#where for the first time they (perhaps its alfred or perhaps its any nation) silently sitting under the stars and the it is emphasized

[michael-weinstein]

A Christmas Post

Well, merry Christmas I guess. As an Israeli-Jew, I celebrate Hannukah each winter (it never has a fixed date in the Greogrian calendar) and never celebrated Christmas. That is, I never got a chance, because I'm actually quite interested and curious in American and European celebrations of Christmas. As a child, I was enthralled by "The Nutcracker", and less by the choreography, rather than Tchaikovsky's music. Even though I saw only one performance live so far (and that was when I knew much about it and was slightly older, so it didn't really make an impact on me), I have seen back then 2 productions: a 1977 production of the American Ballet Theater, choreographed by Mikhail Baryshnikov, starring him and Gelsey Kirkland. I must admit I haven't seen that one in a very long while, and I actually don't remember much of it, so I can't really say how much I like it, except that it is quite of a "traditional" Nutcracker so to speak. The music is provided by the National Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Kenneth Schermerhorn, some of the numbers are cut.

Much more memorable is the 1999 production of the Berlin State Ballet. This one, choreographed by Patrice Bart, is one of those "reinterpetations", which entered the opera world by the '70s, if not the '50s (the Wieland Wagner productions at Bayreuth, for example). It's one of those things, which made sense to do only in Berlin (both the company and its building, the State Opera, were part of what was then called East Berlin). This one puts revolution and psychology to the fore, and I will leave the rest to John Phillips from MusicWeb International:

Patrice Bart placed a prologue before the ballet [i.e. after the overture]. Its purpose was to elucidate the story in which Marie was abducted as a young child. Russian revolutionaries had attacked Marie and her aristocratic family and killed her father. The mother survived but went missing, leaving the traumatized little girl to believe that she lives in an imaginary land of ice and snow. She was adopted by the Stahlbaum family, but there she does not feel happy [...] She is not a 'normal' child [...] carefree and happy on Christmas Eve; the trauma will not leave her. This is where the wondrous figure of Drosselmeyer comes into the story. Drosselmeyer knows of Marie’s history. He intends to lead her back to her mother, so he brings the Nutcracker to life and reconciles Marie with her past. [...] [T]he Nutcracker is not a Christmas present from Drosselmeyer but a toy which she has always carried with her since before the abduction. The wooden puppet, whose uniform awakens memories of her father, is the catalyst for Marie’s renewed confrontation with the gruesome event in the dream — therapeutically speaking it is the first step towards becoming aware, towards healing.

Whatever you may think of the concept, it is superbly danced, but I will like to put your attention to the music itself. Most ballet orchestras will usually seem to have the orchestra playing Tchaikovsky's dramatic music (it is dramatic at least in the first act) rather lifeless and mechanical (of which the production mentioned above might be faulty), but this isn't the case if you're having the Staatskapelle Berlin and Daniel Barenboim in the pit. Barenboim seems to accentuate well how the music: a. has really strong connections with the composer's symphonies, and b. how much Tchaikovsky was inspired by Liszt and Wagner, even in what for some people would be seemingly unimportant music. Again to quote Phillips: "[W]e have a superb orchestra [...] playing as if their very lives depended upon it. Even where Barenboim slows the tempo down to suit the choreography, there is a passion and sonority in the playing". Unfortunately, this production is not available online for viewing (apart from a few excerpts from the later parts of the ballet), but you can buy it online.

From here on, I quite liked Nutcracker, and felt always rather disappointed when, looking at the discography at the Tchaikovsky Research website, there were barely any recordings by Austro-German orchestras (I quite like hearing music played by these kinds of orchestras). I apparently had, lying around, the 1998 recording by Valery Gergiev and the Kirov (alias Mariinsky) Orchestra. Listening to a few excerpts now, in retrospect, it seems a bit too fast, or even skating over the surface. But, as with Barenboim, there is honest feeling and passion to the music. Later, I was also given the full score of the ballet (easy to get online, Dover reprint), and it's quite full of markings right now.

In elementary school, some of my friends among the classmates were of Russian origin (more than a million of former Soviet Jews have emigrated during the early '90s), and as a consequence they didn't go to school on 1 January, because of Novy God (it's just like Christmas, only more pagan than Christian. The role of Santa Claus is filled by Grandfather Frost). Yet in recent years, I'm much more interested in - obviously - the German-speaking Christmas traditions. There are some traditional Christmas carols which are originally in German, and I'm going to talk about one of them right now.

My favourite Christmas song is Stille Nacht (Silent Night in English, but I will practically keep referring to the original German title), and it's one of the most famous Christmas songs (Bing Crosby's 1935 rendition is reported to be the fourth best-selling single of all time). My favourite performers are, however, the Vienna Boys' Choir (Wiener Sängerknaben). They recorded Stille Nacht quite of a number of times, as they released many Christmas albums over the years. The 1990 recording includes all of the six stanzas, and can sound quite mundane on repetition, even if you're able to appreciate the German lyrics. Look for some of the shorter recordings, yet this longer one has a particular dark timbre that I like more than the crystal bright one from the other ones.

But it's time to leave the holiday coziness, and shatter it alla Mahler into pieces. The first example is the rendition of Simon and Garfunkel, recorded in 1966, and it's typical of its time. On one channel, the duo sings the carol, while on the other, a news reporter announces the "7 o'clock news", obviously pessimistic and hope-drowning. Even though I'm about to show a way in which this dissonance is - in my opinion - better portrayed, Paul and Artie should not be easily dismissed, and their take on this carol is original and fresh in its own right.

In 1978, Alfred Schnittke wrote his "Stille Nacht", reportedly as a Christmas card to his friend, the violinist Gidon Kremer, for violin and piano. That probably tops all other Christmas cards in irony and hate-of-kitsch, so to speak. This Stille Nacht is full with dissonances, is creepy, cringy and actually makes Christmas sound more as if Halloween didn't yet understand that it was time to go already. Yet there it also makes the piece more humorus. When I played this to my dad for the first time, a few weeks ago, he laughed so hard, that I had to stop in the middle, because I was afraid he will run out of oxygen. He then told me that it was one of the most funny things he has heard in years. So it can be a good Christmas joke, but you do need to put it in some context. Schnittke, a Soviet of Jewish origin, was held in contempt by the Soviet system for being such a "problematic" composer, so to speak. Yet there is also not only light to be shed on the personal, but also the historic. When Kremer and his pianist wife Elena (currently Barenboim's wife) premiered the piece in Austria, it caused a scandal. By 1978 Austria, as well as Germany, were tainted by the years and crimes of Nazism, and after the catastrophe of two world wars, with the threat of a third, it didn't seem that anyone - either in Austria or Germany or anywhere else, for that matter - could believe - willingly or otherwise - that the idyll offered by "Stille Nacht" could become reality. A "Stille Nacht" for our time perhaps? Not a single one, as mentioned above, but in my opinion the main one. Gidon and Elena Kremer, shortly after the premiere recorded the piece. Schnittke, however, revised the piece a bit later. This is presented with a score in a performance by Mateja Marinkovic and Linn Hendry. Yet the former recording makes more of the irony and dark humor, inherent in the piece.

So, as this day comes to a close, try to enjoy or chill for your last moments of the last Christmas of the decade.

(Originally posted: 25 December 2019)

#tchaikovsky #nutcracker #daniel barenboim #valery gergiev #silent night #stille nacht #vienna boys choir #simon and garfunkel #alfred schnittke #gidon kremer

[ruledthewaves]

final moments; closed

(continued from here with @bertievi)

Arthur understood, perhaps better than many, the need for solitude; it was the kind of need one could not ignore, it begged to be placated by clawing at one’s psyche until the need became physical discomfort at the mere presence of other people. The issue was particularly acute with the mass of the English population and even some of the interloping invaders who had made the island a temporary home, all bundled at the back of his mind. So, he could never begrudge his King a bit of privacy.

The raids always began silently for Arthur. The warning came several seconds before the horrific hum, that awful rumble of engines skirting the skies overhead. A prickling at the back of his neck alerted him, just enough time to register what was about to happen and no time at all to be of any use.

Arthur had stalled his own exit of the premises to look for Albert in the crowd when the concussive blasts and fires erupted around him. He was knocked off his feet, thrown by the explosion and falling debris, further insulted by the burns that tore at his skin with every bomb that scarred the earth. He knew he had to find his King, protect him at all costs, and that alone drew Arthur back to his feet covered in dust, pushing plaster and bits of brick off to search among the dead and dying. He gritted his teeth as he picked his way through, arms over his head. Each impact sent a burst of pain through his upper body that made an inquisitor’s irons seem preferable by comparison. Nonetheless, he moved forward.

Finding Albert at last, crushed under the weight of the collapsing roof was almost worse than his own blistering skin. It was like a punch to the gut frozen in time, dragging him someplace where he could hardly breathe.

“Oh Christ, Bertie--!” he cried, stumbling to him. He hadn’t called Albert that in years, but in the moment of panic it came easily and without thought. Arthur fell to his knees and took his hand, tried not to look at the blood pooling on the floor.

“No, no don’t-- don’t say that, I’m going to get you out of here--” he turned his head and shouted, “For the love of GOD, SOMEBODY COME HELP ME!” 

With his heart pounding in his ears, Arthur scrambled back to his feet and tried desperately to pry some of the fallen roof up. He knew he was mad to try, but he’d always been a little off, foolish, reckless. The lower part of the heap twitched and shifted, sending rocks and bricks and dust cascading down and it was a miracle he could do that much, but even his nation’s strength had its limits and abruptly his arms and back gave out. He kept trying anyway, throwing himself against the pile but there was no use--Arthur’s real strength was in his endurance, not sheer force. Only America, only Alfred could hope to lift a mess  like this--and he had all but abandoned Arthur and his people to their fate. He let out a frustrated growl, tasted the dust in his mouth and pushed with all his might. “I’ll get you out,” he bared his teeth in a stubborn grimace, “I’ll save you, this isn’t over yet--”

Another bomb exploded further away, but Arthur felt it all the same and he slipped and fell, scraping himself on the shards of detritus strewn about. He clenched his fists and raised his head to his King, appearing desperate for the first time since their reunion in the bunker.

#hello yes officer I'd like to report a MURDER #ic #au: ssgb #20th century #WWII #bertievi

[thenarcolepticone]

The Fine Line

by TheNarcolepticOne

AO3

Summary: Heroism can't always be defined by what anyone can do on their own. Sometimes you need divine intervention. And sometimes, that same divine intervention can make a man take desperate measures to ensure the safety of the one they love.

Characters: APH America, APH Nyo!England.

Warnings: Violence.

A/N: Hey, so this is my Secret Spectres present for Mary ( @anglaland on Tumblr) based on the topic of Forgotten History. I tried really hard not to aim for the witch trials event, so this was the next best thing I could think of that's semi freaky. I'm a little late posting it but it's midterm week so I've been trying my best to keep my focus on school and classes. I hope you like it. There are some OOC elements but I hope that's not too distracting. Also, warnings on violence on this once. I mean, this isn't quite as violent as many other fics out there but I just gotta be sure people are aware.

##

The full moon bore down its radiant beam right onto his people like a spotlight as if the Eyes of God were staring down into each of their hearts and judging them every second they took a breath.

The evening air was permeated with white smoke, which stemmed from the torches hoisted up into the sky amid the fall wind. It was an odd tradition to always use torches (America liked to preserve tradition), but they never actually had any practical use. Full moons were the best time to begin the Hunt, and it provided enough light to see miles away, without the torchlight.

America’s grin was unmistakably visible on his face and defined itself against the white spotlight above; he felt the wild adrenaline rush seep its way into his blood as he eagerly went to lead the charge into the forests toward the neighboring towns to begin the search. The witch search.

The Purification.

And, as such, America was determined to ensure that there wouldn’t be any witches that would be able to leave tonight without facing the Final Judgement. America felt as if there was something supernatural taking his hands like strings, guiding him to be the leader like he was destined to be. But of course, that supernatural figure being God himself, allowing him the power to vanquish the evils tonight with the command of with his own Right Hand.

Now, witches, unsurprisingly, were a common evil amid his own community of Colonists. They threatened the safety of his own people across all town and overall, the livelihood of his own future as a nation. Did America want to be a nation of women being controlled by demons! Of course not!

So, in this instance, he already vowed himself to be the self-volunteered protector of these villains. After all, America needed to be sure that when England returned, he would be able to show her that he could take care of himself. And maybe then, could see her as something much more than a simple nation in need of help.

America, the game changer of the world. That was a title that had many merits by just saying it aloud and it made him almost giggle with delight.

But, of course, the end goal was still in progress. No title like that could start without a clean foundation, and so America made it a point to be thorough with his search party tonight so that he could sleep easy before England’s return.

“There!” a voice called from the crowd that was behind America and he turned his head to look in the direction indicated. There was only about 9 of them all together, but the voice was distinctly coming from the youngest in the group at age 18. America tended to trust the younger ones, as they often showed themselves to be much more perceptive than the older men. America himself didn’t look a day over 17.

Sure enough, there was an isolated cottage in the middle of the undergrowth, well concealed within the hemlocks. The brightness of the moon had provided the right amount of light to uncover its location where it would have not been noticed otherwise. The lights were off inside, but it could very well only be a ploy meant to throw them off their search.

With a rush, America grabbed his pitchfork and began for the cottage.

“This way,” he called to his people and they all went to follow him. It was an unquenchable itch that made Alfred practically run to the doorstep and it was practically impossible to calm him down because of this. 

The hero of the story. The one to rid the land of something that could potentially be the death of him and his remaining citizens. These were legendary tales meant to be carried through the voices of parents to children from times to come.

And no, America did not like to consider this quest to be of only seeking the death of others. That was something that monsters did. America only had to kill out of necessity; out of survival against those devils that liked to hide behind the form of a woman.

It was because of this cockiness that he ended up being the one who instigated the first knock on the door (or perhaps better described as banging). America couldn’t help but tap his foot on the ground, waiting for anyone to answer. There had to be an answer because if there was no answer, someone had something to hide from him.

Nothing. America gave another heavy knock.

After a moment of waiting, America forced the door open and the crowd of men only followed him like sheep following their shepherd. Tonight was a night that this could be justified; if the people inside weren’t witches, they had nothing to fear. This was already suspicious enough.

The house was old and rickety the second the group stepped onto the aging wood. Their footsteps were very audible, which provided enough intimidation, America thought.

The environment around them was covered in a light layer of dust and after bringing the torches into the room and America could practically smell something off about this place. There was a knocked over the table in the kitchen and a kettle that looks as if it had also been used as it was billowing with steam. Recently.

In short, it appeared as if the house hadn’t had any occupants for the longest time, but the room’s ancient status contradicted itself with more mysterious information that was found. One of the older men had spotted the glowing fire embers still sizzling in the fireplace. When this was pointed out, the men began to split up. Perhaps the perpetrator didn’t go far.

“You can’t hide forever, witch,” another one of America’s men threatened, jostling the knob of a door a little to scare them out. “Come out and face God.”

The sound of another door opening with a followed cry in fear broke the silence. America burst forth down the hall, spotting an adjacent room where the noise was the loudest and walked in.

Upon entering, he spotted two silhouettes huddled in the corner of the room, hiding under a desk and cowering behind a chair. The man who had found them shoved the chair out of the way and brought the light up to their faces, revealing their identities.

Had the room been in total darkness, they would have not been noticed. But the moonlight was on America’s side that evening and the forms that were in front of him were not what he had expected.

In fact, one of them was the least expected person he had expected to see alone in the woods. England was there, dressed only in her nightgown with a younger girl in her arms, head leaning against England’s bosom with tears and mucus running down her nose and sniffling.

“Alice,” America said immediately. Confusedly. “Why are you here? I thought you were not to arrive until a week’s time.”

“Is it not obvious?” England said, eyes never leaving his. “This girl has lived here all by herself for the last year. She’s been alone, unable to fend for herself and absolutely helpless,” England went to pet the girl’s hair.

“She needs a mother figure. And from what I understand, you and your people were the ones who took her mother away from her.”

“Me?” America widened his gaze at the accusation. “How could I be the one to take her? Unless the child’s mother had committed a crime of her own I do not understand why she would --”

“You’ve burned her,” hissed England, holding the girl close to her with a protective grip. “You’ve burned the girl's mother for being a witch. How could you even think to do that to a child, Alfred? And--”

“And?” one of America’s men stepped up with intimidating height. “If her mother was a witch, that means that her judgement has been made. Christ has forgiven her mother of the transgressions she had put upon the earth.”

The man’s eyes flickered to the shaking girl, who was staring right back at him with a shaky expression.

“If her daughter is also a witch too, she will also need to face against the wrath of Christ himself.”

“She is not a witch!” England yelled, turning her gaze to America pleadingly. “Alfred, please. The girl only needs a mother. She is innocent. Just move on and find some other witch!”

“That is not up to me to decide,” America huffed, practically grabbing the young girl’s arm as she screamed. With annoyance, America brought his hand up to slap the girl. And she fell silent.

“What is her name?” America asked. Clearly, there were no answers coming out of this girl and her whiny attitude.

“...Jessica,” England murmured. “Please, Alfred. Please. She is only 14 years old. She’s not--”

America paid no mind as he let his own “Right Hand of God” guide him. His hand went to pinch the young woman in several places, ranging from her arms, legs and pubic area. The girl screamed all the same, causing America to grow more annoyed. It seemed, for the most part, England spoke the truth.

With a final glance, he noticed a few very peculiar lumps on the teen’s chin. They were oddly colored and popped from the skin as if it were the plague itself.

Warts.

“Alfred,” England tried again as she came closer, but she was roughly shoved back against the wall by the men surrounding them but she ignored them. “Alfred you can’t!”

“It is out of my hands,” America mused. “She is a witch.”

The men shouted in victory at their prize and England only lamented in despair. America shoved the screaming teen into the arms of her captors, who began to tie her up and carry her to the jailhouse. America went right up to England so that she may be pacified enough to keep her place. All the men had left, leaving the two alone to their devices.

“Move out of the way,” she snarled at America. She was a few centemeters taller than him, but clearly wasn’t quite at her normal figure; she was much skinnier. Weaker. It provided a much bigger advantage to America, who so easily shoved her into the wall a second time, causing her own glasses to fall off her face with a loud ‘clink’ against the wood as well as her head to also smack harshly against it.

The moonlight from outside highlighted the features of her face in the most romantic way, and almost blended into the color of her skin. It was like porcelain; glistening but fragile.

England groaned opened her eyes again slowly to try and focus, blearily looking in the direction of America’s face. And with a very exhausted attempt, tried to shove him back in order to catch up with the men after Jessica.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” America warned, suddenly grabbing a hold of her neck and squeezing enough to make her gasp and fall to her knees. “God is watching and I said I wanted to protect you from women like that, remember? The cursed ones?” America cooed. “She’s put a curse on you, England and I have to save you. If you followed her, you’d be hanged along side her for sure!”

England gasped, hands attempting to grab a hold of America’s squeezing wrist. He wasn’t squeezing too hard to prevent her from fully breathing but her inhaled breath was raspy.

“America,” she coughed. “You can’t... do this. If God watches... then surely he would drag you to Hell.”

America only rolled his eyes, watching her blink a little slower as he squeezed tighter.

“One day you’ll understand, England,” he murmured. “I’m doing this all to make sure you’re safe. No harm will come your way; not while I’m here.”

#secretspectres #my fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #hetalia #APH England #APH America #aph nyo england

[topmixtrends]

LAURA VAN DEN BERG’S 2015 novel, Find Me, tells one woman’s tale of surviving the post-apocalypse. In the first half, her world is clearly demarcated, a sterile hospital facility that keeps the survivors of an outbreak separated from the world outside. The second half takes place after an escape from the facility, when the woman begins a nebulous journey through a ruined landscape to find her mother’s house in Florida. In her 2013 short story collection, The Isle of Youth, van den Berg creates tales of similar strangeness, mystery, and unease, which function as eerie echoes of the unique danger women face in their daily lives.

The Third Hotel, her new novel from FSG Originals, seems to fall into it’s own unique category — it is a noir mystery that heavily references horror pop culture and melts itself into a surrealist bent. The main character, Clare, is not a detective and doesn’t have a gun, and there is no gory resurrection of purifying flesh. There is her husband, Richard, a professor who specializes in horror movies. There is the city of Havana, gearing up for a horror film festival that will bring in many foreign travelers. Clare is not the kind of person to ignore details and coincidences. Her observant nature has lead her to look for meaning in the strangest of places: hotel rooms, which by design are meant to be aesthetically invisible. When she finds unique things about them, from her childhood growing up in a hotel in Florida to her on-the-road elevator repair career, she speaks in awed terms. The discovery of a fingernail in a drawer, clean and perfect, leads her to wonder “what kind of person would abandon to a hotel room drawer such a perfect specimen of their existence.” Nearly from the beginning of the novel, the reader is able to pick up on something else stirring in Clare — a silent rage, the fuel of which is complicated and their consequences, uncertain. All we know is that “the fury that had left Clare wanting to feel as little as possible, to press an ice cube against her heart.” But Clare’s trip to Havana will become a tipping point for her journey into the unknown — her life is about to crack and realign in a fusion of the new.

When the reader is introduced to Clare, it is in the aftermath of a tragedy — her husband has been killed in a car accident. Clare decides to visit the horror film festival he planned to attend in his stead, as if staying close to the subject of her husband’s studies keeps a part of him alive. When she checks into the “third hotel,” so called because it was the third option available to her, she can’t help but draw connections between the life she lead and her present reality: the broken elevator, calling back to her career in elevator repair at Thyssenkrupp; the business trips she took for that career, nights spent in Nebraska, feeling almost like a purgatory; the strange thread of the impersonal woven between all hotel rooms, calling back to her childhood growing up in the Florida hotel her parents operated; her parents, raising Bobtail cats while her father slowly sinks into dementia, a father who kept himself nearly as impersonal as the hotel rooms; her husband, so distant toward the time of his death, seemingly disconnecting himself from her. These events exist in Clare’s mind not as a chronological finality but as a long string, one that can be pulled forward and back, perhaps even tied to a cyclical end. “She imagined the suspension transforming into a warm flood of inevitability as the gate swung open and she stepped into whatever new dislocation of reality lay ahead.” As time becomes even more frayed throughout the events of the book, nights melt into days, and the true nature of Clare’s narration fades in and out of clarity.

She contemplates these events as she participates in the festival, drinking too much and waiting for the premiere of Yuniel Mata’s Revolución Zombi, the first horror movie in Cuba’s (fictional) cinematic history. In the midst of socializing, she sometimes lies and sometimes tells the truth, relishing the opportunity to carve out a different narrative for herself. In a way, she is weakening her already loose grip on reality, compounding the heady feeling of absence that someone can either ride like a wave or sink like a stone. The landscape of Havana is very much what you’d expect — classic cars parked along baked sidewalks, stray cats lounging in the spots of greenery dotting the concrete, the air alive with the noise of the people of a nation facing the future. But for Clare, the landscape itself becomes a road map for her own disordered mind: “Ahead she couldn’t see anything beyond the flat gloss of the ocean, and the longer she stayed, the more it looked like the rising sun was setting the water on fire and so she stood there, in a blaze fierce enough to remind any person that they were never not at the raw mercy of the earth, and waited to be burned up.” At the center of it all is the third hotel, with its jungle forest wallpaper hinting at a tangled mystery within, a false backdrop in more ways than one — the white cardboard box found with her husband’s effects, a literally sealed enigma she carries with her; the star of Revolución Zombi, Agata Alonso, who may or may not be attending the festival in disguise. If that wasn’t enough of a bombardment of mysteries, the culminating moment that kick-starts the novel in a new direction: Clare spots her husband in busy Havana cafe, not as a zombie but a new version of him, “as if he had not just died in a car accident five weeks ago.”

What, exactly, is happening here? On paper, The Third Hotel has all the makings of a horror movie itself. But much like Twin Peaks: The Return, van den Berg only allows us slight glimpses of terror before yanking us back, insinuating a greater meaning, a deeper connection than just fear itself. Maybe Clare’s entire ordeal is presented as a red herring — she mentions the Alfred Hitchcock quote in which he claimed you had to “torture the women” to make a good horror movie. Are the strange events befalling Clare to our benefit, an innocent character trapped in the circumstance of entertainment? It stands to reason that this is why The Third Hotel features an ever-present horror movie in the background — to point out to us that real life is often stranger than plot formulas. The anxiety of our daily lives, the lack of closure to our emotional wounds, and the simple unknowing of what will come next trumps any movie-magic gore or jump scare. In this way, The Third Hotel isn’t a horror story, in the way that Under the Skin wasn’t science fiction. To be more accurate, both these stories contain elements of the cut-and-dry genre definition, but also explore different aspects, allowing the reader the mental breathing room to feel both confusion and unease.

The Third Hotel begs for an update of the old adage of “good artists copy, great artists steal.” Specifically, in the noir genre, the standout quality among the good examples is the transportation of the reader not just to a landscape but a feeling, tapping into an area in our minds where places become as familiar as smells. From the smoky intensity of dusk in Chandler’s Los Angeles to the neon-lit rain puddles of Gibson’s Chiba, noir can defy genre expectations and become a flavor that heightens the senses. But the truly great noir writer isn’t finished yet, not until they subvert those expectations we’ve already created and reshape them to their liking. As a reader, it often imbues the flavor into us and challenges what we consider real or not, how things — both physical and mental — are not always as they appear to be. In other words, good noir creates an iconic backdrop, but great noir isn’t afraid to push the backdrop down and reveal the concrete soundstage behind it. In the spirit of true noir, with all of Clare’s effort focused on finding her husband, how can we know that he wants to be found? Or whether the reader can trust her motivations at all?

The twisting landscape and disengagement of self-narration is similar in feeling to Catherine Lacey’s 2014 novel Nobody Is Ever Missing, in which a woman named Elyria abruptly leaves her life in the United States to travel aimlessly around New Zealand. Despite being an excellent portrait of atmosphere and dread, there was criticism that Elyria was not given enough motivation to leave her life this way, that she had no reason to. Ironically, this proves the very point that the author was trying to make — that when men disconnect from reality, it signifies deep thought and reflection, while a women behaving similarly must be having some kind of breakdown. It could also be interpreted as a sign of the times, in that applying the story of The Third Hotel to a male character in a different time period would be considered his artful way of processing his grief. One could even draw parallels to Graham Greene’s Our Man in Havana, with Clare’s mission becoming no less important when it presents itself. The tinges of surrealism are just enough to keep the reader on their toes — a touch of Lynch without the violence, or Cronenberg without the gore. At its heart, The Third Hotel is a novel about precarity — the fragile nature of memory, sanity, and how the reality we perceive constantly changes. Clare’s unease in Havana bears striking resemblance to the political state of our world now, where reality changes almost daily, twisting to fit new logic, new thought, new flesh. Financially, politically, socially, environmentally — we live in precarious times, walking along the edge of a knife. Like Clare, we must try to reaffirm the realities we can, lest we fall prey to the uncertainty that waits patiently for doubt to weaken us. Is it only a matter of time before we become like her — chasing her husband down unfamiliar streets, her thoughts aflame with the certainty of the thought: “You are dead. How could you have forgotten?”

¤

Matt E. Lewis is the editor of Ayahuasca Publishing and co-editor of the horror anthology series States of Terror.

The post Our Dead Man in Havana appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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#Los Angeles Review of Books #topmixtrends

[christinaepilzauthor-blog]

A Silent Night

by Catherine Curzon

As Christmas approaches, we trim up our houses and trees, gather friends and family near and cook up some extra-special treats. Christmas in our household has always had its own special soundtrack too, and that enormous playlist that accompanies a Curzon December ranges from classical to rock and everything in between. Of course, carols are a huge part of any traditional Christmas and it truly feels magical to light the fire, turn out the electric light and spend an evening relaxing to the strains of Christmas carols, accompanied by a good book, a sleepy dog and something nice to drink. One of my favourite carols is Silent Night and, appropriately given my specialist subject, it's a piece that has its origins in the long 18th century. It's not strictly Georgian and, though it was written in 1818, it's not Regency either because Silent Night first rang out across the snow-flecked land of Austria, far from British shores. In 1817 Father Joseph Mohr came from Mariapfarr in Salzburg to take up a position in a new parish. His new position was in Oberndorf bei Salzburg, where he was to serve as an assistant priest to those who worshipped at the St Nicholas parish church. Oberndorf was a small town, little more than a village, and the young priest was looking forward to his new role. A keen amateur poet, when he arrived in 1817 he was carrying in his bag a six stanza poem that would one day become famous. The organist and choirmaster at the church of St Nicholas was a man named Franz Xaver Gruber. He and Father Mohr were soon friends and for two years they worked together harmoniously in the church, one preaching, one playing to the congregation.

In 1818, Father Mohr was planning a midnight mass for Christmas Eve when he remembered that poem he had written two years earlier. His mind kept returning to the verses and he wondered whether it might do as the basis for a brand new carol that could have its world premiere at the mass. It was a simple poem celebrating the birth of Jesus and recounting the nativity scene around the manger, and it seemed to Father Mohr as though it would be perfect for the occasion.

On a bitterly cold Christmas Eve, Father Mohr set out from Oberndorf and walked two miles to Gruber's home in Arnsdorf bei Laufen. He showed Gruber the poem and asked if he thought he could set it to music in time for the mass that night. Together the two men went to the church of St Nicholas, where they began work. The church organ wasn't working properly that night so Gruber sat down with his guitar - always his favourite musical instrument - and went to work. In just a few hours he had composed the melody that became famous as Silent Night. It was given the title of Stille Nacht and at the midnight mass, the choir of St Nicholas gave the first ever performance of the well-loved carol.

Soon everyone was talking about the beautiful new carol that had been performed in the small church that night. As the years passed, it became an Austrian staple and from there, new arrangements began to be heard all over the continent. Gruber was deeply involved in creating many of these new arrangements, creating versions of the song for the organ as well as guitar and writing numerous other arrangements of traditional carols, which have become staples of Austrian Christmas services. Sadly the original manuscript created on Christmas Eve 1818 has been lost, though a manuscript in Mohr's hand dated 1820 does exist.

According to the popular story, Stille Nacht became Silent Night in 1859 when John Freeman Young, a priest in New York, translated the original German piece into English. He slowed the song down too and it's this slightly different arrangement that is most well known today. Although it's often heard throughout the advent period, Father Mohr actually didn't intend for his carol to be performed on any day other than Christmas Eve and in Austrian churches, this is still the case. However, hidden within the pages of The Morning Post for Saturday, January 6, 1855, (issue 25277), is a very tantalising report of a concert that was given at Merton College, Oxford. The extract reads:

A few evenings ago, a large party assembled in the fine old dining hall of this college to listen to a performance of Christmas carols by the entire choirs of Holywell and St-Peter's-in-the-East. [...] The carols were chiefly from the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge's Collection, and from Mr Helmore's little publication [...] but, in addition, an American and German, "Silent Night, beautiful in both words and music, were presented.

This appears to be the first mention of the carol by its English title in the British press, and it comes four years before John Freeman Young published his famous, canonical translation. Of course, the song must have had English translations prior to Young's setting it down in print and it's likely that this was simply one of the many unofficial arrangements and translations that were doing the rounds of Europe in addition to Gruber's own Stille Nacht cottage industry. We will never know the words of the translation that were performed in Oxford that evening but the image is a compelling one, with the scholars gathered by candlelight to listen to a version of the now legendary carol. Perhaps somewhere one of those hymn sheets awaits discovery but, wishful that thought is, it's unlikely that the version performed in Oxford will ever be ascertained. Sadly, the Church of St Nicholas where that carol first rang out no longer stands. After multiple instances of flooding, the church was demolished in 1913. In its place the Stille-Nacht-Kapelle, or Silent Night Chapel, was erected in 1937. Every year, at 5pm on Christmas Eve, a mass is held at the chapel and Silent Night is performed in a variety of languages, recognising the people who have made the pilgrimage to Oberndorf. Those who visit say it's a magical experience and the ideal way to start the Christmas festivities. Wherever you may be and however you may be spending the Christmas season, I hope yours will be peaceful, happy and one to remember! Further Reading http://www.henle.de/blog/en/2012/12/24/'silent-night'-revisited/ http://www.bbc.co.uk/religion/religions/christianity/christmas/carols_1.shtml Cryer, Max. Love Me Tender. Exisle Publishing: 2008. Montgomery, June and Renfrow, Kenon. Stories of the Great Christmas Carols. Alfred Music, 2003. Mulder John M & Roberts, F Morgan. 28 Carols to Sing at Christmas. Wipf and Stock, 2015. Pauli, Hertha. Silent Night: The Story of a Song. Knopf, 1943. Scott, Brian. But Do You Recall? Lulu, 2017. All images courtesy of Wikipedia. ~~~~~~~~~~

Catherine Curzon is a royal historian. She is the author of Life in the Georgian Court, Kings of Georgian Britain, and Queens of Georgian Britain. She has written extensively for publications including HistoryExtra.com, the official website of BBC History Magazine, Explore History, All About History, History of Royals and Jane Austen's Regency World. Catherine has spoken at venues and events including the Stamford Georgian Festival, the Jane Austen Festival, Lichfield Guildhall, the National Maritime Museum at Greenwich and Dr Johnson's House. In addition, she has appeared with An Evening with Jane Austen at Kenwood House, Godmersham Park, the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, the Jane Austen Festival, Bath, and the Stamford Georgian Festival. Her novels, The Crown Spire, The Star of Versailles, and The Mistress of Blackstairs, are available now. Catherine holds a Master's degree in Film and lives in Yorkshire atop a ludicrously steep hill.

Connect with Catherine through her website (http://madamegilflurt.com), Facebook, Twitter (@MadameGilflurt), Google Plus, Pinterest, and Instagram.

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