CHAPTER 04: Amaranth

“Trouble sleeping, hm?” Katie hummed thoughtfully, “Mind keeping you awake?” Will hesitated. Instincts told him (screamed at him) to be mindful of the trap; it would have been a trap most certainly, once upon a time. It would have marked him unstable, again. It would have sown mistrust of his thoughts and actions in those around him, it would have had Jack disturbed and Alana pitying, would have had Price and Zeller leaving between them and him a slightly wider berth. It would have been a flashing neon sign above his head, shouting: THIS MAN HAS TOTALLY REGRESSED, GUYS. TREAD WITH CAUTION. Will’s lip curled in distaste at the fleeting imagery. Was he unstable, again? He felt stable, he thought, for the most part. Mostly stable, yeah, save for those few hours here and there. Stable like a horse. Ha. (God, maybe he was losing the plot.)

CHAPTER 05: Ruby

Hannibal had the gall to chuckle. “Are you calling me rude, Will?” Will tilted his head, a mirroring and a mockery, as though taking his turn to assess the other. “Do you think you’re not?” A beat. “What fate would you have me suffer for it?” “You invite retribution?” “I do so hope borrowing from your own vocabulary is acceptable,” Hannibal leaned back once more, at ease when he shouldn’t be (when Will didn’t want him to be), “Not retribution, no. Merely tit for tat.” Will’s lips stretched into a sneer, all derision. “Tit for tat? Well, then, your fate would seem crystal clear to me.”

CHAPTER 06: Carmine

A movement in the corner of the room caught his attention. Hannibal, perched on the windowsill, gazing outside. He looked thoughtful, as though his mind were adrift in contemplation. Somehow, Will doubted that. Will’s doubts were, indeed, confirmed. The moment he shifted on the couch, Hannibal’s head turned, eyes landing on him. It felt like a blow. “You ought to head home.” Will, getting up, was far too tired and far too hungover to enter another crisis about this very disturbing turn of events. “Fuck off,” he muttered, without heat. He wandered around like a headless fly for a hot second, attempting to locate his shoes. They were by the front door (shocker.) “Like you’re one to talk. Last time I checked, we’re not in Baltimore. You’re further from home than I am.” “Am I?” Will didn’t say anything to that.

CHAPTER 07: Maroon

“Florence seems so long ago.” Will inclined his head, “We were different men then.” “Is that what you think?” “It’s what I know,” he shrugged, casting a look out the window, locking eyes with the moon again. “I think I loved you then.”

CHAPTER 08: INTERLUDE

Her unfaithful husband walked through the door. Her unfaithful husband kicked off his shoes, took off his jacket. Her unfaithful husband came into the kitchen. Her unfaithful husband’s hands landed on her hips. Her unfaithful husband kissed her. Molly forgot her anger. Her husband took her to bed.

MORE TO BE ADDED!

#hannigram fanfiction #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal lecter #will graham #wip #blood drying #hannigram #murder husbands

[cor-ardens-archive]

“The ox is a gigantic ingot of flesh.

The ox is bound. The ox is nude.

Who are we contemplating? Samson’s truth, or Rembrandt’s. The blind, the freed, the powerful slaughtered. The gazed upon. Who by their magnificent helplessness fill us with wonder.

the Vanquished sparkles. (Vanquished but Strong)”

Bathsheba or the Interior Bible, from ‘Stigmata’, Hélène Cixous, tr. Catherine A. F. MacGillivray

#'who by their magnificent helplessness fill us with wonder' #the power of the slaughtered #Hélène Cixous #m. lit. #carniceria

[givemearmstopraywith]

The Body: bread of light.

Hélène Cixous, Stigmata from “Bathsheba or the Interior Bible”

#quotes #helene cixous #stigmata #p

[themotherofrevelation]

(Blackness isn’t black. It is the last degree of reds. The secret blood of reds.)

Hélène Cixous, “Bathsheba or the Interior Bible,” Stigmata: Escaping Texts

#hélène cixous #quote

[feuillesmortes]

Hélène Cixous, from Stigmata: Escaping Texts; “Reading in painting: Bathsheba or the interior Bible”

#helene cixous #stigmata #there are few things that compare to seeing one of his paintings live #there's this otherworldly light #that comes from no trackable source #'where is the light coming from?' asks cixous #'the secret light that emanates from the flesh' #once someone said rembrandt didn't paint people: he painted thoughts #this light that comes from within #cixous gives a name to this thoughtfulness: #'absence in the body'

[jazbaaati]

Hélène Cixous, Bathsheba, or the Interior Bible from Stigmata.

#booklr #currently reading #literature #literature quotes #bibliophile #reading #lit #helene cixous #cixous #rembrandt #art #bathsheba

[derangedrhythms]

Blackness isn't black. It is the last degree of reds. The secret blood of reds. There are so many blacks...Twenty-four, they say.

Hélène Cixous, Stigmata: Escaping Texts; from 'Bathsheba or the Interior Bible', tr. Catherine A. F. MacGillivray

#hélène cixous #stigmata #bathsheba or the interior bible #other writing #any colour so long as it is black

[neoyorzapoteca]

Hélène Cixous -  “Bathsheba or the interior Bible,” from Stigmata : Escaping Texts

#hélène cixous

[manyfavorites]

(Blackness isn’t black. It is the last degree of reds. The secret blood of reds.)

Hélène Cixous, from Stigmata: Escaping Texts; “Bathsheba, Interior Bible,”

[jazbaaati]

How to get there? How to get inside a star, Van Gogh wondered? The fastest method of transportation is not the train, it’s death.

Hélène Cixous, Bathsheba, or the Interior Bible from Stigmata.

#booklr #currently reading #literature #literature quotes #bibliophile #reading #lit #helene cixous #art #bathsheba #van gogh #vincent van gogh

[jazbaaati]

Blackness isn’t black. It is the last degree of reds. The Secret blood of reds.

Hélène Cixous, Bathsheba, or the Interior Bible from Stigmata.

#booklr #currently reading #literature #literature quotes #bibliophile #reading #lit #helene cixous

[jazbaaati]

This body that lets itself fall into itself.

Hélène Cixous, Bathsheba, or the Interior Bible from Stigmata.

#booklr #currently reading #literature #literature quotes #bibliophile #reading #lit #helene cixous

[jazbaaati]

Of what secret lights are we made?

Hélène Cixous, Bathsheba, or the Interior Bible from Stigmata.

#booklr #currently reading #literature #literature quotes #bibliophile #reading #lit #helene cixous

[jazbaaati]

We have such a need of cupboards, of curtains, such a need to furnish.

Hélène Cixous, Bathsheba, or the Interior Bible from Stigmata.

#booklr #currently reading #literature #literature quotes #bibliophile #reading #lit #helene cixous