#its was delightful to read this book and have all these place names I'm familiar with casually thrown in though!

[pagesofkenna]

Palm Springs as seen in Trials of Apollo: Burning Maze because this is where I live and I spent too much time over-analyzing where Rick placed the characters!

to be clear, I'm being a bit overly literal with my reading. Palm Springs isn't a metropolis, so people in the surrounding area don't say they're 'from Palm Springs' the way people 30 minutes outside Seattle might say they're 'from Seattle' (though I will use both Palm Springs and the city Coachella as a reference point when telling people where I live). when I say I'm from here I mean I'm from the Coachella Valley; Palm Springs sits roughly at one end of the valley, and I live about halfway down to the other end

but both Meg and Apollo refer to themselves as being 'in Palm Springs' when they talk about Aeithales, and since Meg presumably knows the area, and Apollo also talks about Coachella [Festival] in this book, I'm going to assume they know where they actually are, and that they must be in Palm Springs (or nearby unincorporated land)

OK so with all that out of the way: when they first show up, Apollo mentions the 'San Jacinto wilderness' to the west. I didn't remember this until I looked it up but San Jacinto is the Spanish name for Saint Hyacinth, which, brb crying

Apollo also mentions seeing a patchwork of golf courses below, which is what the valley is known for... but those are mostly in Palm Desert, which is about 15 miles southeast of Palm Springs. this is where my placement of things gets confused, because in my brain this should put them south of Palm Springs, not west—in fact, the San Jacinto wilderness area is more southwest of Palm Springs than straight west. however, if they're high enough in the hills along the southern side of Palm Springs, they'd still have a view of the golf courses in the east with a wilderness to their backs, so this still tracks for me (putting Aeithales above the Tahquitz Canyon area)

(Also, just for a fun local history lesson: a part of this area of the valley is broken into a checkerboard of 1 sq mile plots owned by the state vs plots owned by the Aqua Caliento Band of Cahuilla Indians. idk Meg's father's ancestory, so I'm not sure if he would have built Aeithales on Cahuilla land or not, but I'm going to assume not for now. this helps me narrow down where it might be!)

that's just from the introduction, though. much later in the book (p329 in my copy) Apollo mentions the winds shifting, 'filling the Morongo Valley with wildfire smoke' at which point I got real confused, because Morongo Valley is to the north, also about 15 miles (it's the area that connects the Coachella Valley through the northern mountains to Joshua Tree, another secluded desert town people like to escape to). based on previous estimate, they should be able to see that area, I'm just not sure why Rick chose to mention it; they shouldn't be driving that way at all. unless he meant Moreno Valley, which was mentioned earlier (they drove 'by' it to get to LA), or the Morongo reservation, which is usually just referred to as 'the pass' (between the mountains, into the Coachella Valley from the west; Apollo mentions going through the pass, in those terms, at one point). I think it makes the most sense that Rick meant the pass

I was also confused about where the ever-present wildfires are. from Aeithales, Apollo mentions a glow on the western horizon, but while driving 'by' Moreno Valley he mentions smoke to the north (I keep putting single quotes around 'by' because, depending on where the fires are, it might make just as much sense to go 'through' Moreno Valley) it's probable that the forests on top of both mountain ranges are on fire, given the situation, but the fact that they're able to get through the pass multiple times under these conditions?? nightmareish

final fun facts about driving times, since they drive so much in this book! depending on when you leave, driving from Palm Springs to Malibu takes around 3 hours, and Malibu to Santa Barbara is another hour and a half. thats a lot of driving while the mountains are all on fire! I wonder how expensive their refueling stops were!

anyway, I'm hazarding a guess that Aeithales is within one of these two red circle areas:

there's a couple hiking trails in both those areas, but they're otherwise unbuilt IRL. I'd be delighted to know where Rick intended for Aeithales to be when he did research for this book!

#percy jackson #trials of apollo #also this book has been out for long enough that i'm sure someone has already figured out the placement #its was delightful to read this book and have all these place names I'm familiar with casually thrown in though! #except for the huge chunk of time I spent assuming they were in the hills above Rancho Mirage #and rick was just referring to the whole valley as Palm Springs which made me so confused and frustrated lol #like......... i am personally so completely over palm springs as a concept #and the way out of towners say palm springs when they mean the valley in general #someone go back in time and tell meg's dad to build his natural oasis closer to the southern side of the valley #its like FILLED with farmland its a much better place for a mansion dedicated to natural life #...as long as the wind isnt blowing in off the salton sea that is...

[tommock]

I DNF'd Mistorn: Here's Why

Disclaimer: You asked for this. Let me start there. Don't get mad at me, Mistborn lover. If you clicked on this link, and that means you are taking the dagger into your own hand. The wound is self-inflicted!

I did not finish Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson. I know, I know, its actually called The Final Empire. The name Mistborn has stuck with so many readers for a reason, so I'll continue to use it as a shorthand. The book didn't work for me, but I think WHY it didn't work for me might be interesting to read about, especially for fellow authors.

If you have read and enjoyed the Mistborn books, or any work by Brandon Sanderson, I'm delighted. I want to applaud any work of fiction that brings people joy (so long as it or its author is not reprehensible in some way (he said, covering his ass)). I don't want you to think this is me taking shots at you or at Sanderson. I'm just talking about a work of fiction and what it did to my brain.

Believe me when I tell you I have no delusions about being some high-handed minister of good taste. You should see some of the anime I watch to destress at the end of a long day trying to be a self-published author, editor, and, well, just an ordinary semi-functioning human being.

I've read many, many books and loved them, only to come back to them later and find they were … less deserving of my matured tastes. Sometimes books meet us at the right time. If Mistborn was, or is, one such book for you, I would be a jerk and a fool if I tried to tell you that you were wrong for liking it. That isn't what this is. But, if you're at all curious why I didn't like it the way you did, here are my thoughts.

Instead of trying to construct some long elaborate essay, I've decided to present my reading notes as I was writing them. If you're at all familiar with my SPFBO9 opening reads thread, this is in a similar, though much protracted style. This is my travelogue of the first few chapters. If these notes are rough or feel stilted in places, I'm sorry. I DNF'd the book a few months ago, and I found in trying to clean up my notes that I was making up commentary to fill in gaps and I don't think that's fair. I've tried to provide some context where I could.

Pages referenced are from the first mass market edition, published August 2007 by Tor

My Notes:

Starts well enough. Interesting introduction to the fantastic elements of the environment (the ash fall) and the enslavement of the skaa. Some neat 2nd world titles “obligator,” etc.

Not great, not riveting, but competent introduction of world and one protagonist, Kelsier. He doesn't know what to do with Vin, though. Disconnect between the characters as we're told they are and their actions. Lacking coherent motivation.

(P.5)The slave that stands and stares defiantly sending a chill through the lord so-and-so is a bit melodramatic. Both actions struck me as over the top.

(writing note)…too many “of courses”

The writing is competent and descriptive. The Mist at night is another interesting setting detail.

(p.6) I immediately dislike Kelsier. “I’ll have to cure them of that (fear of the mist) some day.” This is has an unsympathetic arrogance about it. If this is also the man who stared defiantly at lord-so-and-so, hes blasé about endangering these people, and seems to look down on them, much like lord-so-and-so. I suspect this impression is not intentional. I suspect I’m supposed to think him strong and clever. We’ll see.

(7) rolling his eyes at these people. This seems intentional. But it’s also annoying.

(10) beatings beatings beatings. These “peasants” and their daily beatings. Did I mention the beatings? Their lives are harsh! There are beatings!

(‘) what is this talk about Tepper “leading” the skaa? Leading them how? They’re slaves! What decisions are they making? No, really. What is this forced little conflict? It’s pointless.

(‘) “How do you do that?” “What?” “Smile all the time” - there’s no reason for him to ask this. It’s unmotivated dialogue. How do you smile all the time? How? No. Why, sure. “You keep smiling. Is something about our home funny to you?”

(19-20, ch.1) I’m having trouble with Sandersons storytelling. This is coming across as heavy handed and simplistic. Here’s Vin. She was betrayed. There are betrayals. This boy who came to get her who’s nice enough will also betray her. But the ash is free…

I wonder if we’re going to slowly work through the alphabet section by section. Ash, then beatings and betrayal… who knows what could be next? Crime? I bet it’s crime.

Also - Reen’s sayings and betrayal. I think in general I find it a bit affected when we meet a character and they’re immediately thinking of their backstory … but that’s probably not fair of me. I think what comes across as affected is Sandersons execution. There’s a very light fiction - YA quality about Vin’s angsty introduction. I might have loved it if I read it at 14, but not now.

I’d like to think of an example of what would be more appealing to me - the introduction of a character with similar enough circumstances… Actually, Gideon the 9th might be a good example. We get to hear Gideon’s voice in the prose and the dialogue and get a strong sense of her character as well as the specific and very interesting world building details of how she got into the 9th house. Here, Reen’s betrayal is left completely unexplored, and so I wonder why bring it up at all except for that cheap YA punch in the gut of “my brother betrayed me and now I’m here.”

Maybe Sanderson felt some necessity to move faster here. He wanted to get to the city theiving … but it isn’t working for me, so obviously I think it was a mistake. Obviously he was hoping this would create a sense of anticipation that we would eventually find out HOW Vin’s brother betrayed her, but because he leads with it and then doesn’t explain it, it makes it seem like it doesn’t really matter HOW Vin was betrayed, what’s important is that she was betrayed and now she doesn’t trust anyone. It’s just a bit weak.

THE HEAVY HANDEDNESS (People being mean to Vin - her hard life) (21) the slap in the face (23) Theron looking Vin up and down - “eyes lingered on her … running down the length of her body. … She was hardly enticing (didn’t even look 16); some men preferred such women, however.” (24) “what do you know?” “Enough” - Vin hurts her, expositional dialogue about her brother’s debt and selling her to a whorehouse.

(25) fearing Vin would disappear in a scene she doesn’t have much to do during, we get these unnecessary interjections of her watching the interaction, followed by the explanation of Camon thinking Vin is his good luck charm. This should have been presented earlier, because it just interrupts the dialogue here. But also, it feels inaccurate after Vin made such a useful critique of Camon’s servants. She seems much more useful in other ways than a luck charm, and comfortable offering her criticism without the slightest hesitation.

This chapter ends rather abruptly and without much Go to it. Vin uses her Luck and gets our stuffy official to consider her boss’s mundane business proposal.

The notion that Camon brings Vin along because he thinks of her as his luck charm feels really thin, especially on a job like this where everyone has to look the part. Which raises an important question: what was Vin doing there? I mean literally. Why didn’t Camon have SOMETHING for her to do. Camon didn’t dress her up in any part, she didn’t have any kind of cover story as his daughter or nurse or anything. Just some kid in the room dressed … who knows how while important official business is discussed. She just floats somewhere, doing nothing, as far as anyone is concerned.

VIN’S MOTIVATION Where is it? What does she get out of making this work for Camon if he has no idea what she’s doing? Why is she avoiding him if this is such an important job? Why is she helping him at all?

The pieces are there, but Sanderson doesn’t put them together.

Camon should know about Vin’s ability to “smooth things over” in some capacity. This would give him a serious reason for her being there on this crucial job. Vin should be motivated to help him because if this lucrative job works out, it will go a long way towards paying off her brother’s debt. Now suddenly there is a sense of urgency for her instead of just having a bad time owned by a “crew leader” getting slapped around. The scam itself isn’t enough. Frankly, it’s kind of boring at this point. It’s a slow moving beurocratic swindle.

(32) Kelsier. Sanderson is doing a good job introducing some thieves’ cant here as Dockson and Kelsier are planning their job, talking about how they need a “Smoker.” Someone is a good Tineye. The loss of a man to the Steel Ministry underscores the mortal risk these men are taking. But … there’s something about all this crime play that feels a bit cute, like Sanderson had only a passing, generic understanding of (fictional) gangs/criminal organizations. He’s spent his world building energy on the fantasy aspects of the story - the dystopian Tolkien Lord Ruler and Steel Ministry, skaa, ashfalls, mist - but not on developing the criminal world of the characters, linguistically speaking. They’re all crews working on a job headed by a crew leader. This is the world we’re living in, most immediately, and yet it feels the most underdeveloped.

“Kelsier shook his head. ‘No. He’s a good Smoker, but he’s not a good enough man.’ Dockson smiled. ‘Not a good enough man to be on a THIEVING CREW … Kell, I have missed working with you.”

This stopped me dead. I laughed at the book and put my hand over my eyes. “Thieving crew” is just silly. It’s sixth grade D&D language, but even more ridiculous is the sentiment of Dockson’s statement: that character is somehow a moot point because they are criminals. It’s as if he’s saying: we’re breaking the law, so we’re the bad guys, and bad guys don’t work with “good men.”

Here we see Sanderson’s shallow understanding of the characters he’s portraying. They are stealing from slavers who exist in the service of a brutal, oppressive dictator. But put that aside, and consider we’ve just been told one of their ilk had been caught and beheaded by the Ministry. The risk these people are facing couldn’t be higher. Working with people they can trust, a stand up guy or a “good man,” would be one of the most important things to them. From their point of view a “good man” doesn’t mean a patron saint of the poor, but it means a hell of a lot. If a guy is a drunk who cheats on his wife, you can’t trust him not to turn on you. If he gambles too much, you can’t trust him not to gamble on your safety. He doesn’t keep his apartment clean, how can you trust him to be conscientious about keeping you alive. It all matters - even more so because he’s on a “thieving crew.”

Now, Sanderson probably didn’t give this line more than a moment's thought. He was writing fast and sailed right over it. But that’s exactly the problem. It gives the book a kind of childish, YA feeling.

(33) “Kelsier turned with curious eyes.” I’ve written lines like this, but I almost always revise them because I write about eyes too much. The point is his eyes aren’t curious, Kelsier is, and it shows on his face. I can’t picture curious eyes, and I’m sure you can’t either. And I would cut the next line of dialogue - going to chastise my brother … we already know he was going to do this because he said so, and the line just isn’t very good anyway. A look of curiosity from Kell, and the promise from Dockson “it’ll be worth your time,” gets us out of the section better. Sometimes the best repartee between characters is a look.

(33-34) the scenes with Vin remain heavy handed, and affected. This section adds almost nothing to the story accept for the disappointingly narrow view of a fantasy underworld that the women in it are only ever whores. This from a world crawling with Smokers and Tineyes? I think not. The clumsy presentation of Vin’s awful life is what makes these sections particularly affected. With her particular ability to use her Luck, I can’t help but wonder why she’s even still here. That seems to be the story to me. Not the abuse, but why she remains when she clearly has the power to get out. She can smooth over deals with reps from the SM, but she hasn’t thought to calm some member of the crew and then just … walk? Go literally anywhere in the city and use her Luck to get work where she won’t be whipped and slapped. It seems like the easiest thing in the world, so why hasn’t she done it? This is what the story here could have been, and it would have been so much more interesting.

Obviously she has to be there so Sanderson can have terrible things happen to her so she can be saved by Kelsier just like he saved the other raped scaa girl (let’s all take a moment to roll our eyes) and then her character can have a trajectory from passive victim to active hero - but that’s an excuse, and excuses don’t make good stories.

That said, as is, these two pages could be cut entirely and with very minor revision to the next session, nothing would be lost. It introduces a hideout we don’t need to know about, abuse that is redundant, over the top and unmotivated, and then Camon says “it’s time.” It’s just a prelude, in which nothing happens, before the actual scene. So just cut to the actual scene.

(36) we finally find out what the Camon job was supposed to be, I suspect because Sanderson finally decided what the details were. It would have been much more interesting to know this earlier, just like it would have been more interesting to understand about the particulars of Vin’s brothers betrayal earlier, so we could understand the context of the story being told.

But a LARGER ISSUE continues to emerge. First Camon tells Vin nothing about his plans. She says she is apparently the only crew member who didn’t know what was going on. Then, as they sit in the waiting room, in the vey belly of the obligator beast, he tells her everything. Why? Because Sanderson wants us to know even though he never decided who this character was.

He wants her to be a passive victim of inordinate abuses by a group of irredeemable villains, who only avoids constant sexual assault through the exhausting use of her secret magic so she can be saved and then learn how to be powerful later. But he also wants her to be a smart, capable member of Camon’s crew who is considered as such, because he knows passive protagonists aren’t interesting and because he wants us, the reader, to know what’s going on, and also think that Vin is cool. She can’t be both at the same time. She either needs to be less of an abject, pathetic victim, or she needs to be less involved in this big important scam - and that means she knows less about it and does less to make it work. As is, he’s done too little with either idea of her character and both Vin and Camon are an unmotivated mess.

(42) steel inquisitor. Cool, creepy, disgusting - something straight out of hellraiser.

(43) “Besides, I’m not about to let a possible Mistborn slip away from us” Ah!

Ch3 (45) after the meeting with the obligator (that was a trap), is the first time Vin ever expresses any interest in getting away. Much too late Sanderson gives us a much too thin reason why Vin hasn’t run away (considering the conflicting versions of her character as mentioned before). It’s little more than an afterthought.

(47) in no more than 2 pages Vin goes from never thinking she could make it on her own to leaving for good, telling herself she’d survived sleeping in alleyways before, she could do it again and - “Reen had taught her how to scavenge and beg. Both were difficult in the Final Empire … but she would find a way, if she had too.”

So far, this is all based on a bad feeling. More motivation conflict - Vin has no problem telling Camon directly how his plans won’t work and that he should change the way the servants are dressed, helps him succeed with her luck in both plans, but sees no reason to tell him “I have a bad feeling about this. That was too easy. Why did that obligator suddenly agree. Doesn’t this seem weird to you?”

Sanderson has many of the right pieces, but he hasn’t been able to put them together coherently.

(45)(And, just as an aside, I’m not sure why a girl who has spent to book so far reiterating to herself that EVERYONE WILL BETRAY ME is going out of her way to tell Ulef she has a bad feeling and to get him to come with her. Sanderson says “if he would go with her, then at least she wouldn’t be alone.” But he has also up until this point defined her character by a near constant desire to be alone - when she is introduced sitting in the window of the hideout thinking her brothers word “Vin wasn’t on duty; the watch-hole was simply one of the few places where she could find solitude. And Vin liked solitude. ‘When you’re alone, no one can betray you’- (37) at the “It’s just another betrayal, she thought sickly. Why does it still bother me so? Everyone betrays everyone else. That’s the way life is … She wanted to find a corner - someplace cramped and secluded - and hide. Alone.”

(47) "Bringing Ulef was a good idea. He had contacts in Luthadel." These after the fact explanations are no good. This isn't Vin thinking this, it's the author coming up with more justification for Vin's action, but in order for her character to seem active and motivated, this needed to be revised into the section where Vin decides to bring Ulef. Now it's just tacked on - oh, yeah, and, by the way, if you weren't sure it made sense for Vin to do this, Ulef probably knows people. So, there.

It doesn’t wash. Who is this girl? Can she not stand the idea of being alone, or is it the one and only thing she wants? Is she strong and resourceful in spite of her circumstances, or is she a passive victim? Does she believe everyone will betray her, or does she desperately want to believe otherwise because she can’t live in such an unkind world? Sanderson doesn’t seem to have been able to make up his mind. Maybe some of these details were added in revision on the suggestion of beta readers and the result is a checkerboard character. I’ve seen that before where you make a suggestion to a writer and they add your suggestion but they don’t make the necessary changes to the rest of the book so that the new material earns its place, they just throw it in and dust off their hands - job well done, gotta stay on schedule to publish! But now I’m just writing fan fiction about Sanderson’s process. I don’t know.

(55) Vin’s “weakness” - the contradictions/inexactitude of characters seems to be an ongoing issue for Sanderson, at least for Vin. Is she weak and has to pretend to be strong, or is she strong and often chooses to pretend to be weak (so far she has seemed to be weak and act weak, other than her Luck).

Well, that's as far as I got. Kel shows up just in time to be the wrath of justice for Vin. He's the superman who will make everything alright for this feckless girl. Our hero. Did Sanderson lay it on thick enough? Did you get that these people were all so irredeemably and stupidly bad? Aren't you so glad this strong man has shown up to be Vin's vengeance, just like had been telegraphed all along?

Sorry, I don't mean to be sarcastic. This part of the narrative really isn't so bad, its just been so heavy handedly and clumsily lead up to that there's no thrill in it for me. It isn't a bit satisfying. I'm just glad I don't have to read about any of these shallow side-characters anymore. Except, I have no intention to read on, so I don't have to read about any of them anymore.

Is this book bad? Yes and no. I don't want to read any more, and only read as far as I did as an examination of storytelling, so for me its bad. You only get so many eyerolls before I have to say that. The sentences are very clear and coherent. On their own, they are coherent. Together, they fail to paint of picture of coherent characters who drive the action of the story. If you don't have that, at least in my book, you've got nothing.

The images work. The setting, in its broad strokes, is eveocative. I'd love to set a DnD campaign in a world of ash and a dark lord and all that (I'm not the least mad about the cliché of the dark lord, by the way. Who doesn't love archetypical stories?) But, as near as I can tell, there are no human beings in this book. No one is real. The characters are just that, only characters in a book. They are paper cutouts. They fall flat when the hand of the author isn't pushing them around and making them do things.

Fans often hold Sanderson up as the gold standard of a fantasy author who produces work fast. And having read this far into Mistborn, I can say this about it: It reads like it was written fast.

Yes, Mistborn was an earlier book of his, so I can't judge him by it alone. But it is a work that is so often held up as a favorite by his readers. That's why I picked it up, to see what all the fuss was about. There were many things I enjoyed, but what I enjoyed wasn't the narrative. The story and the characters who moved it were the thing that I enjoyed least. The unique magic and broad setting details and description of places and creepy Inquisitors were what I liked best. The proper nouns were fun.

But proper nouns don't make a story for me. So I did not finish Mistborn by Brandon Sanderson.

If I were looking for a light fantasy read that I didn't have to take seriously and I could pick up and put down whenever I wanted because it was never that exciting or particularly witty or clever, but managed to string along one event after another and kept them going, more or less, whether it made much sense or not, until the end, I think Mistborn would be a fine book to dip into. Lots of people have read it. But then, that seems to me to be its major appeal. It’s a book you can talk about with other people.

It's not enough for me, though. There's lots of fun fantasy books out there that feel more coherent, and, well, INTERESTED in the story they're telling. Interested in violence and revolution and crime in an oppressively totalitarian, dystopian world. Interested in the plight of a young girl who only wants … well, what does she want? To be safe? But the only way she finds she can be safe is to go toward danger and realize how very strong she is? Maybe this story would like to be that, but it hasn't been for the first 60 or so pages.

Sanderson's novel felt more interested in the large and vague story shapes around the characters - a city, a dark lord, slavery, soot snow, bad mist, some kinds of magic, and (I cringe to say it) rape and thieving and beatings - but not in the world of their lives.

I've heard good things about The Way Of Kings from people who did not like Mistborn either, but its safe to say at this point that I have reservations about my reading tastes being a good match for Sanderson's work, at least at this point in time.

If I'm looking for fun I'd rather read another swanky, noir fantasy by Douglas Lumsden any day, or the next gothic gaslamp fantasy mystery by Morgan Stang, or discover my next favorite author, indie or otherwise.

I don't think Mistborn was terrible by any stretch of the imagination. Sanderson has delighted readers for over a decade now! He's prolific, hard working, and he delivers what his fans want, and he and they continue to be richly rewarded for his efforts. He is a Name in the genre, often listed alongside the greats. And why not? Isn't pleasing readers what this is all about? Taylor Swift has oceans of adoring fans, and she's no less deserving of her accolades. Brandon Sanderson is the Taylor Swift of fantasy, you could say. I just don't like her music either.

#books and reading #brandon sanderson #Mistborn #book review #book critique #dnf #fantasy books

[grandhotelabyss]

Delillo's The Names? I'm contemplating whether to add it to my immediate-reads or my eventual-reads. I am in awe of Underworld; it might be the greatest novel of sustained readerly brilliance written in the 20th century (on a related note, which other novels do you think could contend for that title?). White Noise is one of the funniest novels I've ever read, although I coolly admire its greatness more than fully submit to its sublimity. (I read it during the first weeks after the Covid restrictions were lifted, and my near-disgust at any reminder of death (its thanatophobia felt alien; I only felt rage), and quite frankly, any characterization of "expertise" in any field, be it Hitler or pop culture, was undoubtedly a personal limitation.)

It's good. I need to reread the whole thing carefully soon—I read it years ago in college and kind of skimmed it again more recently—but its general place in DeLillo's oeuvre is earned: the book where he enters his major phase from the sometimes zany experiments of the 1970s. It raises earlier models of a certain kind of novel—the dense American meditation on "the international theme" of Hawthorne and James, the booze-soaked ex-pat American travelogue of Hemingway and Fitzgerald, the paranoid literary spy thriller of Conrad and Greene—into a more cosmic dimension with its almost Heideggerean rumination on language as ineffable ground of being in despite of all attempts at religious, economic, and political control.

People everywhere are absorbed in conversation. Seated under trees, under striped canopies in the squares, they bend together over food and drink, their voices darkly raveled in Oriental laments that flow from radios in basements and back kitchens. Conversation is life, language is the deepest being. We see the patterns repeat, the gestures drive the words. It is the sound and picture of humans communicating. It is talk as a definition of itself. Talk. Voices out of doorways and open windows, voices on the stuccoed-brick balconies, a driver taking both hands off the wheel to gesture as he speaks. Every conversation is a shared narrative, a thing that surges forward, too dense to allow space for the unspoken, the sterile. The talk is unconditional, the participants drawn in completely. This is a way of speaking that takes such pure joy in its own openness and ardor that we begin to feel these people are discussing language itself. What pleasure in the simplest greeting. It’s as though one friend says to another, “How good it is to say ‘How are you?’” The other replying, “When I answer ‘I am well and how are you,’ what I really mean is that I’m delighted to have a chance to say these familiar things—they bridge the lonely distances.”

I was hoping Lorenzten, in his awaited and then celebrated and indeed excellent DeLillo conspectus in the revived Bookforum, would explain why he thinks The Names is the greatest American novel or however he phrased it somewhere (Twitter? a podcast?—I don't remember). He doesn't quite, but I assume this paragraph implies that it has something to do with the novel's placing of America in the doomed lineage of empires redeemed only by the free and creative, i.e., novelistic, use of language (the little subtweet in the passage is that DeLillo borrowed Tap's novel from a young Atticus Lish):

There is something a little silly about the cult, novelistically. Their mode of killing, murdering people whose initials match the letters of place-names, is preposterous. But the irrationality is the point and so is the ambiguous role of language. Axton is fascinated by the Greek language and its alphabet but he never goes so far as to learn it. (Owen by contrast knows many languages living and dead.) As much as Axton travels to research it—to the Peloponnese, to Jordan, to Pakistan—he can never tell if the cult and its murders are some reawakening of ancient violence or a modern reaction to the new circumstances of American-imposed globalization. What would the difference be? Language and alphabets are the remnants of conquest, and the old names that go with the cults’ murders are remnants of dead empires. Owen and Frank are similarly transfixed, the one with his memories of plains mysticism, the other as a representative of a counterculture whose antagonism to the system was once without ambiguity. These variations on American unknowing, animated within a book whose tissue is DeLillo’s lyrical descriptions of the Greek landscape and points east, give the novel its power. A character refers to Europe as the “hardcover,” America as “the paperback version,” and India—not yet ushered into the regime of modernity, mass literacy, and the nascent world of computers and telexes, still governed by oral traditions—as “not even a book.” The Names glimpses these contrasts in simultaneous anachronism. It is to Axton and Kathryn’s son Tap that the future belongs. He spends most of his time imagining a lost American past, writing a historical novel about Owen’s prairie boyhood, full of misspellings.

On the novel as sustained prose performance, I think DeLillo's generational peers reached a similar peak around the same time he did, as in Roth's Sabbath's Theater or Morrison's Paradise. McCarthy's comparable work comes a little earlier, with Suttree. Maybe The English Patient, which owes something to DeLillo, who gave it a generous blurb. In prior generations, I think of Herzog, Nightwood, Absalom, Absalom!, Mrs. Dalloway. While this strikes me as a 20th-century ideal arising from the modernist notion of the novel as high art, it's anticipated in the 19th century in Melville, Dickens, and Conrad, who wrote, in the Preface to a text I must not, well, name,

A work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.

#don delillo #christian lorentzen #literary criticism #american literature

[kurtvonnugget]

Cortado

It all started after weeks of visiting a recurring dream world. In this world, I fulfilled a fantasy I had no idea I possessed. I was the sole proprietor and visionary of a tiny café lodged in a neighborhood market. I called it Cortado. Though I favored lattes, this lesser-known espresso drink has a bouncy vibration to its name, and leaves open the aesthetic opportunity to replace the first O with a heart shape, which I did take advantage of.

You'd think you might control your dreams, but you don't. At least, I don't. I always thought it strange that one part of your brain could direct an entire cinema for your remaining conscious morsel of awareness, coddled in delight or fright, laughing at your own jokes, dropping jaws at your own twists in plot, jumps at your own scares. I used to think that was strange, but now I only wish I could believe it.

She was my customer. When she first came to my counter she looked at me intensely. She held eye contact long enough to be uncomfortable, except with her I was content. She had a glow about her, a conceptual funnel that bent all gaze as light toward a singularity. She said I looked familiar and asked me if I might know her from somewhere. I told her I didn't recognize her. After only a brief exchange she took her drink to-go, a cortado, and never ordered it again. But she did come back, maybe twice a week, for months. Each night I went to sleep I hoped to see her again.

Overtime, we had a casual relationship. She learned about me. She learned that I was an actuary before I started this shop within a dream. I learned about her too. She was a writer, in town for a story she was covering that would amount to a sizable book if the hours clacking at her laptop meant anything. She didn't like to talk about the details. We mostly knew each other as an occasional friendly face, and I never even learned her name. And yet I had a crush on her. I still do.

Then, one day, I simply stopped having the dream. I'd go to sleep, dream about other things, and wakeup unfulfilled. I didn't have the shop, nor the eyes that danced to its decor. I went on with my life, but I still feel it in my chest when I remember her. I feel it even now, at the memory of a dream, my heart in a whirlpool agonally pumping at frothy snowmelt.

Months later I had to travel for work to a town an-hour-and-a-half away in the real world. I stopped at a café. I couldn't believe it! It was her working the counter. She had a nametag which read Sophi, the i dotted with a heart. I couldn't help but to stare rather intensely and I asked if she recognized me. "No, I'm sorry." She really appeared to be meeting me for the first time. I was shaken. I tried to play it cool. Maybe it wasn't really her but just an uncanny resemblance. I ordered the drink which was the namesake of the place, The London Fog, and left. I never ordered it again.

But I did come back.

I came back at least twice a week, for months. I started talking to her casually here or there, but I didn't yet give her a name. She did rather seem like the girl from my dreams, but that is a completely crazy thing to think about someone in the real world and impossible to say aloud. But I did keep coming back. And one day I asked about her. She was a writer before she started the shop and funded it with the profits from a non-fiction book. Over my drive home I remained engaged in a tortured inner dialogue. I knew I needed to come back and ask her out.

When I did come back, a week later, there was a sign on the café door: "Closed until further notice." It was dark inside and there were men near the window talking openly about their plans for the space. I said "Excuse me gentlemen, but what happened to this place? I thought it was going well."

"The lady who rented this space disappeared. Nothing. We don't have any contact information that works, any relatives, friends, or even a useful address. I have no other information. Do you know her?"

"No," I offered, and slinked away.

That night I stared up at the ceiling, longing for a woman, for a dream. I did dream. Finally, I closed my eyes and drifted off. The scent of espresso filled my nose.

#short story #magical realism #short fiction #spooky #coffee shop

[kuronanox]

Every moment with you-Ukitake Jushiro

"If I had to be reborn every lifetime it would always be you."

(Your Name) sighs while sitting on the floor packing all her belongings and putting them in boxes to move out the barracks. This was the hardest thing to do, everything they shared and everything Ukitake had were being placed else where. It didn't feel right to her but and she just lost her husband and home.

She felt lifeless as Kyoraku sat across from her and frowned. Of course he was still heart broken by his best friend, his brother death. They were inseparable.

"(Your Name) I know it's hard but I promise you things will get better."

"Better said than done." She answers back but doesn't look him in the eye and folds his captains cloth placing it in a nice decorative box where she put all his special belongings.

"You will be okay out there?" He asks worriedly as she nods her head in response and rubs her red eyes from all the crying.

"I'll check up on you every often." Kyoraku sits himself up and takes one last look of Ukitake and (Your Name) house before looking down and bidding a farewell.

"(Your Name) come here." Ukitake kindly smiles at his wife as she set the hot tea down. Walking towards him he held a brush as she sat in front of him and hummed in delight.

"You know my favorite part of the day is at night and we get to spend quality time together." He says as she hums in response.

"My favorite part is waking up to you." She answers back as he chuckles and ties her hair back in a low bun as she turns towards him.

"I guess your answer is better than mine." He slightly pouts and takes a sip of the tea that was prepared.

(Your Name) curled in bed alone as she cried again they spend hundreds and years together as friends and the love of each other life's. So she asked herself how do you fully heal if you've spend most your life depending on each other.

Ukitake was no longer here, who could she depend on that was like him? His soothing voice and calming nature made her feel secure.

Looking out the window it was a starry night as she moved out to the country side to heal more. Setting up his shrine and everything else it was weird. Never had she been alone like this.

(Your Name) wondered was his soul reborn yet? Was he in Rukongai or the Human World? Either way it would be impossible to find him. There's was millions of soul getting reborn everyday.

"You're sick! I'm not letting you leave this room." (Your Name) yells at Ukitake as he coughs and holds onto his desk for support as she ran to his side and held him up.

"Yes but work comes first." He says softly and sits back down to do unfinished business.

"Honey. You've down enough, maybe it's time you retired? It's only a matter of time and you are only getting older!" She exclaims as he chuckles and swats her away kindly.

"I still look young though."

She rolled her eyes and pouted, Ukitake health was slowly getting worse but it never stopped him from working hard and supporting his squad.

There were times she worried he didn't have long to live because of how severely sick he would get at times but those thoughts she bore were heavy on her heart.

"I'm just scared...what if something bad happens to you?"

Ukitake looks up to her and grabs her hand gently with his and kisses it.

"I'm here right now that's all that matters."

"But what if there comes a time you aren't no more?" She questions as he knits his brows to find words to say.

Ukitake didn't know what to say because he also knew.

"You know I'll always have you and I'll be somewhere better." Although those weren't the words he wanted to say the truth had to be told as she looks down and nods.

"I love you." She whispers and he smiles.

"I love you too."

Waking up the sun peaked up as she groaned and looked towards her side.

"I guess its still a habit. I can imagine you here but you aren't here."

Getting ready for the day she had a unexpected visitor. Well it was expected but he didn't tell her.

"Good morning!" Kyoraku happily says walking into her new place as she smiles back and lets him in.

They both said their prayers to the shine before setting up the table to eat breakfast.

"How are you holding up?"

She wanted to lie but didn't know how to.

"It's okay, I can't say I haven't stop crying and doing old habits but I think being out here is better and getting the fresh air feels nice."

The older man hums in response and stares out to look at the flowers scattered everywhere. "He would have loved it out here."

"I know... that's why I decided to come out here. It's more like 'you've worked hard let's go rest somewhere peaceful now' I know it's time for me to rest also."

Kyoraku smiles and then looks at Ukitake picture.

"He's smiling down at us (Your Name) theres no need to torture yourself no more."

She rolls her eyes playfully and looks at the picture too before grinning. "I know but it's hard."

"I'm not leaving him!" (Your Name) screamed at Kyoraku as Ukitake prayed to Mimihagi as to becoming the right hand of the soul king.

"I promised him you would not die in this war!"

(Your Name) cried as she watched Ukitake sacrifice himself and suffer in pain.

"You knew and didn't tell me, you guys both knew! How could you let me leave him like this." As she cried and  fell on the floor.

Kyoraku grabbed her forcefully as she struggled to get loose and she screamed in pain.

"I'm not letting him leave by himself."

"Don't be selfish (Your Name) you aren't thinking! He's doing this for the sake of Seireitei! He's doing this for everyone! For you!" Kyoraku yells at her as she looks away and cries into his chest.

Glancing back at Ukitake she wasn't sure if he was still physically here.

Wiping her tears she cooled her head and nodded.

Kyoraku left as she signed and laid in bed. She would go back to work when she was fully healed but as of right now she didn't wanna do anything.

Life at this point had no meaning to her if he was gone.

"I promise you I'll get better."

50 years later

It took her a few years after Ukitake death to piece herself back together, during the time she went back to being a shinigami and full filling her duties to protect souls and those she loved.

There had been a disturbance in the world of living so her and few lieutenants were sent down to the world of living to check it out.

"I feel a high reitsu coming from the west." Hisagi says as him and Kira went to check it out.

"I'll check east and Renji will go south." Rangiku tells (Your Name) as she nods and follows north.

It had been many years since she was last down here. It had been during Aizen's battle.

"The human world has changed quite a bit."

After reporting a few suspicious incident to Kyoraku she watched the sunset alone waiting for the others.

A man in his 30s walked by her reading a book, he was smiling peacefully with his hair tied in a low pony and a nice button up.

The white hair tamed.

She gasped slightly as he looked up to her and his eyes widen a bit.

"You can see me?" She asks questioning him.

"I can see you, Ive seen many things since I was a child." Ukitake laughs not fazed a bit from her outfit and sword.

She felt happy tears fall from her eyes as he jumped a bit afraid he had hurt her feelings because she was dead and he wasn't.

"I'm sorry, I'm just so happy. You're alive."

He tilts his head in confusion as she wipes them away.

"My name is (Your Name)." She introduced herself as he kindly bowed

Although she wanted to bring him back he had a different life here and showing them together would only confuse him.

"Your name sounds familiar to me." Ukitake says as she sadly smiled and lied to him. "Maybe it's common around here?"

"No it's pretty unique. I've heard it somewhere." He says but can't seem to connect the clues.

Oh how was the world was cruel to them both at this moment. She would have to remember all the memories of them as his was mixed with confusion and facts.

"Do you believe in rebirth?" She then asks him as he nods his head. She took a deep breath and said the following words Ukitake told her before his death and sacrifice.

"If I had to be reborn every lifetime it would always be you."

Ukitake touches his head as it started to feel a bit dizzy and she held him and he gasps. He knew for sure something about her was familiar but he was getting frustrated not being able to figure it out.

Tears fell from her face as Ukitake eyes were watering. "Why am I crying? My body is doing it on its own."

Ukitake was beyond confused but she wouldn't let him suffer no longer. She knew he was safe and happily healthy living down here and that's all she needed to know.

"I'll wait a few more years for you and then we'll meet up there."

Ukitake looks at her and reached his hand out. He didn't want her to leave this comforting feeling and Ukitake knew he knew her somehow but he can't remember.

Kissing his forehead she took one last glance and disappeared.

"I'll see you then my love. I'll watch over you till it's your time and then we can finally be together again."

Ukitake looks up to the sky as the uncontrollable tears fell from his face and he tried his best to compose himself. He just couldn't as he cried, he felt something from her and he would have to wait.

As much as he wanted the pain to leave, his own heart neglected his mind.

"I'll see you again (Your Name)."

(Authors note: Oo so sad, Ukitake is literally so precious, he didn't deserve death.)

#bleach #tite kubo #bleach x reader #bleach oneshots #bleach oneshot #bleach imagine #bleach imagines #bleach ukitake #jushiro ukitake #jūshirō ukitake #ukitake jushiro #bleach Jushiro #bleach Kyoraku #shunsui kyoraku #kyoraku shunsui

[jamiemackenziefraser]

All That Was Fair

Chapter 12: Billows and Breeze 

Summary: Burning questions pave the way for a few much-needed answers. 

Read on AO3

Read chapter 12 on tumblr below the cut:

Previous, master list, next

A/n: I’m back, thanks so much for your patience! As usual, this chapter picks up directly where the last left off, so it might be good to glance at the previous chapter if you want a refresher.

Chapter 12: Billows and Breeze

***

After the unfortunate incident with the knife, Claire had been reluctant to leave his side, still buzzing with worry over him. She’d gotten herself well and truly worked up, and Jamie thought that they needed to do something lighthearted and low-stakes. The day so far had been so charged with tense energy that Jamie thought perhaps being outside in the familiarity and tranquility of nature would do her some good. 

“Do ye fancy a hike?” he asked Claire, who was sitting curled up on the couch. Immediately remembering that “hike” was likely not a word in her vocabulary, he amended, “a wee walk about outside?” 

Claire’s face brightened instantly and she perked up. “Oh can we? I feel so stuffed up!” 

Jamie was proud of himself for once again correctly guessing what would be good for her. Perhaps he had her figured out now… 

Thus the preparations began. It was an unseasonably warm day for autumn in Scotland, so Jamie was comfortable with Claire wearing one of the armload of dresses provided she also wore his jacket. Most of them still lay on the chair where he’d deposited them the night before. He grabbed one out for Claire, handed it to her, and then she disappeared off to change. When all of the rest of the dresses had been draped over his arm to bring upstairs, he noticed the book laying on the chair. The Woman of Balnain. 

Alarm bells went off in his head, and his curiosity peaked, but he didn’t have any time to spare to look into the book. It’d have to wait. As he tossed the clothes upstairs in the guest bedroom, he took a stop by his office to place the book on his desk. Soon. 

For his own preparations, he suited up in his well-loved hiking boots, packed a backpack of water and snacks, and considered their destination. Claire likely wasn’t interested in a car journey (she’d had enough excitement for one day), so perhaps just a walk about his property and a stroll to the neighboring monro. It truly was beautiful: the heather was in full bloom this time of year, turning the hills into sweeping seas of purple. Claire would love it. 

So, they escaped out the back door and set out side-by-side along his property. They weren’t touching, just amicably basking in each other’s nearness. About two steps in, Jamie realized he needed to slow his pace. His long legs and inexhaustible hiker’s energy would far outpace his wee faerie. 

“I never thought tae ask…” Jamie began as they walked along, Claire’s face upturned toward the sunlight peeking through the clouds, “how old are ye?” 

“Oh…” she looked down shyly and then glanced back up at him from under her lashes, “I'm quite young really, I’m only 9 and 30.” 

Jamie’s mouth fell open. He was incredibly taken aback by this, having pegged her to be about his age if not younger, but quickly decided he could take it in stride. 

“‘Quite young?’” he chuckled, “ye’re practically a granny compared tae me, lass. I’m 29.” 

“29!” she exclaimed, as if she had just told her that he was the bloody queen rather than a decade younger than her, “but you’re so… why don’t you live with your parents?” 

Jamie nearly tripped over a stone in his path but managed to right himself before toppling over. Claire had stopped walking the moment “29” had left his mouth, and she was staring at him with a concerned gaze that uncomfortably reminded Jamie of how an adult might look at a lost child. 

But the pieces were beginning to fall into place in his brain, and he wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs as he gathered his thoughts. With a glance at Claire and then a tilt of his head, they resumed walking. 

“I sense that maybe there’s a wee difference between lifespans of humans and the fair folk…” he began uncertainly, “Humans only stay wi’ their parents until they are 18 or so. Besides, I lost my mam when I was young, and my da a few years back.” 

He wasn’t sure exactly what possessed him to share that last intimate detail with her, superfluous to the point as it was. He hardly ever talked about his parents’ deaths to people, and it disconcerted him a bit how easily it came tumbling from him now. Apparently a deep part of him wanted to share everything with her. 

“Ye said ye’re quite young…” he continued, and a horrifying thought suddenly struck him, “you didna still live wi’ yer parents before ye came through the stones, did ye?” 

Oh Christ what if she was only a child by fae terms! She looked his age but…

His head began to spin, but she thankfully answered before he could work himself up any further. 

“No. I suppose things are a little different for the fair folk. We are taken care of by our parents until around 30 years of age or so. But I’ve been on my own for far longer than that. I… I lost my parents as well. When I was very young. I can hardly remember them really…” 

She gave a little tilt of the head, trying to keep the mention of tragedy casual, but he could see the pain in her eyes that wouldn’t meet his. 

Jamie’s heart ached for her, tinged with the familiar longing for his own parents. It seemed they really were kindred spirits— him and Claire— two lost souls who’d somehow come to find each other. 

“I’m sorry, lass,” he said huskily, “so that’s what ye meant when ye’d said ye’d been takin’ care of yerself yer whole life? Did ye no’ have other family?” 

Claire shrugged her shoulders a little, as if her clothes were too tight, and shook her head, her curls billowing in the gentle breeze to hide half of her face. He knew she wasn’t hiding from him intentionally, but it still made his heart clench to see her discomfort. 

“Not really. But the fair folk are rather communal. We are often near each other, even if we don’t live as a family unit per say. Others made sure I was well, and I had friends and other fae around, but mostly I’ve been—” 

She left the word “alone” unspoken, but the meaning was clear. The undeclared word seemed to linger in the air between them, weighty and heart-wrenching. 

At this new declaration, Jamie couldn’t help but reach out and take her hand. She wasn’t alone anymore after all. Maybe she felt that way, but Jamie would be damned if it were true. He wouldn’t leave her. Her wee hand slipped easily into his, and he allowed his thumb to drift over the peaks and valleys of her knuckles. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. What else could he say in the midst of such loss?

“What about you?” she asked, her natural radiance suddenly coming through in her smile, dissipating the heavy topic’s dark cloud, “will you tell me more about your sister?” 

Jamie couldn’t help a sheepish smile. “Aye, Janet is her real name. After we lost our mam when I was around 8 or so, Jenny became sort of a mother tae me. She was always there when I needed her, and— weel…” he let out a bit of a laugh, thinking about the earlier blow up with Jenny, “she’s always there now, sometimes too much when she’s sticking her neb intae my business… but I’m glad she’s there. I love her verra much.” 

Claire gave him a sweet nod and squeezed his hand. “I can tell she’s important to you.” 

Apologies rose in Jamie’s throat along with the resurfaced guilt from earlier. He had told the one person who mattered most to him that Claire meant nothing, and both of them were aware of it. But as much as he was bursting to lay himself at her feet and explain his mistake all over again, he’d already been forgiven, so it was time for him to move past it. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Claire letting out an exclamation. They had just rounded the edge of the monro, revealing the expanse of rolling heather— its purple waves spread into a picturesque canvas across the landscape. 

“Bonny, is it no’?” he asked, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. 

“It’s beautiful,” she uttered in wonderment. 

Feeling like a protagonist in a romance novel, he held tightly to her hand and led her through the field. Her skirt billowed in the breeze behind her, and her face was lit up with a serene joy. Riotous curls swept all around her head, and Jamie was enthralled. He found himself walking almost completely backward so he could watch her face as she took in the beautiful sights. 

He could admit to himself that it was cheesy, but to him, Claire would always be the most beautiful view. 

If only he could tell her that… To bring them to a halt, gather her into his arms, and kiss her until she was breathless…

He had to squeeze his eyes shut before the longing took him over. The words he always repeated to himself came to the forefront of his mind. 

You can be her friend, her anchor, but nothing more. She’s lost everything, ye canna take advantage of her. Pull yerself together. 

And so he did. He wiped all thoughts of kissing her from the slate of his mind— imaging a whiteboard of the errant imaginings being erased— and grounded himself in the moment. 

“Have ye ever seen a place like this?” he asked. 

She shook her head, still smiling in delight. “We don’t usually wander out as far as the moors. Well, some do. Some have experienced a great deal. But I hadn’t ever left my forest before now.” 

He nodded, going silent as his imagination overwhelmed him with images of him taking Claire to the beaches of Greece. Her joy as she took in the crystal blue waters, her dropping to her knees to grab handfuls of sand, her body clad only in a bikini as she jumped into the waves...

A question suddenly struck him and pulled him rudely from his fantasy. 

“Do the fair folk read?” 

She looked at him, uncertain. “Read?” 

He thought back to their adventure at the bookstore. She hadn’t actually asked him about the books, but she hadn’t made any indication she knew what they were either. It had been an overwhelming day; he couldn’t blame her for not asking about every single thing when it was all unfamiliar. 

“Do you have language in a written form? With symbols?” he expanded. 

She gave a little shake of her head and looked curiously at him. “We communicate verbally, like we’re doing now. What is reading?” 

And thus, Jamie set into the best explanation he could manage. About communication, learning, writings surviving the years to give insights into ancient ways, the power of stories in human culture. 

“We tell many stories,” Claire told him during a break in his explanation, “all passed down from one generation to the next. Like I said at the gardens, language is everything to us.” 

He nodded thoughtfully. Jamie’s curiosity about the fair folk was well and truly peaked, and as they walked along, enjoying the serenity of the warm day and the feeling of earth under their feet, he launched into more questions. 

“This may be a difficult question tae answer, but… how are ye alive if ye dinna eat? I mean… humans get energy from things we eat, where do you get yers?” 

“Well… I suppose a simple way to explain it is we get energy from everything around us.” She made a wide, encompassing gesture to their surroundings. 

“Like from the sun? Like plants do?” Jamie’s brain was running away with thoughts of Claire going through the process of photosynthesis. 

“No, it’s… it’s hard to explain. It’s more like… I just tap into the energy of the earth. I don’t really know how else to say it.” Claire gave him a bit of a helpless smile, and Jamie returned one in dismissal of the topic. It didn’t matter to him so much how exactly it worked so long as it did. 

“Okay, one more question,” he asked, hoping he hadn’t already pushed her too far with his curiosity. 

But his fears were assuaged when she answered indulgently, “you can ask me as many as you want, Jamie.”

That got his head spinning. What he really wanted to know was about relationships between the fae. Did they have marriage? He longed to ask her (and maybe get down on one knee depending on the answer), but he bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to be scaring the lass with a daft question when he couldn’t even keep his feelings in check. No, he’d save that one for another day. 

“I appreciate it, lass, but jes’ one more for now. From the stories I’ve heard from my mam… and that many people believe in Scotland, ye’re supposed to leave offerings of milk and sweets— food— for the fair folk tae eat. But ye dinna eat, so…”

Claire let out a laugh then. Not one of mocking or disdain, but pure enjoyment. And it lit up Jamie’s soul to hear even though he had no idea why it was she was laughing. 

“You humans think you have us all figured out. That one, my lad, is one you all made up completely on your own. I’m sure half of the things you believe are mere superstition,” she answered with an entertained gleam in her eye. 

Jamie could have talked to her for hours, deciphering which of the scottish legends were true or man-made, unraveling the secrets that made up his mysterious faerie, but he noticed she was starting to droop a bit. Her pace had slowed, and despite the wide smile still gracing her face, Jamie thought it was time to turn around. 

“Come now, lass, let’s go home.” 

She gave a grateful nod, and with that, they turned back. On the way home, Jamie began to explain all about his job. About the publishing company— his whole livelihood based on stories. Claire seemed to lighten at that, and Jamie started to mentally catalogue which books he’d have to read to her first, imagining her delight as she was introduced to all different kinds of worlds and knowledge. 

The sun was just beginning to go down as the cottage came in sight. The clouds were lit in a warm golden light, and specks of it sparkled in Claire’s hair. Rather like the color of the aura around her— he thought. He looked at her then, really looked, and saw the soft shimmering cloud, barely visible in the golden sunlight. They were no longer holding hands, but he thought if he took just one step closer, he could feel the warmth of it. Indulging himself, he did, and found it to be just like it always was. A sense of well-being, of serenity, of Claire. 

*

“Would ye like another shower, a nighean?” he asked as they stepped inside the house and he took the jacket from her. 

She looked quite excited by this idea. “Oh yes, please.” 

He inflated with the pride of pleasing her and had to hide his smile as he hung their jackets on the hook. 

“Well alright then. But only if I can take one after ye, I must smell worse than the underside of a stag.” 

Much to his surprise (and perhaps even horror), Claire suddenly was on top of him, her face pressing against his shoulder and hands casually rested on his sides, holding him still. There was the sound of a deep inhale, and then she withdrew her face with a smile. 

“I think you smell wonderful,” she said sweetly, without a hint of sarcasm in her tone or guileless eyes. 

Jamie laughed out loud, his chest heaving with the force of it. Claire laughed along with him, although he wasn’t entirely sure what she was laughing about. 

Overcome by his giddiness (the lass had just smelled his oxter and liked it for Christ’s sake!), he leaned in and caught her around the waist. Holding her body against him, he lowered his head and took a whiff of her neck. His nose brushed the skin there, and she began to squirm against him, the softness of her clouding his mind. 

“Ye smell like…” 

His words cut off as she struggled playfully, making him laugh. The squirming only egged him on, and he easily held her incapacitated as he sniffed again, this time on the other side of her neck. She pushed half-heartedly at his chest, but at the same time, she seemed to be leaning closer to his touch. 

He had been planning to tease her, to finish his sentence by listing whatever horrible smell he could think of and demanding she shower immediately, but he found that when he really thought about it, she smelled fresh as a summer rose. Like the heather of the fields and crispness of the breeze. 

Of course she did, the lass didna drink, she likely didna sweat either. 

Just another enchanting thing about her— she would always smell intoxicating. 

“Actually ye smell good,” he finished lamely.

His hands fell from her waist, releasing her, and she pushed away from him while continuing to laugh. 

“Well I’d like that shower either way,” she teased. 

As he headed toward the bathroom to turn it on for her, he began to berate himself over their little display. His eyes squeezed shut with the force of his embarrassment.

That was something a couple would do. Not friends. He’d been overcome by flirting in the moment, the nearness of her that seemed to make him lose his heid. He’d stepped over a line. 

The feeling of her squirming in his arms, of holding her body against him, lingered in his mind long after he’d left Claire to her shower. He sat down at the kitchen table and buried his head in his hands. 

He had to get himself together. 

*

While Claire showered, Jamie needed to take care of real life. Food was first-and-foremost, and then he had to set about the task of taking more time off work. There was no way he could leave her. That was the same thing he’d told himself the last few days, and Jamie briefly wondered if he ever would be able to. It certainly wasn’t getting any easier. 

As he pulled out his phone to shoot Ian a clipped and matter-of-fact text about yet another absence, Adso gave him a green stare of disapproval from his perch on the coffee table. 

“What are ye judgin’ me for?” he asked the cat indignantly. 

Adso simply gazed at him some more, even and unwavering in his haughty objection. 

Jamie sighed heavily, “I guess ye’re right,” he told the cat, “I’ll call him. Now stop eyin’ me like that.” 

Whipping out his phone, he reluctantly initiated the call. 

“Hi, Jamie,” Ian answered, seeming rather muted compared to his usual exuberant greetings. 

“Hello, a charaid,” Jamie said, and then there was a long silence. Guilt was seeping into his brain at the thought of possibility driving his family away. The cat really had convicted him… 

“Listen, I am—” “Jamie, I wanted tae—” they both started at the same time. 

“I’ll go,” Ian volunteered, “I wanted tae tell ye that I’m sorry we ambushed ye this mornin’. Ye’re right. Ye’ve worked hard wi’ out a single day off in years, ye deserve a vacation if that’s what ye’re needin’.” 

“Thank you, Ian. I’m sorry, too. I shouldna have blown up at ye and ignored yer calls. I’ve jes’ been… sortin’ through some things.” 

“I understand that,” Ian chuckled. 

“Listen, were ye serious? About me takin’ as many days as I need?” 

“Of course.” 

“Then ye willna bite my heid off when I ask ye for the rest of the week?” 

“Ye’re a canny one makin’ me say it before ye drop that bomb on me… Of course, Jamie. Take the time ye need. Ye’d tell me if anythin’s wrong, wouldn’t ye? Ye ken ye can talk tae me about anythin’?” 

Jamie’s heart clenched. “Of course, Ian. Thank you. Listen, I hafta go, but I’ll see ye soon, aye?” 

“Aye. And Jamie… maybe gi’ yer sister a call? I ken she wants tae apologize.” 

“Alright, Ian,” he answered rather noncommittally, still stinging from their fight, “Bye, a charaid.”

With Ian’s quick goodbye, Jamie hung up and sat back heavily in his chair, sighing at Adso— who was looking smugly satisfied over making Jamie do the right thing. There was barely a moment of silence between them before he thought about the fact that Claire had been in the shower an awfully long time. 

“Wee besom’ll use up all my hot water,” he grumbled at Adso on his way toward the bathroom to check on her. 

Not that he really minded in the slightest. Claire could use up all the hot water and leave him taking cold showers for the rest of his days and he would just thank God that it meant she was with him.

***

Next

#all that was fair #update #claire x jamie #outlander fanfiction #fae claire #outlander fanfic

[rixxy8173571m3w1p3]

Mamihlapinatapai Or The Season Of Longing

A/n: Here is another fic. Since it's been raining like crazy and I have spent way too much time indoors because of the weather, I decided to write this. The poem featured in this fic is called Lluvia by Jorge Luis Borges. I finally figured out how to put things under the cut so that my followers don't have to scroll through a large post 😅 It's another piece set before Doofus Rick and the reader were dating. Feel free to check out the other fics in my Masterpost.

In this fic the reader isn't the only one longing

___________

Imagine that instead of a blue sky, there was an off white, almost grey sky, and what should've been wispy white clouds were blankets of rumbling thunderstorms without a drop of rain; that was how you thought you might've felt. There was a name to this feeling, but you weren't sure what to call it; as though you were missing something you couldn't place; not sadness or grief, but whatever came in between. No, nothing bad had happened, and there hadn't been any disagreements between you and Rick, but something did occur which fed this alien feeling. It seemed that only a few days ago you were alright, but then you invited him over and he had a chance to look over those books you had mentioned. That day he had returned home from work and came over right after; offering his best of smiles and a piece of candy from his labcoat pocket as soon as he crossed the threshold of your doorway; it was nothing out of the ordinary, but it was charming all the same.

With swiftness, you had led him to your hallway closet so that you could bring down the box of books sitting on the upper shelf; that was where you kept a great portion of your father's old books. Father had been a fan of languages and botany, but ventured into the bizarre mystery from time to time; being a master of neither, you had hidden them away for a later date; mostly because the memories were more disheartening then they space they took up. With all your might, you stood on the tips of your toes in a vain attempt to reach, but your fingers barely brushed the edge of it; you should’ve just used the step ladder. It was Rick's small huff of effort which alerted you to his nearness as he unexpectedly stretched up and grabbed said box when you had a little trouble. Goodnaturedly, he carried it towards the kitchen while you took a moment to calm your girlish heart.

Coaxed away from your thoughts by the dusty cardboard and the delighted guest, you nodded lightly to give him the go-ahead to help himself. His gentle presence made him a joy to study; not in the way he examined things in the world or of the world, but in the way one does when fascinated by a butterfly or a fresh bloom hidden in an otherwise barren bush; he was a miracle. With care he pulled out one book after another, glancing through their pages and making piles for which one's he'd like to borrow. In a way he seemed to belong to this house; as though what wasn't found within pages of novels could be sought, and felt beyond reason; flowing calmly and relished in these favorable moments. Although it wasn't much, and that borrowing books could be of little consequence except to the reader itself, you hated to see him go.

Now thinking of it days later, you found yourself wondering about its significance as well as a plethora of other things as you walked to the store and back. You hadn't needed anything in particular, but you felt slightly better being outdoors; the fresh air allowed you to believe you could think better. The sounds of light traffic and grass being cut somewhere along in the neighborhood felt timeless as you walked around the corner, almost home. The wind blew, rustling your clothes and you narrowly lost the receipt that hung out of your pocket, but that didn’t bother you.

Rain clouds were rolling in from the west and you hoped it wouldn't rain before you reached home. And the closer you got, the more you could see the familiar house of your lovable neighbor. A smile couldn't help but stretch across your face at the thought and you hoped he was home so that you could ask if he'd had a chance to look those books over but that alien feeling bloomed again; the sinking, drowning, heavy feeling. How you wanted to be with him despite what reason thought was logical. The dance of your heart would've loved nothing more than to place a dozen or more kisses upon his smile lines while he stammered into the next week. Oh, your foolish heart had taken on a personification of its own these days; speaking and thinking of itself and it's wants like a second brain; draining you whenever it appeared.

Yet, before you knew it you had reached home and dropped off what you had bought before stepping out again. From your front yard, you could see that he was in the garage and you questioned whether you should go over and attempt to alleviate this feeling; it’d vanish whenever you were with him. You must’ve stood there thinking for a while as to what ought to be done for the pitter-patter of rain broke this trance-like state and you ran back towards your front porch. How silly you have become as of late with this strange crush of yours. Weren’t you past these sort of schoolgirl feelings? Perhaps, but it was more than that.

You sunk into your wicker bench and listened to the sound of the rain as it hit the roof and walkway. The earthy scent of the lawn and the splash of puddles as cars drove by was a welcomed distraction. A nap didn’t seem like such a bad idea. Yet, gentle footsteps and the sound of a closed umbrella woke another sort of feeling within you; that of hope.

“Golly, it - it sure is raining cats and dogs t-today.” he commented.

The words were out of your mouth as soon as you were aware of him; of this creature who walked out of a daydream. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you.”

“Huh? Are you alright? Did s-something happen?”

“I'm fine,” you answered; all at once conscious of him and your surroundings. “it’s just...I thought about coming over to ask if you checked out any of the books but it started to rain.”

“Th-that's part of the reason I'm here,” he confessed. “I-I had noticed you went out for a-a walk and wanted to make sure you had come home safely.”

“As you can see, I made it back in one piece. Although, I did get my hair wet. Though, that's the least of my problems.”

“Do you mind if I-I-I take a seat?”

Patting the space beside you, you nodded. “Not at all.”

He set his umbrella to the side before he seated himself and turned towards you. His warmth radiated from him and being as tall as he was, the bench might’ve been too low to the ground since his legs seemed to stick out too much, but he made no complaint. From his inner labcoat pocket, he pulled out a small book. “I thought y-y-you might enjoy this.”

“A book?”

Handing it to you, he commented. “I thought y-you might enjoy this collection of poems. I um - I bookmarked my favorites but I'd like t-t-to know what your thoughts about them would be.”

You knew this whimsical creature was well-read in many respects, but you hadn’t given much thought to the possibility of including works of a more abstract nature. “Sure, that sounds lovely. Though, I hope you don't mind me asking. Do you read works like this often? It's not because I find it strange. Honestly, I find it fascinating and wonderful that you would even consider it, but I ask because I thought….well, I thought you only read serious works related to your work.”

Scratching the back of his neck, he explained. “I read whenever I-I-I find the time and it uh - it usually doesn’t matter what the subject may be. In the pursuit of knowledge, one reads everything. For example, th-the terms and conditions for some computer programs or limited warranties at times list amusing reasons why y-you might be able to get a replacement for a damaged product. It keeps things interesting.”

“I see. It certainly makes sense.”

With a smile, he sighed with contentment as he looked towards the street. “Boy, th-this weather reminds me of a certain poem. It's called um - it's called Lluvia. That's the Spanish word for rain.”

“That's right,” you remembered; his last name should’ve been a reminder enough. “you can speak Spanish. I forget sometimes since you only talk to me in English. So, tell me, how does this poem go?”

“Please forgive me since my Spanish is a-a little rusty.”

Taking a deep breath, he recited calmly. “Bruscamente l-la tarde se ha aclarado, porque y-ya cae la lluvia minuciosa. Cae o cayó. La lluvia es una c-cosa qué sin duda sucede en el pasado. Quien la oye caer ha recobrado, el t-tiempo en que la suerte venturosa. Le r-r-reveló una flor llamada rosa y el curioso color del c-colorado. Esta lluvia que ciega los cristales, alegrará en p-p-perdidos arrabales. Las negras uvas de una parra en cierto. Patio que ya no existe. La mojada, t-tarde me trae la voz, la voz deseada, de mi padre que vuelve y que no ha muerto.”

You stared at this man, amazed by his fluency and ability to fascinate you with the simplest things. Yet again, a reason to be marveled by him. “Whoa, I don't know what you said, but it sounded beautiful when you said it.”

Turning towards you, his smile seemed brighter than usual albeit a bit sheepish. "It's n-nothing special."

"But it is, especially since you can think and speak in more than one language. I can't do that."

"I-I can teach you if you'd like."

"No, that's okay. You're busy enough as it is, but I appreciate the thought. You really are so incredibly smart."

"And you…eres maravillosa."

"What?”

His smile faltered a bit, and he thought to himself for a bit on what he was about to say before his smile returned; albeit more gently. “Eres amable y-y dulce. No soy digno de una amiga como tu.”

“Rick,” you started; confused as to why there seemed to be some sort of admission that you weren’t able to understand. “all the poetic talk is lovely, but I don't think it's fair if you reply in a way I can't understand."

"Si pudieras entenderme," he sighed, wringing his hands in the nervous way he did. "me pregunto qué creerías si te expresara cuánto me preocupo por ti."

Raising from the bench, he said to himself. "Si puedo llegar a la luna, algun dia podria...¿Q-que estoy haciendo?"

"Rick?"

“I’m o-okay. I uh - I zoned out there for a second. I’m sorry.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

He studied you for a moment longer; a world of words unsaid in his melancholic glances. Was something secretly hurting him like it was hurting you? You could only wonder as thoughts were drowned out by the sound of the rain.

———————————-

It was warm and comfortable with him sitting beside you. His presence always provided a sense of calm that was softer and sweeter than that of the sedatives that eased your anxiety. Why you could fall asleep right here if it weren’t for that fact that you’d be mortified if you allowed it to happen.

“Are you a-a big fan of the rain?” he wondered.

This question had come after a half-hour of companionable silence. “Hmm, it’s not the rain so much as the memories that accompany it.”

“Do y-you want to talk about it?”

“Only if you don’t mind hearing it.”

“I-I don’t mind.” He reassured you.

“Well,” you started. “my dad enjoyed rainy days since he said the plants almost seemed to smile when rainwater hit their leaves.”

“Th-that’s a nice thought.“

“Yeah, I thought so too. When it rains like this, and I’m watching it fall,” you softened; feeling lighter because you had someone to share your thoughts with. “it feels like I’m looking through a curtain. It’s not completely see-through, but the shapes I can see appear softer and more mysterious like how you must’ve appeared when you showed up. Too bad I wasn’t paying attention.”

Oh, you did not just say that out loud. “Or something like that.” You added.

If he had noticed you had tripped over your words then he gave no indication of it. “Gosh, I-I never thought of it that way b-before. I usually see it as part of the pr-precipitation cycle and it smells nice, doesn't it?”

“It does. I wouldn’t mind bottling up this scent, but then it might lose what makes it special.”

Yet, if you could bottle up his scent, it would’ve been nice to keep nearby just in case you wanted a little piece of him.

“That um - that reminds me,” he brightened. “I had baked some mandarin scones before walking over tonight, and I-I-I thought you’d like t-t-t-t-to try them but I didn’t want to risk them getting wet. I-I thought we could share some over tea tomorrow if that’s alright with you.”

Tea time with Rick was like what others did over rounds of drinks; it was to unwind and talk about the day; minus the drunkenness and the unforeseen embarrassment. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“Gee, I um - I was supposed to, but there was a shift change. Actually, I have a shift t-t-tonight in a-about an hour, but I had wanted to make sure you were alright before I left.”

“Why?”

“Because I-I thought you were going t-to walk over.”

So he had thought the same thing. “Oh, well like I said earlier I had planned to or thought to, but the weather put a damper on things.”

“Yeah.”

“Though, isn’t it funny that we both had the same thought?”

He smiled at that. “It's because gr-great minds think alike.”

What right did he have to be this adorable you thought. All you could do was smile up at him and fight the urge to run your fingers through what appeared to be soft hair; as odd as you had initially thought his haircut was when you met him, you couldn’t imagine him any other way. Still, drawn to his bright, kind eyes, you wondered if you were being attracted by some invisible force to test the limits of this friendship, and yet you knew well enough that now wasn’t the time. Following a slow blink of his, you mentioned without looking away. “Now that we have gotten to see each other, it's probably time to let you go. I wouldn’t want you to be late for work.”

“Y-you’re right.” he straightened; jumping up on his feet with much more agility then seemed possible for someone so mature. “Until next time.”

There he was leaving again when you didn’t want him to. Still, you had no right or claim to him. At least, not yet. “See you tomorrow.”

Grabbing his umbrella, he motioned to open it but paused, and slowly, but surely turned back; his smile almost boyish. “Gosh, I-I will see you tomorrow, right?”

Clutching the book of poems to your breast, you giggled. “Whichever way it may be, we will. I promise.”

Fin

#doofus rick x reader #doofus rick #rick sanchez x female reader #j19z7 #j19ζ7 #j-19-zeta-7 #rick and morty #rnm fanfiction #rnm #Rick x reader #my fanfiction #my works #rick sanchez x reader #Rick Sanchez

[wellntruly]

Can I ask for book recs? You've said before your reading is seasonal (which I find fascinating as it had never occurred to me it could be) and I'm quite curious to see what are summer reads for you. For most people summer reads are light and a no brainer, yet you said Brideshead revisited is meant to be read on summer. So, please, enlighten me because I wanna jump in the wagon of seasonal reading.

I’d be delighted!!!! Yes please let’s spread my eccentricities around the populace!

So for starters, not every book has a season, and some books belong to seasons for different reasons than others. Brideshead Revisited, for instance, would be a summer book for the same reason that one of the songs from Adrian Johnson’s score for the 2008 film is called ‘Always Summer’ — it’s to do with mood and theme and thoughts and the best season for feeling certain feelings.

A much clearer selection process is simply where the thing takes place. It’s environment matching — if it’s warm outside, I want to be reading things where the characters are also someplace warm. But interestingly, often the settings seem to sorta self-select for books that also match onto my ~seasonal mood~ pretty well! Fall books end up having a sort of classic quality, a combination of a good old fashioned haunting and that back-to-school feeling of a crisp October day. Spring, it turns out, is lyrical and shifting, books with a blossoming, intricate manner of storytelling. Winter we haven’t done yet — ask me again in winter! — and summer… summer might be flying and mirage.

Summer Reads

Category 1: The Only Way We Can Talk About The War Is With Magical Realism (one of my favorite genres of all time)

The English Patient - Ondaatje, MichaelIf you are only familiar with this as the movie with Ralph Fiennes, let me change your world: there was a novel first, and holy heck is it a whole other and wondrous thing. This is one of my very, very favorite books. It is GORGEOUS. It is strange. There’s layered narration, unreliable narration, skips in time and place, but the novel is anchored in its characters, who form something of a contemplative quartet: a Canadian Army nurse, her mysterious and badly burned patient, a Sikh British army sapper, and a thief named Caravaggio, all sheltering together in an abandoned Italian villa during the last months of WWII.

Corelli’s Mandolin - de Bernières, LouisThis was a typically flawless recommendation from Mr. Dorman, my high school English teacher who shows up on this blog from time to time. It takes place on a Greek island during WWII, and is just rich in history and personalities and feeling. It’s transporting — brilliantly written, so funny, and I think I might have cried for about 50 pages near the end. It also has a quartet of fabulous characters: the oddball doctor who is trying to write a history of the island, his bright and educated daughter, the charming musician Captain Corelli, and an Italian soldier named Carlo who is like an Ancient Greek tragedy brought to life.

Catch-22 - Heller, JosephHonestly has anything in literature ever been as good as what Heller did with Snowden. Can anything even touch that. Merely for that piece alone this would probably be the greatest novel ever written. Listen, Catch-22 is a masterpiece. It will harrow you to the bone, it will make you wail in anguished frustration, and it will make you laugh and laugh and laugh, unto the ending of the world. Most simply it is about a squadron of Army pilots trying to survive WWII. More broadly it is about trauma and humanity. Oh and our main character is a Middle-Eastern American, and here are the very first lines of the novel, also one of the true greats of our time: “It was love at first sight. The first time Yossarian saw the chaplain he fell madly in love with him.”

Category 2: Memoirs of Pilots Flying Over Deserts During the Golden Age of Aviation

Wind, Sand and Stars - de Saint-Exupéry, AntoineYes, this is the memoir of the author of A Little Prince, a real life aviator who flew mail across the African Sahara and South American Andes. He tells stories about flying and friendship and muses on life, and it is all just breakingly beautiful. A sample line: “When I opened my eyes I saw nothing but the pool of night sky, for I was lying on my back with out-stretched arms, face to face with that hatchery of stars.”

West With the Night - Markham, BerylI have extolled the virtues of BERYL MARKHAM and her fabulous memoirs before — those facts stand. I will add though, for both her and de Saint-Exupéry, that while they have such sincere fondness and respect for their African friends and colleagues, they do occasionally write about them in a way that feels out-dated and out-of-touch. There is an air of the “noble savage” in some of their stories, which is a hoary old bit of racism that often plagued white writers of their time. So, a heads up for that.

Category 3: The Americans

The Great Gatsby - Fitzgerald, F. ScottIf you have not reread The Great Gatsby since high school, I can sincerely recommend doing so, and in the height of summer if possible. Quoting myself from my Baz Luhrmann 4th of July last year, Gatsby is the great American daydream: fabulously indulgent, ironic, biting, somehow gaudy and gauzy at once, hilarious, inadvertent, morbid, and hiding at its core an embarrassing sentimentality, which it will try to drown in champagne and pools as soon as you’ve seen it. 

The Talented Mr. Ripley - Highsmith, PatriciaThis is probably the wellntruly equivalent of a vacation read, if your vacation is in Italy and the shadows cast by the sun are a touch too dark and something about the way the condensation traces paths down your Campari & soda feels unaccountable sinister, and you’re cool with it.

A Good Man Is Hard To Find (short story collection) - O’Connor, FlannerySouthern Gothic time, little ones! You’ve seen the “[blank] gothic” posts on this website before, and here’s what 99% of them miss: not just what is dark and twisted in the environment, but what is dark and twisted in the hearts of the people. Southern Gothic is social commentary, and Southern Gothic is fucked up, and the undisputed queen of the genre is Flannery O’Connor. These are stories that will stay with you long after you’ve retreated from their dusty, sweltering heat.

Slouching Towards Bethlehem - Didion, JoanWe’re breaking into journalism here with a collection of essays by the inimitable — although god knows we all try — Joan Didion. If you are at all interested in California, or the 1960s, or the craft of writing, you can do no better than Joan Didion. Joan Didion! I just want to repeat her name like an hosanna. Here you can read her on the Santa Ana right now.

#replies #aladyinblue #Book Club #Brideshead Revisited #Evelyn Waugh #The English Patient #Michael Ondaatje #Corelli's Mandolin #Louis de Bernieres #Catch 22 #Joseph Heller #Wind Sand and Stars #Antoine de Saint Exupery #West With the Night #Beryl Markham #The Great Gatsby #F. Scott Fitzgerald #The Talented Mr. Ripley #Patricia Highsmith #A Good Man Is Hard To Find #Flannery O'Connor #Slouching Towards Bethlehem #Joan Didion #books #pers.