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hutchhitched · 4 years

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Social Commentary in The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes

I haven’t written a lot of meta about The Hunger Games trilogy. When I first read them, I devoured the entire set in three days before I was part of tumblr or writing fanfiction. My own metas were in my head and part of things I taught my classes and discussed with my friends, but not something I generally put on my blog. I don’t know why. (I do have a meta about Peeta’s hijacking that I’ve been meaning to write for a while. Maybe once I’ve finished this book. Hint: It has to do with George Orwell’s 1984, which I used in my classes last year and was performed at a theater in Houston right as the pandemic hit.) I don’t know if reading this book when I’m a decade older and after a really rough few years of my own has anything to do with it or just that I’ve been exposed to so much by being in this fandom, but I’ve got a lot of thoughts about The Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. I’ve only read Part 1 so far, but here are some observations. (It’s long, but at least read the last one—even if you have to skip to get there.)

Spoilers below:

Reaping day is July 4. We already knew it was during the summer, so that’s not a huge stretch. What intrigues me is the symbolism of July 4 for Americans since it’s Independence Day. For those of you who aren’t American or aren’t sure why that struck me, here you go. Independence Day represents the day the Declaration of Independence was signed (although, it was actually two days later, but whatever). The Declaration of Independence was issued 14 months AFTER the beginning of the American Revolution in April 1775 at the battles of Lexington and Concord and was not the cause of the Revolution as so many believe. Penned by Thomas Jefferson (at least colloquially), it famously discusses the celebrated (but sadly, not practiced) phrase that “all men are created equal.” That’s the phrase that’s trotted out and waved about, but the Declaration is mostly about tyranny and the role of government. In fact, the Declaration doesn’t start with “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Instead, it begins with this: “When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another…” In other words, the Declaration of Independence does indicate that all humans are created equal. It also discusses what the government is supposed to and not supposed to do. Having Reaping Day occur on July 4 is a brilliant jab that adds an entirely new level to what Independence Day means and how it’s celebrated—with lots of flag waving and fireworks and BBQ (and very little knowledge of what the document itself actually says).

Which brings me to Sejanus Plinth. Bless him. He’s the voice of compassion and reason in part 1 as he speaks up about treating other humans with respect and dignity, about the humanity of those in the districts, as he feeds the hungry, as he challenges the inhumanity of the Games. In short, he’s the Peeta Mellark voice from the final council of the tributes in Mockingjay. I have no idea what’s going to happen to him in the rest of the book, but he’s the humanity I’m craving as I read. A note on his name: Sejanus was a close friend and ally of the Roman Emperor Tiberius. Sejanus worked to improve conditions in the Empire and served as a proxy to Tiberius when he was absent. He was strangled to death in 31 AD/CE. His last name is what makes me stop and want to hug Collins. Four years ago, I had no idea what a plinth was. I’d never heard the word, but I was the prop mistress for my church’s summer musical, and it was on the list of things I had to find. I googled it and found out it’s a base on which a statue (or something else) is displayed. In Mary Poppins, it was used as the base for a statue that came to life and talked to the characters in the park. In other words, it’s a place on which someone can take a stand and deliver a message—a platform, if you will, of the character’s compassion and humanity.

I don’t remember if we got that Tigris was Snow’s cousin in the original trilogy or not. What I do remember is that she was a former stylist who Snow thought was no longer useful and had her removed from the Games. I haven’t figured out yet how I feel about her in this book, but her banishment and desire to see Snow destroyed are even more intriguing to me as a result of her inclusion as his relative. I would not have pictured her as a Snow before reading the new book. I’m still waiting to be convinced. “Snow comes out on top” is awesome. I wish I could write half as well as Collins.

There’s so much Holocaust imagery in this book, it’s terrifying. The cattle cars, the inhumane treatment of the tributes, using a veterinarian to treat the tributes instead of a doctor, the numbers, the cages, the rats, separation into districts and restrictions on travel, the hunger and starvation. Ugh. I’ve spent the past several years studying the Holocaust with some of the leading Holocaust and genocide scholars in the world both here in Houston and in Israel. I’ve traveled to Germany and Poland to see the death camps and headquarters of the Gestapo and Nazis and so on. The Games themselves are genocide, by definition, as an attempt to reduce the population of undesirables by targeting the children so they cannot reproduce. Hearing Survivor stories always reminds me of how Collins discusses Victors. There are no winners, only survivors. Survivors have never forgotten the Holocaust, nor should they. It’s what helped so many of them find compassion and humanity and forgiveness (and equally what causes such despair and depression in so many, as well). During my time Yad Vahsem in Jerusalem last summer, one thing was repeated over and over and over. The real triumph for Survivors aren’t the children; they are the grandchildren and then the great-grandchildren. In Panem, there can’t be too many grandchildren if the children are killed before they reach child-bearing age. (There’s also something in there about Snow being raised by his grandmother, but I’m gonna let that one rest for now.)

In one of the seminars from last summer at Yad Vashem, a scholar of Holocaust music taught us about the role of bands and singing in the camps (all levels, from death camps down to prison camps). First, there are some achingly gorgeous songs (the lyrics of one which were preserved on a child’s shoe in the death camp of Majdanek). Second, she asked us what we thought were the purposes of songs and music in the camps, and we all gave the standard answers—an attempt to distract themselves, holding onto humanity, finding beauty in the midst of horror, and hope. As a faithful fan of The Hunger Games and the saying “Hope is the only thing stronger than fear,” I was just as astounded as others when she said, “There was no hope. People died in death camps. They were starved and covered in shit and piss and lice and filth. They wanted revenge.” I don’t think revenge is what music represents in this book or in the original trilogy, although I think that argument can be made with the use of the Hanging Tree song in rebellion in the movies, but I can’t get that woman’s statement out of my head when I read this book. Not everybody has hope. Katniss didn’t when she first volunteered. I think there’s something to that.

Lucy Gray Baird is not Katniss. I haven’t exactly figured out who she is, yet, but she’s not Katniss in the first part of this book, which I think some people were hoping she was (as an analogy, obviously). Her flirtations with Snow are fascinating, and her outgoing and peculiar behavior at the reaping in District 12 was my first indication that the title was not as clear cut as Snow=Snake and District 12 female tribute=Songbird (alluding to Katniss). She puts a snake down the dress of the daughter of District 12’s mayor. She also sings. Is she both? Is she the songbird only? If so, then why the snake? And Snow doesn’t appear to be the snake either. My bet’s on Dr. Gaul. She’s a piece of work. Or maybe it’s Clemmie. Interested to see where that goes, too.

Lucy Gray’s insistence that she’s not from District 12 is fascinating. She insists she’s Covey, which by definition is a group of birds. The Covey are a group of traveling performers, who were stopped in District 12 and not allowed to leave. Trapped birds—interesting. Also, besides the Jews, the Roma/Sinti were targeted during the Holocaust. This group was commonly and derogatorily referred to as “gypsies,” people who moved about frequently and were suspected of crime, stealing, and a myriad of other issues. The Roma and Sinti immigrated into Central and Eastern Europe from India. If Katniss and others in District 12 are descended from Lucy Gray, then that covers the non-white argument about her ethnic makeup. I have no idea if that was Collins’ intention, but it makes a lot of sense in my brain.

As for Snow, he’s not a villain in this book. At least he’s not yet. So far, he’s the hero (or maybe anti-hero is better), but he’s definitely not the villain. Since we’ve read The Hunger Games, we know he’s the ultimate villain later, but he’s not so far in this book. He’s got ambition and cunning, but neither of those are ultimately villainous. He mourns his mother. He loves his cousin and grandmother. He’s proud of his father’s military service. He’s sad about his friends who die. He’s interested in, if not attracted to, Lucy Gray. We know what he becomes, so it’s hard to read about him as a person with hopes and dreams and struggles. Why? Because it humanizes him, and when he’s humanized, it’s harder for us to say, “He’s evil, and that’s why he did those things.” This is much the same way people blame the Holocaust and World War II on Hitler. “Well, he’s evil, so of course he did that.” Or how we dehumanize gunmen in massacres—“Well, he was clearly a sick individual, so he shot up the place.” Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying these crimes are excusable (in real life or in Collins’ works). What I am saying is that knowing Snow was a child shaped by war, hunger, poverty, and loss makes it harder for us to distance ourselves from this “evil” person. His characterization is uncomfortable because it makes us face that we could also do terrible things in specific contexts. Evil people are rarely born. They are almost always made, which means any of us could be a villain. That is what’s really terrifying.

A couple of other notes before this gets way too long for anyone to read.

The role of the government: Sejanus argues it’s the government’s job to take care of its citizens. This is an argument that’s raged in the US (and other countries) for a long time. The question is how do governments take care of the citizens? By feeding them and giving them health care and making sure everyone has enough? Be protecting them with a huge army? By allowing broad civil liberties (e.g., choosing whether to wear face masks during a pandemic)? By instituting restrictive liberties (e.g., gun control, wire taps, screenings at airports)? It’s a really interesting point Sejanus makes early in the book. Not surprising not everyone agrees.

Mention of the three other book titles (almost): The Hunger Games are mentioned several times. There’s a reference to something that “really catches fire.” And then there are the jabberjays. There are no mockingjays yet. Probably because there is no mockingjay yet. Seriously, Collins is brilliant.

The role of war: War is not good for those who live through it. Snow is traumatized by the war, as are the rest of the Capitol’s citizens. It makes most have little empathy for those in the districts who rebelled against them. War has destroyed the city. It’s weakened the economy. It’s destroyed the Snow’s fortune. And then it also leads to the Hunger Games. This book is anti-war just as much as the original trilogy is. It is not anti-soldier, but it is anti-war.

The role of children: Suzanne Collins lives in Connecticut, right? Yes, she does. You know where? Sandy Hook. More specifically, Newtown. Where children were shot to death in their classrooms by a gunman a few years ago. A ton of gun control people thought the slaughter of children would be enough for gun control to be implemented in the wake of that mass murder. It did not. Since then, there’s been a meme that’s circulated (taken from a tweet) that says, “In retrospect Sandy Hook marked the end of the US gun control debate. Once America decided killing children was bearable, it was over.” On page 60 of the book (right at the end of chapter 4), Snow insists the Hunger Games are to show how much people care about children when Dean Highbottom asks what the purpose of the Games is. And then there’s a paragraph in which Snow wonders if people really do care about children. He concludes that children don’t seem to be quite as important as we claim they are. I don’t think that’s a coincidental commentary on Collins’ part.

So, that became a lot longer than I planned, but wow. This book is fascinating, and Collins is a genius. I’m so ready for more. Part 2, here I come.

Hey, @everlarkedalways, does this count?

#tbosas #tbosas spoilers #balladspoilers #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #spoilers #book spoilers #long post #hunger games meta #meta

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bean-n-shroob · 7 years

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So if you remember, in a previous plot Fawful had partnered with Antasma to scheme against me and Princess Shroob to become King of my kingdom! We left the plot off with Mecha-Chomp dumping our sleeping bodies in a locked dungeon of some sort?

So I bet you’re wondering what happened after that! Well, unfortunately the Mod is a tad overwhelmed to draw it all out for you but will gladly write a lengthy story to tell you what happened after that!

So peek down under the [Read More] and read the continuation and conclusion of the Betrayal Plot line!

(Long story below, clocked at 5 pages on Word. This took a lot longer than I thought 0_0 not good at large stories.)

The large wooden doors swung open as Fawful, dressed in only the finest royal attire worthy of his calibre, happily waltzed his way to his rightful throne, his newly acquired underling Antasma following behind him.

Dropping on the throne, Fawful chortled loudly, “Finally! My master plan has been completed! I am finally King! Of my very own kingdom!” He chortled happily, waving his hands in glee. “And thanks to you Batty, I’ve secured this royal position for a very, VERY long time!”

“Absolutely!” Antasma agreed, pausing in thought for a sec before adding, “As long as the dreams aren’t too intense of course.”

“Yes! As long as…” The large grin on his face dropped among processing the words, “wh-wait, what? What do you mean by too intense? Why does that matter?”

“Well, it’s obvious really, isn’t it? I have the powers to keep a person asleep while I inhabit their dreams, or in this case it would be my clones who would keeping the person asleep.” Fawful motioned for him to hurry up, “Right! So, if the dream isn’t too intense for my clones to inhabit, they’ll be able to keep the witch and alien asleep! You got nothing to worry about!” He smiled with pride.

“Right, nothing to worry about…” Fawful repeated, “So you’re telling me that as long as the powerful, body-snatching witch and the ruler of a planet-conquering alien empire don’t have dreams that are too intense for a little dream bat to handle we’ll be fine, right?” He asked, rising from his Throne.

“Uhhh...” Despite Fawful’s miniature stature, Antasma still felt himself be looked down upon by his new King, sinking into the ground, “I’m sure my clones are more than capable of handling whatever twisted dreams those two can conjure up, right?”

Right?

“Right?” asked the Antasma assigned to Princess Shroob’s dream, crouched beneath a table as a massive explosion rocked the building he was hiding in, “I mean what’s the worst that could happen, the alien would start dreaming about what a planet-wide conquest of this planet would be like and you’d end up right smack in the middle of it all? Naw! Naw! Why on earth would something like that happen inside the mind of a Planet-Conquering Princess!?”

Antasma peaked above the table to see if the explosion were stopping anytime soon. Scanning the rubble of the destroyed town all he could see was the barren wasteland and UFOs peppering the crimson sky. He slowly vacated his hiding spot to explore the area some more. If he’s gonna be stuck here, he might as well do some exploring, right?

Apparently not, after traveling a few feet, sirens began blaring and a massive figure approached from the horizon. What on earth was going on? Red spotlights engulfed his vision as the figure spotted him, making its way towards him. As it grew closer, Antasma could easily recognize the massive figure as none other than Princess Shroob, the alien who’s dream he’s controlling. Or trying to control, I guess you could say.

He began running, as one naturally does when they’re being chased by a giant alien who’s reaching out to crush them. Time seem grim for this poor bat, “yeah, this is gonna end badly. I wonder how the other clone is doing?”

“I wonder how the other clone is doing?” asked the Antasma, who was assigned to Cackletta’s dreams, to himself, chilling on a branch of a massive tree. Quite lovely this dream was. A nice shady day, the wind blowing softly, the town down the hill giving a gently glow as it burned.

The best part of it all? His target was at the base of the tree, looking rather different than when he last saw her. Was she always pink? Pretty sure she wasn’t, this kind color change is too drastic to not have notice. Probably should’ve been paying attention instead of just blindly following orders. Behaviors like that gets you killed, Antasma!

But none of that mattered right now, Cackletta was comfortable, wrapped in the arms of a shadowy sprite, admiring the beautiful view. She definitely won’t be waking up from this anytime soon, no siree! Or so he thought until he heard-

“I love having dreams like these. It’s like all my wishes wrapped up into one convenient day! Eyehehe!” commented Cackletta. Antasma’s eyes widen, she knows? He watched Cackletta intensely, she was simply staring at the shadowy sprite, a smile on her face. “Eyehehe, wish I could stay asleep longer, but I gotta wake up now, dearie~ Got a mischievous bean in need of a lesson to be taught. If you know what I mean, Eyehehe~” The shadow giggled along.

Antasma had to think of something quick! “HEY!” Well done. He got her attention. Cackletta’s horn-thing perk-up as she scanned the area around in search of the source of the disembodied voice.

“Who said that?” He heard her ask. How perfect, she’s never gonna find him, he’ll be hidden well up in the branches of the tree while ol’ Cackletta rummages through the bushes. Hah, she’ll never find him. It’ll take her a good-what’s that shadow chick pointing at? Is it… “AHA! FOUND YOU!” Oh no. In an instant, Antasma found himself clasped in Cackletta’s hands. She’s bigger than he remembers too, maybe it’s the dream complex, idk.

“Well, Well! If it isn’t the mysterious bat from before~ Eyehehehehe! I’m gonna guess you’re working with Fawful to scheme against me, right?” Antasma stayed silent, trying to lean away from the witch’s nearing face, “That’s fine, no need to answer~ I already know the entire plan. Eyehehe~” Her grip around him tighten, crushing him, “I’ll admit, it was only when I ate the drugged food that it him me. You’re Antasma! The ‘Bat King of Nightmares’, yeah~ I’ve heard of you! Eyehehe!” Her grip got tighter, “You’re a wimp! An igor waiting his next master! A fool~” Her face morphed in a twisted, menacing grin. “Can’t wait to meet you in the real world, Little Bat! Eyehahahahahahaha! Good Bye Bat!” And she tightened her grip one final time.

Yawning awake, Cackletta sat up, feeling the rough, concrete ground she must have been taking a nap on. If she would’ve guessed, she’s been dumped at the dungeon. She let out a low groan to pick up on her surroundings as she still tried to wake up. Her horns twitched to the nearby being sitting on the bed.

“Oh, hey Shroob… How long have you been there?”

“For a while, you wouldn’t wake up no matter how much I’d slap you, so I decided to wait until you settled the issue with the dream bat invader.” Shrooma answered.

“Ah… Wait, what did you to me?”

“Doesn’t really matter now, you’re awake.”

“Kind matters, though,” Cackletta finally got up on to her feet, dusting her robes of the dust and filth from the floor she slept on. “Alright,” her hands rested on her hips, “got any idea on how we’re gonna escape?”

Princess Shroob merely pointed to the door and said, “I can just bust the door open,” as nonchalantly as someone who has apparently kicked doors open with ease before can say.

Cackletta raise her brown, “Are you actually strong enough to kick that door down?”

“You dare defy my power?” Princess Shroob asked, standing by the open doorway with the door kicked off a few feet from the frame. “Nothing can stand in my way.

“Except a baby,” Cackletta muttered to herself, “That was an iron door by the way, how’d you even do that?” Princess Shroob answered turning her back and walking out. “Well alright, never mind then! Not like I needed an answer or anything,” Cackletta kept talking to herself as she went after Princess Shroob.

“So how long would you say we have before they awaken?” Fawful asked, stressed beyond his limits, sweating profusely. Hunched over a table with floor plans and blueprints spread across. He kept a fan nearby trying to cool himself. He needed to calm down, stress is not good for him, for reasons other than health.

“Well, if we’re fortunate enough, we should have anywhere between a day to a few weeks before the two before they wake up!” Antasma reassured happily, “Enough time to do… whatever it is you’re planning on doing. What’s your plan?”

“I’m either gonna have Mecha remove the door to the dungeon and keep them walled in or just somehow remove the entire room itself and launch them to SPACE!” Fawful explained, waving his arms for emphasis. “Considering I still have a day… at least.” Mecha emerged from the door, tapping Fawful on the head. “Huh? What is it Mecha?”

“They got out”

“AH!” Fawful clutched his chest in shock. A day isn’t even over! There’s nothing he can do now! They’ll be here and find him and do who knows what! Unless… “Wait, I got an idea!” He turned to Antasma, grinning mischievously, “I’m going to need you to do me a favour!”

The throne room doors were kicked open as Princess Shroob and Cackletta marched towards the throne. “Alright!” Cackletta began, gritting her sharp teeth, “You think you can just put us to sleep and lock us in a dungeon while you take over as King? Is that right, Faw-uhhh…” To the surprise of both Cackletta and Shrooma, it was Antasma sitting on the throne, proudly draped in royal robes and crown shinning on his head. He had a nasty grin on his face, the fool. “You’re not Fawful.” Cackletta pointed out, crossing her arms.

Antasma was gonna answer before the Princess interrupted, “Doesn’t matter, I’m looking to rip someone apart and you’ll do just fine.” Cackletta shrugged and nodded in agreement, they both cracked their knuckles, an evil grin spread across their face as they closed in on Antasma.

Antasma’s heart sank as the realization dawned on him.

“So, the plan was the failure,” Mecha pointed out, watching Antasma take beating of a lifetime.

“Yup,” Fawful confirmed, covering his ears to drown out the bloodcurdling screams, “Not doing that again.”

(And that’s it! OTL I got nothing else to add to this plot! I hope you enjoyed the read!)

#betrayal #story plotline #mod writes

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redscullyrevival · 7 years

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A Monstrous Regiment of Women: Mary Russell Rundown

@sonnetscrewdriver, anything that reminds me to occasionally comment “Oh fuck off Tennyson” is a good book in my book.

Plot/Setting/Narrative

Haha, other than revisiting my own personal hell this was a good time!

I knew it would be with that amazing title.

I love how men always try to condemn and speak poorly of women but actually make us out to sound badass.

“A Monstrous Regiment of Women” - nice!

“She was warned, she was given an explanation, nevertheless; she persisted” - nice!

HAHA dudes be wack.

Anyways.

There is a big ‘ol dynamic in this book and it doesn’t try to hid itself but because of the narrative style it’s a very sleek back and forth that can easily be overlooked among the thrills, tension, and action:

The lighting pace back and forth between Faith/Religion and Reason/Logic is hard to trace, precisely because it’s so perfectly stitched.

Like thread holding two fabrics together we get glimpses of the characters discussing these dynamics upfront on the surface only for them to dive under the cloth and become the structurally important but unseen thread, before rising to the forefront yet again.

Over and under goes Faith and Reason, Religion and Logic (Agape and Eros!), from start to finish and it’s very compelling, very slick stuff.

What’s fascinating is how it feels like it’s all held together with those before the chapter quotes!

What a gambit!

Especially because I’m pretty sure the chosen quotes are meant to be as humorous as they are reflective.

I read the words of Tennyson and Shakespeare and friggin’ Knox and I’m not filled with anger or burning for justice; I laugh. They’re funny.

What isn’t funny is how I also know these men shaped their times, that they are considered definitive and important and are apart of contemporary schooling and social undercurrents - they’re not simply far away melodrama but remain to be part of the day to day world, of my time as well as Russell’s.

The violence Russell is subjected to is unfortunately not extraordinary.

The heroin is elaborate and a part of the Mary Russell narrative surrounding The Temple mystery as designed by King - but women being manipulated, used, and being targeted and subjected to overwhelming power? All that’s common place common day.

You don’t read those before chapter quotes and think “Ah, women had it better when these men where alive.” And you certainly don’t read them and think “Well, it’s gotten better by Mary’s time” - and it’s the realization that the various quote’s undercurrents are still rooted into today that chills their absurdity.

So how do we instigate change?

Mary Russell

How do women gain ground?

Do we go to into the temples men worship?

Do we go into their spaces and ask uncomfortable questions and share our opinions, unasked?

Do we dig into the sacred texts looking for what has been changed in an effort to prove we’ve been included all along?

Do we interpret the text anew and preach our understanding?

OR do we maybe rewrite and/or add to the text and insert ourselves in?

You must see where I’m going with this.

What’s shocking is that all those above courses of action are faith based.

Logic and reason, the truth of women’s rightful place, can’t be grasped until those in power acknowledge we’re here and worth listening to and only pleas of faith can begin to breach that wall.

Which is massively fucked up and the root of all evil.

Bringing it back around, what’s also messed up is how Sherlock Holmes’ canon is exclusively understood as male.

The perception that follows the character is this: Sherlock Holmes is male, written by a man, and those of authority on the character and his stories are male and those fans who are true are male and that’s because Holmes invokes intelligence and reason and thus maleness - the notion being there isn’t anything of female worth to be found in proper Sherlock Holmes.

Barf, right?

Our author certainly thinks so.

King’s disgust for the Holmesian Understanding™ is practically palpable; not for the character of Holmes, but she does (to me) seem to distinctly turn her ire on the aura of his existence as he sits in wider literature’s mind’s eye.

And I don’t even think it’s Russell and Holmes locking lips that’s meant to be the big middle finger, although it is fun; I honestly think it’s as simple as King’s Holmes accepting, trusting, and considering her Russell as his partner in work and then, yes, in life.

Laurie King is working at turning Russell into the Logic and Holmes’ into the Faith.

I’m down with that.

‘Cause Mary Russell is my girl.

I’m gonna read all them books.

Sherlock Holmes

Lets stop and take a moment to really bask in the intense and amazing glory that is the throw-away-mention of Holmes’ son.

I know “canon” Holmes does not have a son.

I also know that the character of Sherlock Holmes has directly and indirectly given birth to the most characters ever committed to media’s various forms, which makes him the most promiscuous man I’ve ever read.

For King to solidify Holmes parentage is a very big big big choice - just as big if not even bigger than having him kiss Russell and marrying her.

Man, that must have really chapped some hides.

Oh my god, there are folks I know who would probably burst into flames over such an “OOC” move.

The son implies and seeds many things, not so subtly of which is that Holmes isn’t an automoton and down to get jiggy with it if so intrigued.

What’s more sly is that King knows what she is about and knows what she is doing and is very adamant within the narrative that Holmes is secondary to her character - that Mary Russell is the protagonist and the mysteries of Holmes isn’t mystery to her and we better starting taking her narration as gospel.

So that was a fun kick in the pants.

The romance was, you know, irritatingly thrilling.

Although!

Holmes’ comment, of how he has wanted to kiss Mary since he met her, is a little iffy and not even entirely because she was 15 at the time (still side eye worthy though, obviously) - the issue is that his words imply pure physical attraction even when he didn’t know Mary or her at that point and I’ve been lead to believe their Grand Canyon age gap is inconsequential because their minds are wondrously in-tune and that is what connects their souls.

So that was kind of weird.

Especially from an author usually very tight in her characterizations who is meticulously organized.

Highlighted Passages

“I am having a holiday from the holidays. I am relaxing, following the enforced merriment of the last week. An amusing diversion, Holmes, nothing else. At least it was, until your suspicious mind let fly with its sneering intimations of omniscience. Really, Holmes, you can be very irritating at times.”

Twice I hid from the sound of a prowling horse-drawn cab with two wheels. The second time launched me on a long and highly technical conversation with a seven-year-old street urchin who was huddled beneath the steps to escape a drunken father. We squatted on cobbles greasy with damp and the filth that had accumulated, probably since the street was first laid down following the Great Fire, and we talked of economics. He gave me half of his stale roll and a great deal of advice, and when I left, I handed him a five-pound note.

“I thought that man was going to punch you.” “It’s only happened once, that I didn’t have time to talk my way out of a brawl.” “What happened?” “Oh, I didn’t hurt him too badly.” She giggled, as if I had made a joke. I went on. “I had a much rougher time of it once during the War, with a determined old lady who tried to give me a white feather. I looked so healthy, she refused to believe me when I told her I’d been turned down for service. She followed me down the street, lecturing me loudly on cowardice and Country and Lord Kitchener.”

“I was grateful to that large and noisy man, however. Not immediately,” she added, inviting us to chuckle at her youthful passion, and many obliged, “but when I’d had a chance to think about it, I was grateful, because it made me wonder, Why does he want me to keep silent in church? What would be so terrible in letting me, a woman, talk? What does he imagine I might say?” She paused for two seconds. “What is this man afraid of?

“Here this man is working with God, thinking about God, living with God, every day, and still he does not trust God. Deep down, he doesn’t feel one hundred percent certain that his God can stand up to criticism, can deal with this uppity woman and her uncomfortable questions; he does not know that his God is big enough to welcome in and put His arms around every person, big and small, believers or seekers, men or women.”

“If you want to be logical about it, don’t tell me that the woman was given to Adam as a servant, a sort of glorified packhorse that could carry on a conversation.”

“That was what my loud preacher feared, to be told that he and his cronies had no more right to tell me that I couldn’t speak in God’s house than I had a right to tell the sun not to shine.”

Her attitude towards the Bible seemed to be refreshingly matter-of-fact, and her theology, miracle of miracles, was from what I had heard radical but sound. Oh yes, I should like to meet this woman.

“Men have other options. Women need the help of their sisters, and in fact, that to me is one of the most exciting things about what we’re doing, when women of different classes meet and see that we share more similarities than differences, in spite of everything. We are on the edge of a revolution in the way women live in this society, and some of us want to ensure that the changes that are coming will apply to all women, rich and poor alike.”

“The vote was a sop,” she snapped. “Granting individual slaves their manumission after a lifetime of service doesn’t alter the essential wrongness of the institution of slavery, nor does giving a small number of women the vote adequately compensate the entire sex for their wartime service—to say nothing of millenia of oppression.”

“But that’s . . . That means . . .” “Yes,” I said wryly, pleased with the effect my idea had on her. “That means that an entire vocabulary of imagery relating to the maternal side of God has been deliberately obscured.” I watched her try to sort it out, and then I put it into a phrase I would definitely not use in the presentation in Oxford: “God the Mother, hidden for centuries.” She looked down at the book in her hands as if the ground beneath her feet had, in the blink of an eye, become treacherously soft and unstable. She turned carefully to the drawer, riffled the gold-edged India paper speculatively, and put her Bible away. She returned to her chair a troubled woman and lit another cigarette. “Is there more of this kind of thing?” “Considerably more.”

“You couldn’t help but want to break his control and see what lay beneath.”

“If all these images can come from the word light, how many more from the word love, a thing invisible but for the movement it creates, a thing without physical reality or measurement or being, yet a thing which animates the entire universe. God is love. God creates, and when He sees His creation, He loves it and calls it good.”

Holmes would have done the matter by telegram, I knew, but I always prefer the personal touch in my matters of mild blackmail.

I felt reassured. If he could be rude, he was reviving.

I then turned my warning gaze back on Marie, who subsided, muttering French curses that I wish I could have overheard more clearly, for the sake of my education.

An accurate throwing arm is perhaps the only truly remarkable skill I possess.

None of that was absolutely true, but it fit the image and laid a basis for my future behaviour, which was to do whatever I damn well pleased, fine.

“The boy has a cup of tea for his mother,” she read, and repeated it, then looked up again and laughed, her eyes shining with the suddenly comprehended magic of the written word. Her teeth were mostly gums, she smelt of unwashed wool, her hair lay lank, and her skin wanted milk and fruit, but for the moment, she was beautiful. Veronica Beaconsfield knows what she is about here, I thought to myself, and took the work-roughened hand and squeezed it hard.

No slick-faced creature with a sharp blade was going to destroy my wardrobe again.

I always hated what Londoners called with such wry pride their “particulars,” their “peculiars,” their “pea soupers,” like the beaming parents of some uncontrollable and pathologically destructive brat.

Blind, stripped to my underclothing, and ill, I thought muzzily. Mary Russell, this is going to be very unpleasant.

He had already let me in under his guard, and I him. Holmes was a part of me, and to imagine myself “in love” with him was to imagine myself becoming passionately enamoured of my arm or the muscles in my back.

“These last weeks, since Christmas, have been odd ones. I have begun to doubt that I knew you as well as I thought. I have even wondered if you wished to keep some part of yourself hidden from me in order to preserve your privacy and your autonomy. I will understand if you refuse to give me an answer tonight, and although I freely admit that I will be hurt by such a refusal, you must not allow my feelings to influence your answer.” I looked up into his face. “The question I have for you, then, Holmes, is this: How are the fairies in your garden?”

The restlessness of the day before was controllable now, and the shame something to be acknowledged and not dwelt upon.

With the ponderous dignity of the profoundly intoxicated, she took up a strategic position across the street from the doors.

I could not do this. The safe was not going to open for me, not in the time I had. Tell it to Holmes, nagged a voice. Watch his brief flare of irritation give way to sympathy, understanding. Live with that, will you?

“I walked into the hall, to find utter panic, of the Oxford variety: tight voices, careful poly-syllables, a certain amount of wringing of hands.”

#Russell and Holmes #year of book #fandom talks #A Monstrous Regiment of Women

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