#so nothing from his autobiography for instance

[batsplat]

casey casual rudeness compilation

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Andrew Doyle

Published: Apr 18, 2024

“Why do you think the giraffe has a long neck?” says the naturalist Philip Henry Gosse to his son Edmund while he tucks him up into bed. “Does it have a long neck so that it can eat the leaves at the top of the tree? Or does it eat the leaves at the top of the tree because it has a long neck?”

“Does it matter?” says Edmund.

“A great deal, my son.”

This exchange is taken from Dennis Potter’s wonderful television play Where Adam Stood (1976), a loose adaptation of Edmund Gosse’s Father and Son (1907). Gosse’s book must rank among the very best of autobiographies. It is his account of being raised by his father Philip, one of Darwin’s close contemporaries, a man whose faith in the Bible was so fervent that the revelations of natural selection almost destroyed him.

The question about the giraffes is Potter’s invention, but it adroitly captures the profound inner struggle of this scientist who had devoted his life to a belief-system that was suddenly falling apart. It wasn’t just a matter of changing his mind as new evidence emerged, because the proposition that the earth’s age could be numbered in the billions rather than the thousands was not something that his faith could accommodate. The stumbling block was the Bible, a point that Edmund is quick to acknowledge in his book:

“My Father’s attitude towards the theory of natural selection was critical in his career, and oddly enough, it exercised an immense influence on my own experience as a child. Let it be admitted at once, mournful as the admission is, that every instinct in his intelligence went out at first to greet the new light. It had hardly done so, when a recollection of the opening chapter of Genesis checked it at the outset. He consulted with Carpenter, a great investigator, but one who was fully as incapable as himself of remodelling his ideas with regard to the old, accepted hypotheses. They both determined, on various grounds, to have nothing to do with the terrible theory, but to hold steadily to the law of the fixity of species.”

Philip Gosse had an instinct for scientific enquiry, but the new discoveries simply could not be reconciled with his holy text. His whole being was invested in the Biblical truth, and to cast that in doubt would be to undermine the crux of his being. To admit that he might have been wrong, in this particular instance, would be a form of spiritual death.

Both Gosse’s memoir and Potter’s dramatisation grapple with what Peter Boghossian and James Lindsay (in their book How to Have Impossible Conversations) call an “identity quake”, the “emotional reaction that follows from having one’s core values disrupted”. Their point is that when arguing with those who see the world in an entirely different way, we must be sensitive to the ways in which certain ideas constitute an aspect of our sense of self. In such circumstances, to dispense with a cherished viewpoint can be as traumatic as losing a limb.

The concept of identity quakes helps us to understand the extreme political tribalism of our times. It isn’t simply that the left disagrees with the right, but that to be “left-wing” has become integral to self-conceptualisation. How often have we seen “#FBPE” or “anti-Tory” in social media bios? These aren’t simply political affiliations; they are defining aspects of these people’s lives. This is also why so many online disputes seem to be untethered from reason; many are following a set of rules established by their “side”, not thinking for themselves. When it comes to fealty to the cause, truth becomes irrelevant. We are no longer dealing with disputants in an argument, but individuals who occupy entirely different epistemological frameworks.

Since the publication of the Cass Review, we have seen countless examples of this kind of phenomena. Even faced with the evidence that “gender-affirming” care is unsafe for children, those whose identity has been cultivated in the gender wars will find it almost impossible to accept the truth. Trans rights activists have insisted that “gender identity” is a reality, and their “allies” have been the most strident of all on this point. As an essentially supernatural belief, it should come as no surprise that it has been insisted on with such vigour, and that those who have attempted to challenge this view have been bullied and demonised as heretics.

Consider the reaction from Novara Media, a left-wing independent media company, which once published some tips on how to deceive a doctor into prescribing cross-sex hormones. Novara has claimed that “within hours of publication” the Cass Review had been “torn to shreds”. Like all ideologues, they are invested in a creed, and it just so happens that the conviction that “gender identity” is innate and fixed (and simultaneously infinitely fluid) has become a firm dogma of the identity-obsessed intersectional cult.

Identity quakes will be all the more seismic within a movement whose members have elevated “identity” itself to hallowed status. When tax expert Maya Forstater sued her former employers for discrimination due to her gender-critical beliefs in 2019, one of the company’s representatives, Luke Easley, made a revealing declaration during the hearing. “Identity is reality,” he said, “without identity there’s just a corpse”.

This sentiment encapsulates the kind of magical thinking that lies at the core of the creed. So while it becomes increasingly obvious that gender identity ideology is a reactionary force that represents a direct threat to the rights of women and gay people, there will be many who simply will not be able to admit it. In Easley’s terms, if their entire identity is based on a lie, only “a corpse” remains. From this perspective, to abandon one’s worldview is tantamount to suicide.

This determination to hold fast to one’s views, even when the evidence mounts up against them, is known as “belief perseverance”. It is a natural form of psychological self-defence. After all, there is a lot at stake for those who have supported and enabled the Tavistock Clinic and groups like Mermaids and Stonewall. Many of the cheerleaders have encouraged the transitioning of children, sometimes their own. What we have known for years has now been confirmed: many of these young people will have been autistic, or will have simply grown up to be gay. For people to admit that they supported the sterilisation of some of the most vulnerable in society would be to face a terrible reality.

This idea was summarised in parliament on Monday by Victoria Atkins, Secretary of State for Health and Social Care. Addressing Labour MP Wes Streeting, she said:

“I welcome all those who have changed their minds about this critical issue. In order to move forward and get on with the vital work that Dr Cass recommends, we need more people to face up to the truth, no matter how uncomfortable that makes them feel. I hope the honourable gentleman has the humility to understand that the ideology that he and his colleagues espoused was part of the problem. He talked about the culture and the toxicity of the debate. Does he understand the hurt that he caused to people when he told them to ‘just get over it’? Does he know that when he and his friends on the left spent the last decade crying ‘culture wars’ when legitimate concerns were raised created an atmosphere of intimidation, with the impact on the workforce that he rightly described?”

It remains to be seen whether those politicians who failed to grapple with the implications of gender identity ideology, and who mindlessly accepted the misleading rhetoric of Stonewall and its allies, will have the humility to admit that they were wrong. Many culpable celebrities have been choosing to remain silent in recent days, while others have opted for outright denial. On the question of puberty blockers and their harm to children, television presenter Kirstie Allsop has made the remarkable claim that “it is, and always has been possible to debate these things and those saying there was no debate are wrong”. The concept of “no debate” was official Stonewall policy for many years, and has been a mantra for many within the trans activist movement. To suggest that there have been no attempts to stifle discussion on this subject can only be ignorance, mendacity or a remarkably acute form of amnesia.

Of course, the stakes could hardly be higher. We are dealing with complacency and ideological capture that had resulted in the sterilisation and castration of healthy young people. It is, without a doubt, one of the biggest medical scandals of our time. It is entirely understandable that those who have supported such terrible actions would enter a state of denial. And so we must also be sensitive to those who are now strong enough to admit that they were mistaken.

But we also need to prepare ourselves for the inevitable doubling down. There are those whose psyche cannot withstand the kind of identity quake that Philip Henry Gosse once suffered. His solution was to write a book explaining why God had left evidence of natural selection. It was called Omphalos (1857) – the Greek word for “navel” – and his thesis was that since Adam had no mother, his navel was merely an addition to generate the illusion of past that did not exist. The fossils that were being discovered in the ground were therefore no different than the rings in the first trees in the Garden of Eden. They weren’t evidence of age, but rather part of God’s poetical vision.

Some of the revisionism and excuses from gender ideologues are likely to be even more elaborate. They have invested too much in their fantasies to give up without a fight.

==

As gender identity ideology falls apart, we need to pay attention to who is working to fix the mistakes they made, who is doubling down, and who is remaining silent.

[free-luigi-mangione]

and despite Dickey's motion in PA, a lot of people still thought that Luigi was telling his autobiography to the cops at the time of his arrest or after, but as the prosecution's response shows he had really shut his mouth, so he's defo not a yapper

People conflate a lot things about him, like in this instance, he likes talking about the things he is knowledgeable about - eg, his twitter and reddit, doesn't mean he talks non stop, doesn't even mean he is talking to people in real life about those things. Second, they are probably getting that from, the incident in december in PA court when he told the judge he didn't know where the money came from, that's not yapping, that's him a young person who had never been in this situation before telling the authorities that the cops were probably lying. And what little the LE got out of him during the arrest, most of which is just him having manners. People have picked apart most stressful moments in his life and based his entire personality in their head around that.

you've said everything so perfectly anon!! i have nothing to add.

[quoththemaiden]

I was thinking about your well-meaning eldritch-morality robot with plant growth (? I failed to tag the post so I might be mistaking some details) today (may have been bullying my cacti), and I was so charmed all over again by the anecdote that I had to run here to ask about characters you've created! Any stories to share about your favorites (or, if you prefer, things that weren't as successful)?

Ooh, thank you for this ask! I'll highlight another character from the same setting: D&D's Eberron.

The relevant deal with Eberron is that there was recently a major war that left an entire country uninhabitable due to magical warfare. This is just one country out of a dozen on the continent, but it's the one two of my characters came from.

You remembered my first character, Pole, very accurately: A morally eldritch robot (appropriately covered in cacti — something he hoped he might be able to grow there!) who was built inside that ruined country by a renegade engineer in a bunker after the end of the war. Pole decided to make it his life's mission to figure out how to restore his home country's ecosystem, even though he himself had never seen it as anything but a wasteland. This meant he was two years old and was a fully capable adult (and in fact much more intelligent than older, earlier-model robots) but had absolutely no actual experience with the world or how people worked. He would be completely unhelpful for anything that required charisma, but he was quite compassionate (...albeit with a child's understanding of what that meant), so if they were staying in a village, he'd take advantage of not needing to sleep to go out into the fields and use his Druidic magic to bless them. It cost him nothing, he had nothing else he needed to be doing, it would help the people there, so why wouldn't he? (It also meant he was perfectly willing to form a pact with a dark god, because it was clearly powerful since everyone feared it and he'd learn a lot from it, so what's the big deal? — Unsurprisingly, the sailors on the ship he and his party were on were less pleased when they found him praying to the Devourer.)

I played him for several years and even wrote about him for NaNo one year, so I commissioned art of him (by Jruva on DeviantArt). I may as well share!

A later character I created was a Warlock, Alyssa, from the same country (and I suspect my Yu-Gi-Oh! friends here would really get a kick out of her). Normally, Warlocks make a pact with a supernatural entity to gain their magical powers, like a fiend or an archfey or something like that. In this character's case, she got her magical powers from the restless spirits of her countryfolk who were unable to pass on. Instead of being driven by a compassionate drive to fix her country's ecosystem, like the Druid was, the Warlock bore the undying grudge of her people with her.

If I were writing this up as an autobiography, I'd probably pretend I was bolder with improv and did a wonderful job with it. For instance, the country is commonly known as the Mournland now that it's an uninhabitable wasteland. However, the country used to be called Cyre. People from other countries generally pronounced that like "sire," while Cyrans themselves pronounced it "kai-ree." This means that even people trying to be respectful will still flub it horribly, at least from the perspective of a traumatized survivor. When on a stealth mission through a university, when she heard scholars talking about her homeland and calling it by a non-native pronunciation, perhaps Alyssa would have broken cover to angrily insist upon how little they knew of her people. What would they have thought of this bitter young woman, driven by the rage of her people, who was angry at even those attempting — clumsily, but still sincerely — to be respectful of this culture that was wiped out? Is there anyone whose mind could have been changed in a positive direction by such a conversation? Or would it have resulted in worsened attitudes as well as a failed mission? Or would no one have even believed her? Who can say?

[writermuses]

"I run more than that every morning. Even at a brisk walk three miles is nothing in my book." Baz was used to walking all day through libraries, museums, destination to destination. He smiled down at her, admiring her bright eyes and brighter smile before he noticed her outfit as she adjusted her skirt. Bastían licked his lips and cleared his throat, knowing he was likely caught gawking at her thighs. "Next time then, though I insist you owe me nothing."

With a smile, Baz politely corrected her pronunciation, "Very close. What do you think of it so far?" He waited for her answer before talking about himself. "Part of the professorship gig is the research. You're expected to be publishing as you work. I actually have two or three jobs depending on how you want to think about it. I'm curator for a library, translating journals from World War II from French into English. Then I'm digitizing those translations so that other employees and historians can utilize them. I'll use my discoveries, if there are any, to publish in my field which is World War II resistance movements. Other French historians or World War II historians would then interpret and build connections on that from there. It's a pretty tight schedule going from the university, grading papers, then doing the research and writing. I don't have a lot of time for reading for my pleasure. I do listen to audiobooks sometimes while I run, though. In those instances I have done nonfiction and autobiographies."

Continued from here for @turkishdclights

[mayor-mclikeme-please]

To Be Hateful

By E.C. Bond

Sammy Mudd

4/24/2115

Mrs. Shibboyan

8th Grade Social Studies

My Hero rough draft

By Sammy Mudd

Mark Twain once wrote “You behold before you a man whose life-conflict is done, whose soul is at peace; a man whose heart is dead to sorrow, dead to suffering.” (Twain June 1876) I believe there is no better description for the subject of My Hero essay, noted Humanist Lawyer Marcus Becket. Marcus Becket is a very misunderstood figure. People went from hailing his objections to intermarriage to denouncing him wholesale. Upon his death, he was called by several journalists and television komoisophers, “The most hated man on two worlds”. I think this view is too simple of a view. No person is ever entirely black or white. Jesus killed a fig tree. Hitler loved his dogs. Fred Rogers had a temper. If all of them can survive complexity then so too should Marcus Becket. The aim of this paper will be to show Marcus Becket to be more complicated. I will show this by going into his life story, his relationship with the Dieithryn, and the arguments against Xeno-human marriage.

I think the life of a person can tell you a lot about them. Marcus Becket is no different. You will see in this paragraph how much more complex Marcus Becket was. People simplify him as a racist hick from nowhere, but in truth, he was from a cosmopolitan background. He was born in Topeka, Kansas on November 13th 2029. The second of five children, Becket’s family were transplants from Los Angeles who had signed on to the Infrastructure Administration as what were then called, “Human Resources”. My mom said that after the Cardiff Crash, business started rewording departments and positions to be more inclusive. So, “Human Resources” was changed to what we now call “Labor Attitude Realignment Specialists”. The Becket parents were part of an effort to introduce broadband internet into more rural regions. Thousands of workers, like the Beckets, had to relocate in government built facilities. This massive influx of people from the old metropoli of Los Angeles and New York among a few others, to the underpopulated territories had the domino effect of making Topeka the “Silicon Mecca of the Middle West”.

Becket said that his parents often felt displaced within this new migrant community. A community of professionals, literal tons of white collar types, that had once lived in their own alternate universes within the private boundaries of their own cozy suburbs, only now made to reckon with suddenly being piled on top of one another within a single complex. Marcus Becket’s view differed from the dissatisfaction felt by the building block’s elders. To him this way of living in sync with other people installed a sense of shared humanity . He writes in his autobiography I am The Captain of my Hardship “Friends, neighbors, and schoolmates were happily inescapable, although, my awareness of being happy didn’t become clear until my parents began working for a private firm. Meaning after we had a house of our very lonesome, did I come to know what community truly meant”.

There were other ways though that Becket regarded his own parents as a positive influence on his world view. Because their job required them to be obliging and helpful to people (so long as it did not inconvenience their job-gifters), it made him want to become an advocate for anyone who felt abused. Becket’s freshman year of high school records nothing less than 12 instances of talking back to teachers and being beaten up for standing up to bullies. It was during his time at Charles Davenport Memorial High that Marcus would meet his future husband and law partner, Fred Waldron, for the first time. They would share a biology class, discussing the immorality of crossbreeding animals for either commerce, research, or pleasure. The root of this shared disgust was that often these hybrids could not further breed amongst themselves or procreate with either parent’s species. For instance, Ligers and Zedonks are doomed to die alone for the idle curiosity of some zoo hand. How is that fair to either the parents or their imperfect baby? Their final biology project would argue as much, foretelling of their future practice. This common passion for reproductive justice, namely its application against Human-Dieithryn mingling, would unfortunately eclipse their primary work toward ending “soft segregation” in schools and promoting LGBTQA+ rights.

It was in May of 2053, Becket’s last year of law school, that the Dieithryn impregnated Cardiff, the capital city of Cymru. My great-aunt Luna told me that when she first heard about the aliens, she, like everyone, assumed it had been a hoax. Even up to a month, she and the family were in blank disbelief of the forthcoming lounge. All the pundits assumed this was the new country’s way of mocking their dissembling parent state, England. They were only to be shocked when their gator visages made international news. Welcomed by the Cymru Senedd as a refugee species from a dead world. They were given the name of Dieithryn as placeholder since their language was closer to morse code. The word Dieithryn is Welsh for stranger. They quickly sought resettlement from the U.N. as the dank climate of Cymru was not to the liking of garden snakes, let alone 5’7 dino-bird people.

In the movie made about the court case Tender V. Puerto Rico, they have the actor playing Marcus Becket relate a feeling of biblical doom from their arrival. This could not be further from the truth as Becket's own autobiography records “So, we aren’t all alone. At last we have met our neighbors. A little gruesome, but they speak as we do. Adequately enough, anyway. Ashamed as I am to say it, perhaps they could tip the scales (ha ha) in helping to liberate all peoples of earth from division”. As Machiavellian the sentiment was, it proved, indeed, prophetic. With a new people to fear, one truly inhuman, the laws changed everywhere. Within the decade, Trans children could seek reassignment, Non-Heterosexuals could donate blood easily, and white kids got on buses without their parents committing legislative race riots.

It was a great time to be a human being, but admittedly tougher to be an alien. For soon people began to fetishize and proposition the Dieithryn. Becket and his husband/partner Waldron saw the problem and fought to protect the refugees. Only the predators called it discrimination then. In Pullman V. Douglas Commonwealth, Becket was called as witness for the state to argue that their laws against the miscegenation of public spaces was an effort to prevent the Dieithryn from comingling with humans, but to ensure their equal treatment as a citizenry within themselves. This was to respect the Dieithryn’s agency as equal to humans, yet quarantine them from potential human abuse and usury. Though the ruling was a success at the time, it began a campaign that would consume much of Becket’s professional life. He was always agitating for legal bans on Xeno-Human marriage to be written into the constitution. He would publish books and articles on his reforms while also trying to cement the legal protection of Dieithryn Americans as fully fledged citizens.

Unfortunately, this would be for not as he died in his home on May 13th of 2114. The most hated man on two worlds, per the media (Despite the Dieithryn home world of Di-gar being dead and uninhabitable for decades at this point). Much maligned in his own time, the one year anniversary of his death inspired my mom and dad to suggest writing this exploration of his ideals. Especially given how they’ve helped to foster a pan-human world view. Before we can process the controversy of his objections to Xeno-Human marriage, I feel we must explore his own relationship with the Dieithryn community at large.

Marcus Becket did not hate Dieithryn. I know this is what people typically assume of him when they see his picture or the recordings of his rallies, but nothing could be further from the truth. As I shall show in this section. Yes, he had some initial shock to their appearance, but that was hardly an uncommon response. Even the old komoisopher king of late night, Stephen Colbert, said “Once you get past the lidless eyes, they’re rather comely. Well, the lidless eyes, and the neck frill. The lidless eyes, the neck frill, and the feathered skin. The lidless eyes, the neck frill- You know what? They’re clever girls.” (Colbert, 2054). Although Colbert did later issue an apology, humans knew no matter how equitable in speech and intellect the Dieithryn were to us, it didn’t detract from the squirming of our bellies.

We accepted their appearance. Normalized it. Welcome those who had wanted to be part of a decent society into our society. Beckett was never opposed to this integration. Becket himself was a job-gifter to any Dieithryn, who was qualified to work in his offices. In 2067, he even went so far as to defend a Dieithryn who was denied the right to vote in his county. From the court case of Burnside/**_*__ Vs. Klickitat county, Becket said “Although my client was not born here, raised here, or until recently, spoke the language that our laws are written in, they are a citizen. They are no different from any immigrant who has sought to take part in our great society. The actions of this county against my client's right are an affront to our history and to the United Nations rule of nationality and statelessness”.

IS this the language of a bigot? IS this the argument you’d expect of a monster? No. This is a man who believes in the equity of citizenship and those in need. So, why is he famously derided as, as he described himself, a humanist? To quote his forward from the 2100 edition of The Principles of the Elders of Di-gar “I am a Humanist because I know what Humanist means. From the Latin Umanista. A lover of humanity and its culture. That’s all it means. There can be no exclusion in the love of anything. We have brought Dieithryn into the fold of our sphere and ask them to obey the rules of the house. Just as the Latins brought those errant Trojans to their shores. How can it be impolite, let alone wrong, to request your guest not seize a Sabine?” (Becket 2100)

Hatred is unnatural to the human condition. Hatred is taught, not borne. I ask that you throw away your mentored dismissals of Markus Becket and listen to what a lover of humanity has to say as we delve into his arguments on inter marriage.

Let us begin with a reaffirmation of Joshua’s teaching to not judge. “Do not judge, or you too will be judged” (Mathew 2115). This is an objective presentation of the arguments made by Marcus Becket. I can only hope this will help to illustrate why I believe him to be a hero. After the first marriages took place between humans and Dieithryn, Beckett felt he had a responsibility to challenge them in court. As we covered before, he became a legal aid for the state of Puerto Rico in Tender V. Puerto Rico. He did not seek to fight on the ground that some had advocated saying the Dieithryn were by nature inferior to human beings. “Since they aren’t native to Earth, they can’t be considered ‘natural’, now can they?” he quipped on a Tomlin Talk interview with Dame Taylor Tomlinson.

The irony of Tender V. Puerto Rico being seen as some great landmark case for civil rights is that Wade Tender later left his Dieithryn partner and became an advocate against Xeno-Human marriage himself. Later investigations showing he was financially encouraged to divorce his spouse by anti-xeno-human marriage groups, does not detract from his credibility. Rather, the fact he took the money at all shows how committed anyone could be to such a union. They left all of that out of the Oscar bait movie I talked about before. Anyway, during the court case, three basic arguments were leveled by Becket against Xeno-Human Marriages.

Although Dieithryn could think and express themselves as easily as any man, they did not think like a man. Meaning that although the effect was the same, the nature of the Dieithryn mind was too different to be on the same emotional level as a human being. Thus making it impossible for Dieithryn to provide consent as Humans understood it.

Dieithryn were of an entirely different species, not native to Earth. Again, while they could communicate and work with Humans, they were not related to humans whatsoever. Humans from a strictly genetic purview had much more in common with the Swine or Apes of Earth, but we do not allow humans to mate with Pigs and Monkeys because that would be Bestiality. So would be any sexual act between a human and a Dieithryn.

Humans could not reproduce with Dieithryn except hypothetically with the genetic resequencing of either party. Humans, by social pressure and mortality, are obsessed with producing offspring of their own (Although Becket issued his tentative support for a human or Dieithryn couple to adopt a child of the other’s species). We should not condone human genetic experimentation. An act that had been illegal already.

Unfortunately for Becket, a majority of the Supreme Court panel threw out these arguments as inadmissible since the case in question was only about the tax benefits that Xeno-Human marriages were being denied. If he were to offer any challenge to the institution based on his concerns about consent, bestiality, and/or genetic engineering, he would need to open his own separate case. No court would ever accept his petition once the case had been settled. By that time, his character had been fully assassinated in the media by his enemies.

As Joshua was before him, Marcus Becket was abandoned by those fair weather allies and left hung out to dry until his early demise at 86. He was recorded as saying “How did this happen” upon his death. He passed away whilst clutching a small bust of his hero, the abolitionist John Brown, in his hand. I like to think Becket’s final question was in response to Wade Tender offering his apologies to Marriage Purity activists over CNN. This apology was all the blitz the day of Becket’s passing, shortly before Becket’s passing was declared anyway. Perhaps he was watching it in his bedroom and was shocked to see his once erstwhile enemy ask for his forgiveness now that he had seen the truth.

No matter what you thought of him, you can’t deny the importance of Marcus Becket. Defender of equity and a lover of humanity. Despite being run over by the press again and again, Becket never tired. He was always reaching out to those poor displaced and confused folks to jog their memories. To reignite their humanity and connection to it. I tried finding a primary source from a Dieithryn perspective, but I couldn’t find anything objective. Nevertheless, Becket was a hero to Dieithryn as well. Fighting for their rights as a separate, but truly equal class of people. That and so much more, is why Marcus Becket is my hero.

Works Cited

Twain, Mark. “The Recent Carnival of Crime, a Story by Mark Twain.” The Atlantic, June 1876, www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1876/06/the-facts-concerning-the-recent-carnival-of-crime-in-connecticut/306240.

Becket, Marcus, and Fred Waldron. Principles of the Elders of Di-Gar. 2nd ed., vol. 5, Topeka, KS, Becket-Waldron Publishing LLC, 2100.

“Matthew 7:1–6 (NIV).” Bible Gateway, 90AD, www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew%207%3A1-6&version=NIV.

Feedback:

I know I said you only had to cite three references in full, but please try to cite anytime you use a resource.

It is Marcus Beckett. You keep changing the spelling. Stop it.

You are utilizing APA for your style of citation, This is a no-no. Please revise and format this an MLA Harvard Plus

Please eliminate any reference to your personal feelings or family anecdotes. This is social studies and not a human interest piece.

We cannot call them Dieithryn anymore, as that is now considered a slur by them. They ask to be called Gwestai or Gwestai American. Which is Welsh for Guest. Although, this moniker will probably change by the time you finish your final draft and change again by the time I grade it as well.

SAMUEL MUDD. NEVER USE “I” OR “YOU” IN AN ESSAY. ANY ESSAY. We have talked about this before, Sammy. This isn’t a conversation.

From a content perspective, this is really interesting stuff. You just need to work on grammar and word choices.

Grade: B- Like I said, those You’s and I’s cost you an automatic ten point lost.

[callmearcturus]

I'm bored and I'm obsessed with Process, so I'll elaborate.

Jim Butcher (author of the Dresden Files) The biggest negative example I know, TDF had this recurring issue where the author didn't seem Aware of what the implications of his own writing was and seemed baffled and even upset when people pointed them out. I learned about close third-person perspective from TDF and I learned the power of an Unreliable Narrator and the limitations of a narrator's knowledge. I learned how to leverage what the Audience knows vs what the Character knows. I learned a lot! Thanks Jim! Sorry your books suck!

Mark Z Danielewski (House of Leaves) I read House of Leaves in parts during the summer when my mother worked at Hastings Entertainment, this huge combination book-game-music-DVD store that didn't survive the shift to digital. HoL was the first thing I read that demanded so much of the reader and couldn't be read casually. I think I learned to trust myself to handle Weird Shit and also that there was an audience for Weird Shit.

Steven Moffat (Doctor Who, Sherlock) Negative example, but I learned that audiences can't just constantly be told something is cool over and over and over. Moffat's greatest failing is that he only cares about the myth arc. If you hand him a character without a legacy, I don't know what the fuck he'd even do. He has no patience for building a character up slowly to show that they are dangerous and powerful. He just says it and is like "trust me." You gotta show your fucking work.

Hideo Kojima (Metal Gear) /face in hands Metal Gear made me queer and pretentious. No, I... owe Kojima so fucking much, but I think the most I owe him is the idea that it's worth being overambitious and failing. Outside MGS2 and MGS3 and maybe DS, I don't know if any of his works truly succeed at the lofty goals he has for them. But it is worthwhile to try and fail and make a compromised artistic statement than to be a boring bitch. Be more queer and pretentious. Make pop culture that means something. And more than anything, Kojima taught me to make people uncomfortable. That is where growth happens. Thanks, Hideo.

Italo Calvino (Invisible Cities and If on a winter's night a traveler) My copy of Invisible Cities is covered in sticky notes for fast reference. I think Calvino taught me that you don't have to explain shit. There are emotional truths that become physical through the conviction of belief. I owe all of the Tradespeople concept to him.

Rachel Pollack (Seventy-Eight Degrees of Wisdom) Archetypes. Symbology. A toolbox. Recurring images and their power. I have a Type and my Type is the Hanged Man. Also no matter how much there is an intended 'right' answer or interpretation, what is truly important is what you see instead. It'll always be more true.

Anne Carson (Autobiography of Red, the Sappho Translations, etc) The patterns repeat. The stories repeat. There is nothing new under the stars, but that doesn't mean its not worth telling. The lens matters. The words matter. Sometimes, you can kill someone with five words instead of seven.

Austin Walker (Waypoint, Friends at the Table) jesus fuck i owe Austin so much. Fuck 'good representation' if you have multiple instances of a group then no one person has to stand in for the whole. Make people messy. Analog is more satisfying than digital. All mech shows are about bodies. You can make it spiritual without it being religious. Utopia is a process, utopia is a process, the work will never be done but the work is good. When we don't see ourselves in the art around us, we will treat a famine like a feast and starve ourselves. Don't be afraid of a beautiful monologue. Make the voice distinct, make it count. People are vulgar and poetic.

Josh Sawyer (LOTS of games, esp Fallout New Vegas) Think about things! Build the world! Make it tactile, make the audience able to touch it and taste it. Come up with a weird idea and then stalk that idea for forty nights until you're in a new and weird place. Bring other people there.

sonnetstuck (Detective Pony) There is no such thing as Too Weird. There is no such thing as Too Deep. But have fun with it, for god's sake.

LightGetsIn (a lot of v good TDF fanfic) Literally one of the most important lessons I ever learned from a piece of fiction was from their fic Cross, and it was about the limited scope of character knowledge. I am obsessed with close third-person perspective. I write it almost exclusively. LGI taught me that every single character you write, each of them sees the world in a unique way. The language they would use, the details they would miss, how they interpret something that feels obvious to you. Make certain each character you write is truthful to how THEY would see the world and take care not to infused them with YOUR knowledge too much.

Kunihiko Ikuhara (Revolutionary Girl Utena) I'll never put it into words. The foundation was poured here.

Richard Siken (Crush, War of the Foxes) I don't know if I had words until Siken gave them to me. If you ever read a story of mine and go "wait, is that--" yes. The answer is yes. My copies of Crush and WotF are heavily dogeared and I rely on them to translate the world. I owe Siken so much.

Joseph Fink & Jeffrey Cranor (Welcome to Night Vale) hahaha god. I learned self-respect. I learned to stop being afraid. I learned there were people like me. I learned a lot of technical tricks, the way to form sentences, how to make an audience see what you're not saying, how to write Theme-first. Fink and Cranor taught me words as talismans, and that's in SO MUCH of my work it's absurd. Invocation, baby. Everything you make says something, so make it good. Be fucking weird with it. Art is communication, so what do you want to say?

Pete Wentz (Fall Out Boy) /grins. I learned how to communicate between Artist and Audience. And that there are many forms of love, and one is how wonderful it is to have the key to someone's heart and still break the windows on your way in, just for fun. You're the antidote to everything except for me. Mythologize yourself. Be loud.

Christopher McQuarrie (Edge of Tomorrow, Mission Impossible 4-8) HOW THE FUCK DOES HE DO THAT? I'LL LET Y'ALL KNOW WHEN I FIGURE IT OUT.

my beloved mother tried to tease me about being into Tom Cruise and accidentally unlocked a TED Talk about McQuarrie and how he structures stories and what I'm trying to learn and decipher from him.

she mentioned it's funny that I never went to school for this stuff, which is fair tbh. I honestly have no idea if I got a BA or whatever in English if I would have been taught about all this. Alas, that was never in the cards, so I've built my own lesson plan over the years. I think it's gone p well.

I consider my teachers....

Richard Siken and Ann Carson

Austin Walker (god I owe him a Lot)

Italo Calvino

Mark Z Danielewski

Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Cranor (but more the latter imo)

Jim Butcher (you can learn a lot from negative examples)

Steven Moffat (NEGATIVE EXAMPLES)

Josh Sawyer

Pete Wentz (tho not how you'd assume)

Hideo Kojima (SIGHS)

Kunihiko Ikuhara

sonnetstuck

and currently? Yeah, Chris McQuarrie

All of these are people I've learned something important from and that thumbprint is on my work. I like it. Synthesis is a fun art.

[magiefish]

Joey + Susie Headcannons

So the creative side of my brain has not been working as well lately because school is a hell which takes all of my energy, but just as a fun little exercise I was like ‘hey, what if wrote down a bunch of headcannons?’. I only had enough energy for two characters, but i figured people on the inter webs may enjoy them.

Anyway, here’s my obscenely long collection of random Joey + Susie headcannons! (sorry any typos, but once again, I am tired as heck :v)

Joey

-Joey Drew’s actual name is Joseph Dempsey, although of course he’d want  anyone no one to know that in his autobiography.

-Honestly his backstory was largely similar to the one in TIOL even before it came out, so changing it to fit the book was pretty easy. So the backstories are basically the same in the order that events happened.

-Then again, the book embellishes a lot of details, but what else would one expect from Joey? For instance, the only person who would ever call him ‘tall’ is himself: my man is like 5”3-5”4, he is a shortie.

- His height is connected to a funny story actually. Up until around age 13 he was one of the tallest people in his school because he had growth spurt young. This made him pretty uncomfortable because he always felt like he was too thin or gangly, but at the very least he was taller than everyone else so people didn’t usually bother him. That is, he was tall until around age 15 when everyone else had their major growth spurts and he…..didn’t

Factor this is with the fact that he was starting to realise he was gay gay homosexual gay and that he also had a propensity for growing his hair out long, and, well, saying all this combined gave Joey a bit of a crisis about his ‘masculinity’ is a bit of an understatement. The biggest reason why he joined the army when he was like 16 was because that was something ‘men’ did.

Joey’s dad also kind of had something to do with it. He was something of a ‘manly man’, as in relatively stoic and tall. He was never particularly close to his father, but whenever they spoke his dad always put out the vibes of not wanting to be around him, and always seemed disappointed in him. Joey largely cut himself off from his family later on in life, and both his parents were dead by the late 1940’s.

Most people looking at him at the height of his career would’ve probably never guessed he was once that weird kid who always sat alone at break and basically never spoke to anyone and just kind of intensely stared at people weirdly from a distance.

Also, weirdly enough towards the end of the studio’s tenure Joey seemed to get….taller, somehow. Over the span of 1944-1947, most employees could testify that he was at least 5”6 by the studios fall. Wether or not he continued to get taller afterwards, well. It was hard to tell when he was sitting in that wheelchair.

Joey always loved to read. Nothing like getting lost in a good book.

Joey likes animals a lot. His mother always used to try and kill mice but he usually just scooped them up and moved them somewhere else. He always wanted a dog, but he never got one because they cost too much and also because they get hair everywhere, and living in a messy environment isn’t a problem for him as long as it does affect his clothes. And if there’s one thing animal hair affects, it’s clothes.

Joey hates sports, mostly because he was never good at it. He has weak little noodle arms only good for overpowering others when he takes them by surprise (or is theoretically aided by magic ink).

Kyle was one of Joey’s early financiers. He didn’t really have any reason to spend money on him and getting him into upper class circles, and Joey doesn’t really ever mention what he did to get the money from him. Hm? What’s that? They were hooking up? Ha! Preposterous…… /s

Joey got sick pretty often when he was younger.

Even after he stopped being tall, Joey continued to have a perception of himself as being really skinny, gangly and gross, and always felt disconnected from his own body. It’s part of the reason he believes a persons ‘soul’ is separate from their body so throughly.

Speaking of mental health issues, Joey also has a very bad habit of smoking and drinking a bit too much. He uses an obscene amount of breath freshener to cover up the smell of it on his breath.

Joey also has a habit of the world going ‘numb’ for him. As in, he’ll go to a party and be enjoying himself and then suddenly the entire world will just feel duller and dimmer and he’ll become disconnected from everything. Not that he’ll let anyone know that’s going on, or that he’s spoken to anyone about it (other than Henry one time, and Allison when he was very drunk).

The qualities Joey usually looks for in a person is a vision and the drive to achieve their dreams.

If you aren’t interesting to him at all, he’ll basically completely ignore you and not care about your existence in the slightest. Other than Henry, who was somehow such a bland person that it went all the way back around to being interesting again.

Joey would never say it, but he really likes the novel The Strange Case Of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde. He read it one time when he was a teenager.

Joey’s closest friend used to be Lambert, but their relationship has become more tenuous over the years. He admired how straightforward and uncaring of others opinions she was.

Joey doesn’t really have a lot of friends any more, more so ‘people that are potentially useful to me who I may or may nor be develop more of a personal relationship to’. He would say Nathan Arch is a good friend of his, but wether or not Nathan feels the same way is ehhhhhhhh…….just don’t tell Joey.

Joey’s hair was a lot longer when he was younger, but he ended up tying it up and cutting it short as he got older. A sort of compromise he had was still having relatively long hair, but styling it with a crap ton of hair gel so that it didn’t look that way.

Joey’s favourite colour is purple.

Susie

Susie was born with a birthmark on the left side of her face that she was often bullied for as a child. Her birthmark made getting a career in theatre when she was older difficult too, but luckily voice acting didn’t require anyone caring about her appearance.

She first practiced changing her voice when she was a young girl and tried impersonating her mother’s accent. She also liked voicing her own characters while playing make believe (which she often did alone: other kids usually didn’t want to play with her.)

Speaking of accents, her American one is actually a bit exaggerated. She figured it would make getting hired more easy because nobody would think her mother was an immigrant.

Her mother was a Russian immigrant and her father worked as a butcher an didn’t really care about his daughter hanging around his workspace, which meant that from a young age Susie was exposed to some uhhhhhh graphic things. At least she successfully learned how to dissect and butcher meat :)

One of Susie’s happiest days was when her family saved up enough money to go to the cinema and she got to see her first film. That was the moment she decided to become an actress.

Susie is rather naïve and easily trusting of others, but this doesn’t necessarily mean she isn’t cunning or ruthless. It’s a mistake a lot of people make, but if she knows what she wants she’ll do whatever it takes to get it.

She also enjoys a bit of trickery and playing pranks on people, which is probably why she and Wally get along so well.

Susie seems to be the only person other than Jack who Sammy can tolerate in any way.

Susie is a MASSIVE gossip. She’s almost as bad as Norman, except she shares all the drama she’s picked up.

Jack & Susie get coffee together sometimes, and she gets involved in the lyric writing process for Alice’s songs. She also serves as a reference for the animators as Alice when they need her. Joey’s reasoning for all this is that she ‘embodies the character so well, it makes sense for her to participate in all aspects of her creation’.

Susie has a rather foul temper, but most of the time she just looks cute when she gets frustrated.

If Susie ever read the Picture of Dorian Grey she would’ve loved it.

Susie was chosen as a voice actress out of anyone else because she managed to talk to Joey before her audition: she got lost in the studio and bumped into him. Joey knew she had vision and saw how hard she strived to achieve her dreams and these are the qualities he values most highly (mostly because they’re his own), so she ended up getting the job.

Susie is desperate for any kind of validation. She’ll latch on to anyone who praises her, and tends to get very bitter towards those who criticise her.

Her more negative traits became much worse after losing her role as Alice Angel.

Susie’s father died when she was in her late teens, meaning Susie was the main source of income for her mother as well as herself. She maintained a very close relationship to her mother until she died in 1944. She didn’t have any friends outside of the studio.

During the time when she fired from the role of Alice, Joey was ‘generous’ enough to keep her on voicing side characters. Allison was an Alice exclusive, and Susie continued to do all the rest.

Following getting fired, Susie also became even more focused on her appearance. Some employees swore they heard her talking to the mirror like she was having an argument with someone…but oh well. A lot of employees seemed to lose it a bit towards the studios end.

Susie’s favourite colour is yellow.

Anyway, that’s about it. I’ll probably post some more headcannons for other characters sometime in the future but for now, farewell!

[a-typical]

You know Jesus reminded us in a magnificent parable one day that a man went to hell because he didn’t see the poor. His name was Dives. And there was a man by the name of Lazarus who came daily to his gate in need of the basic necessities of life and Dives didn’t do anything about it. And he ended up going to hell. There is nothing in that parable which says that Dives went to hell because he was rich. Jesus never made a universal indictment against all wealth. It is true that one day a rich young ruler came to Him talking about eternal life and he advised him to sell all, but in that instance Jesus was prescribing individual surgery, not setting forth a universal diagnosis. If you will go on and read that parable in all of its dimensions and its symbolism you will remember that a conversation took place between heaven and hell. And on the other end of that long distance call between heaven and hell was Abraham in heaven talking to Dives in hell. It wasn’t a millionaire in hell talking with a poor man in heaven, it was a little millionaire in hell talking with a multimillionaire in heaven. Dives didn’t go to hell because he was rich. His wealth was his opportunity to bridge the gulf that separated him from his brother Lazarus. Dives went to hell because he allowed Lazarus to become invisible. Dives went to hell because he allowed the means by which he lived to outdistance the ends for which he lived. Dives went to hell because he sought to be a conscientious objector in the war against poverty.

And I come by here to say that America too is going to hell if she doesn’t use her wealth. If America does not use her vast resources of wealth to end poverty and make it possible for all of God’s children to have the basic necessities of life, she too will go to hell. I will hear America through her historians, years and generations to come, saying, “We built gigantic buildings to kiss the skies. We built gargantuan bridges to span the seas. Through our space ships we were able to carve highways through the stratosphere. Through our submarines we were able to penetrate oceanic depths.” It seems that I can hear the God of the universe saying, “Even though you have done all of that, I was hungry and you fed me not. I was naked and you clothed me not. The children of my sons and daughters were in need of economic security and you didn’t provide it for them. And so you cannot enter the kingdom of greatness.” This may well be the indictment on America.

The Autobiography of Martin Luther King Jr.

[thisbluespirit]

I made a post about the lure of Dame Edith Evans that brought James Maxwell from the US to the UK, but the flipside of that is, of course, to ask what he was leaving behind him.

The draw of the Old Vic was clearly a big one, and once he got there, it wasn’t only the theatre work that kept him in the UK - he met his wife Avril Elgar there and they married early in 1952.  But it does seem that in some way he wasn’t happy in the US - England was quickly home to him, and he didn’t want to go back. According to Braham Murray, his fellow artistic director at the Royal Exchange, "He had disliked America, disliked academia and had fled to England.” 

His friends also noted a deep contradiction in him - that he was highly intellectual and yet hated academia or to be thought of as such, but that he couldn’t help being so “by dint of grey matter.” He was, said Braham Murray, possessed of an encyclopaedic knowledge of music and literature and easily the intellectual match of their fellow directors Caspar Wrede and Michael Elliott, though he disguised it “behind a languid and tolerant drawl,” giving “the impression that he wasn't sure of anything much.“ Tom Courtenay, meeting him as a student, felt he was “far more intelligent than anyone teaching at RADA,” and to Caspar Wrede he was “the most cultured, musical and literate friend we all have ever had.” 

His background wasn’t as average as he liked to imply, although in contrast to some of the group he hung around with*, it probably was more regular and stable - and records give the impression of a close family.  (Braham Murray has nothing to say about any issues with James’s family or his father, unlike some of the other people he mentions in his autobiography.)

* [To put in context: He was not, for instance, the seventh son of a Finnish Baron, and didn’t have an uncle who sent female members of the family mad.]

So, why did an otherwise fairly reasonable-seeming son of a US professor come away with such a lifelong loathing for academia and possibly the country of his birth?  Well, that’s a question only he could really answer, but I can at least throw some light on the matter!

While James Maxwell was American - he was born James Ackley Maxwell Jr  in Worcester, Massachusetts in 1929 - both of his parents were  Canadian, so he may easily have felt as much Canadian as American, growing up.  The family returned to Nova Scotia several times to visit relatives while he and his older brother William (born in 1927) were young, and neither of his parents became US citizens.

[Main Street, Westville, Pictou County, Nova Scotia in 1910.]

His father, James Ackley Maxwell Sr, was the son of William Maxwell, a successful coal owner from Westville, Nova Scotia, and his wife Anna Marshall, but his path to academia hadn’t been smooth.  When he reached adulthood, World War I was in progress, and study had to wait on duty.  In 1915, aged 18, he left his post as a bank clerk to join the Nova Scotia Highlanders, where he rose to the rank of Lieutenant by the age of 21 and received the Distinguished Conduct Medal for an “extremely high act of bravery” at the Battle of Amiens.  He “carried himself in a magnificent, soldierly manner and displayed the greatest devotion to duty...” inspiring “with confidence all with whom he came in contact. He went from section to section as they held up by his skill and coolness cleared the opposition and made advance of the company possible.”

After the war, James Sr finally got to down to serious study - first at Dalhousie University, Halifax, Nova Scotia (1919-21), before leaving for the US to study at Harvard (1921-23), where he also gained a Ph.D in Economics (1923-27), thanks to a scholarship.  By that time he was already an assistant professor at Clark University (from 1925), where he would remain until his retirement in 1966.

[James Ackley Maxwell, via SaltWire; background Clark University, from their website.]

He specialised in  Public Finance and Fiscal Policy and was in demand as a public policy adviser to the US government throughout his career.  Outside the US, he acted on various occasions as adviser to the Royal Commission on Provincial Financial Relations in Ottawa, was a visiting lecturer at Melbourne University and National University, Australia, and at the Brookings Institute in Washington, and took part in the International Institute of Public Finance in Istanbul, Turkey.  He wrote several books, including Tax Credits and Intergovernmental Fiscal Relations, Financing State and Local Governments, Tax Credits and Intergovernmental Fiscal Relations, The Fiscal Impact on Federalism in the United States and Commonwealth State Financial Relations in Australia, work that displayed “his command over a most complex and intricate area of public finance.” 

[Conant Hall, Harvard - the post-grads’ hall - where James Maxwell Sr was living at the time of his marriage.]

He married Reta Nickerson in 1923, shortly after her arrival in the US.  She was also from Nova Scotia, born in Halifax in 1897.  They must have met before he left for the US in 1921 and probably had to wait on his studies to marry.  James Sr was living in Harvard’s Conant Hall, while she was staying nearby at Hingham.

She had also had a college education and, now as Professor Maxwell’s wife, was involved with campus life at Clark - having students back to the house after the Spring Spree, or attending meetings of the Massachusetts branch of the American Association of University Women, who were at the time, concerned with the experiences of foreign students.  She was a singer and musician, although not, it seems, professionally as such.  She was a soprano and soloist and did sing in public on occasions.  In 1934 she assisted (a friend?) Annie Russell Marble in her work collecting songs of latter-day poets, by accompanying her to talks to sing some of the songs at various places, including the association’s meetings and Boston Public Library.  One of them was “O Moonlight Deep and Tender” by poet James Russell Lowell, to music composed in 1921 by Henry Leland Clarke.

James Maxwell spoke of inheriting his love of music from her, and how he, too, had started out as a singer - as an actor in musical theatre and had considered at first making that his career. 

[2 Stoneland Road, off Main Street, Worcester, close to Clark University.  The Maxwells were living here in 1930, in a flat separate from the main house.  Later that year, James & Reta made a trip back to Canada with their two young sons, William aged 3 and James Jr, 18 months.]

Clark University had been founded in 1887 as a post-graduate research university, with Clark College for undergraduates from 1902.  The two amalgamated under new president Wallace W. Atwood in 1920, a few years before Professor Maxwell joined the staff.  It was one of the fourteen founding members of the Association of American Universities (one of three in New England; the other two being Harvard and Yale).  Although female post-graduate students had been permitted since 1907, the undergraduate courses were male-only until 1942.

The campus is on Main Street, and centres around the green.  The Maxwells lived very close to the university in both 1930 and 40, so James and William must have grown up very familiar with its grounds.

[1930s postcard of Clark University, showing various buildings, including the Library.]

In 1938, Professor Maxwell was invited to lecture at either Melbourne University or the National University in Australia, or both - and he took Reta and the two boys with him, so James Maxwell had made a cross-continental voyage long before he left for the UK, and got to see something of a third continent.  I’m not sure how long the Maxwells were in Australia, but they left Sydney for the US on the SS Mariposa on 19th August, arriving in San Francisco on 6th September.  

[5 Shirley Street, close to Clark campus, where the Maxwells where living in 1940s.]

Once back in the US, nine-year old James must have resumed his usual studies - and it’s clear that his friends weren’t exaggerating his intellectual abilities.  His scholastic achievements earned him a place at Mercersburg Academy in Pennsylvania, a college prepatory boarding school (boys only at that time).  It currently accommodates 444 students.   The age range was 14-18, so presumably he started in fall 1943 - but he graduated only two years later, at 16. 

His classes included German (which he would later use to translate Buechner & Schiller).  The Academy was founded in 1836 and had several long-standing traditions, some of which continue today. Pupils regularly gathered on the Main Steps to sing, and all students belonged to one of two Literary societies, who competed against each other in a midwinter weeklong competition that could be intense and culminated in a debate-like event known as the Declamation.  James Maxwell belonged to the John Marshall Literary Society and it looks as if he may have played a significant part in the 1945 competition, perhaps as one of the five John Marshall students to give a monologue in the Declamation.  (The yearbook is online, but only as a preview, so I could be mistaken.)

[Mercersburg Academy chapel, 1930s or 40s postcard.]

The school had 300 acres of grounds, plus its own chapel, and doctor - but it was still an institution, and 420 or so miles away from his family in Worcester.  The local doctor’s son, growing up at the same time in Mercersburg comforted himself through a bad bout of scarlet fever that at least he got to be at home, unlike the “Students at the Academy [who], we knew, were removed from the dormitories by Dr. Hitzrot and made to tough it out in a separate building near the Infirmary that we called The Pest House.”

[The 1945 Karux (Mercersburg yearbook) is only partially viewable to  passing Brits who can’t enter their own high school graduation details, but despite the blurriness, you can see a small "JAMES ACKLEY MAXWELL JR.”  He’s signed: “Best of luck [?], James.”]

While he was studying there his family life changed dramatically.

On 1 February 1944, his mother Reta died, aged 47.  James was still not quite fifteen.  I don’t know the circumstances of her death, although the distance from Mercersburg inevitably raises the question of whether or not he was able to be there.   It wasn’t the only family loss that month, although it must have been the most significant for James.  Back in Nova Scotia, his grandfather William Maxwell also passed away on the 13th.

James continued at Mercersburg until his early graduation in 1945, after which he went straight onto Amherst College in Massachusetts.

In 1946 Professor Maxwell married again, this time to Mary Newall.  The couple went on to have three more children over the next few years - Daniel, Anne, and Ellen.

By that time, James Jr had been at Amherst for a year.  He started in 1945, aged 16, and continued to do well, graduating in 1949 magna cum laude (with great disinction).  Amherst was another male-only educational institution, but it allowed him to explore more of his his own interests - after starting out in Glee Club in his first year, he joined the drama club, The Masquers, which was where he first became seriously interested in acting as a career. By his last year, he was vice president of The Masquers, and even got the chance to play Brutus in a production of Julius Caesar recorded at the Folger Library and broadcast on TV.

[James Maxwell, third row, in the ‘Lord Jeff Club’.]

He also avoided joining one of the more traditional frat socities and instead opted for the Lord Jeffrey Amherst Club, described in the yearbook as “a new and different kind of social organization on the Amherst campus.”  It was “completely democratic, and no unaffiliated student is barred from membership for any other than scholastic reasons” and they invited faculty members and visitors to lead political, social & economic discussions. 

He graduated from Amherst in 1949, but it was another year before he left for the UK.  I don’t know what he was doing, but Caspar Wrede, who had known him since his arrival at the Old Vic in 1950, wrote that he “studied at Yale.”  A post-grad course of some kind is certainly feasible, given his claim of having run away from academia, and Yale would put him in the right area to be able to see Edith Evans on Broadway that September. 

[Extract from Google Maps, showing (L-R) Amherst, Worcester, Harvard & Hingham (where Reta Maxwell was staying at the time of her marriage).]

So, as to why he was so set against academia, it’s clear that he had already experienced a surfeit of it, from his childhood at Clark, through Mercersburg, to Amherst and maybe even elsewhere, after.  Despite the elegant buildings and privilege of his scholastic institutions and their beautiful surroundings, James Maxwell preferred smoggy, dirty, war-damaged 1950s London - and a theatre school that might be world-famous but was “the aesthetic equivalent of a boot camp.”  One, some, or all of these places left him with his lifelong distaste for academia in the US, even if we can’t know exactly which, while the death of his mother and remarriage of his father may have made it easier to leave than it otherwise might have been. 

Whatever the case, he didn’t leave forever in 1950 - he went back to the States the summer of 1951, after his first year at the Old Vic Theatre School, even if it appears to have been the last time.  The address he planned to stay at was his father’s, despite his dramatic exit the previous year.  He never gave up his US citizenship, either, settling for dual citizenship status through his marriage to Avril Elgar.  And (whether coincidentally or not) their younger son Dan shares the same name as his half-brother Daniel.

He had a gardening anecdote he used to tell Tom Courtenay, on the subject of transplantation - that he had a shrub in his garden, in a spot where it wasn’t getting enough light, but it had a tap root, so couldn’t be moved:  “It will have to stay where it is,” he said.  “It may have to have a less than perfect life.”

[sources: Braham Murray The Worst It Can Be Is A Disaster; Tom Courtenay Dear Tom; The Royal Exchange Theatre Company Words & Pictures 1976-1998; US/Canada Border records, ancestry; Field Family Tree website; irwincollier.com; “Westville’s War Hero Economist” SaltWire; Boston Globe (various, 1920s-1960s); Cambridge Chronicle 1923; Ancestry.com 1930 US census & 1940 census, Maxwell household; Clark University website; Boston Symphony Orchestra 53rd Season 1933/4; Wellesley College News, 1934; The Stage, 1968; Wikipedia; Ancestry US Passenger records; The Karux1945 via Classmates & e-yearbook.com; Mercersburg Historical Society; Findagrave James Ackley Maxwell & Reta Nickerson Maxwell; The Olio 1948, 1949, Amherst College website; Aberdeen Evening Press July 1964; Google Maps; Michael Billington State of the Nation: British Theatre Since 1945; various images from Google StreetView & Google Images.]

[batsplat]

curious about your thoughts on where casey falls in the bike fucker/fuckee/identifier triangulation?

(follow up to this) so I did think about casey when writing that original bike fucking post because as a general rule there is nothing I write about this sport where I am not at least occasionally thinking about casey stoner. but the thing with casey is that inevitably he's got so much going on that he would have kinda broken the post, hence the exclusion. the short answer is that he most fits in at the 'identifies with the bike' bit of the triangle, but in a more subliminal and repressed and complicated way than is typical. because it's casey

casey isn't the type to imbue a bike with a soul that he believes to be fundamentally separate to his own - he's hardly going to anthropomorphise a bike to such an extent. it is, after all, a tool. but the thing about said tool is that it's inevitably going to be pretty central to the identity of any given rider. you can't be a rider without a bike after all; it's quite literally half the equation. and for casey, he's very conscious of how that element of his identity was never really a choice. according to his autobiography, when his parents saw his affinity for bikes as a toddler, they began to dream he would be world champion and made the conscious decision to give him "every opportunity to achieve that dream". discussed in more detail in this post - but he has more recently talked about how he'd "been convinced of a dream", how he'd never been given much choice in the matter and wasn't allowed to pursue other interests. bikes had been such a central part of his existence for all his life, and it was never going to be an entirely comfortable relationship. his self-worth from a young age was inevitably closely tied to how well he was riding, governed by an innate perfectionism that was encouraged by the environment he grew up in and ended up eating away so viciously at him over the years. this dynamic was made even more dramatic by the move to england, at which point his family's livelihood was entirely dependent on his ability to ride his bike well and he was constantly reckoning with the fear that it might have all been for nothing. as detailed in his autobiography, racing was not about having fun. "there wasn't really any time for me to enjoy myself"; "the sacrifices we had already made had become my biggest source of motivation"; "I was never there to be a part of the process or enjoy the experience"; "that fear [...] was a constant driving force"... this isn't romance. it's survival. and it's work

quick reminder that casey moved to england when he was fourteen years old

so no, casey does not want to fuck the bike. he wants to extract the maximum amount of performance from it - or rather, he needs to. he sets exacting standards of everyone around him, of the bike, and crucially of himself, because that's the only way he knows to go about things. where this element of self-identification comes in is not just in how central the bike is in determining his self-worth at any given moment, but also in the extent to which casey's attitude towards the bike and himself are in alignment. in one sense, casey is intensely concerned with the exact point of separation between himself and his bike, in explicating precisely to what extent his performance can be attributed to one or the other. he can't stand when his bike is given the credit for his successes (a trait he very much shares with valentino - and marc, for instance, is considerably less sensitive to), he prides himself in never making excuses for his own shortcomings. but that's the thing about casey - his whole thing is overcoming adversity, of making the best of what he has. maximising performance, extracting what is possible to extract. both his bike and his own body are resources to be managed, to be wrangled and tamed and conquered in order to make full use of their potential. sometimes the bike is a nightmare. and sometimes it's his body that's tormenting him the most

casey was ill a lot as a young child and has had to manage various physical conditions over the course of his career... most notably the lactose intolerance/chronic fatigue situation that temporarily took him away from racing in 2009, as well as obviously the injuries that form a constant of any motorcycle racer's existence. at the same time, he made his name riding a fast but horribly capricious bike - which allowed him to access peaks beyond what anyone else in the sport could accomplish, all while dancing on a knife's edge of performance achieved by pushing the bike to its very limit. there's a certain fragility there, a delicate state of affairs that required bike and rider to work in perfect harmony to succeed. it's a package bound together by casey's considerable self confidence, an innate trust in his own unmatched talent that allowed him to keep pushing, pushing, pushing - even when pushing could so easily equal pain

when it worked, he could do things nobody else was able to, and he was flawless in the process. but again, it's not necessarily a comfortable equilibrium... he achieved all this while battling an undiagnosed anxiety disorder that brutally punished him for not only his failures but also his successes, his brain already anticipating future failure where he would let everyone down. to succeed, everything constantly had to be on the edge, at the very limit, with so little needed to tip the scales to catastrophe... luckily, casey wasn't easy to unsettle - at times was seemingly impervious to external pressure. still, it was possible to get to him. and when things went wrong, they could do so quite dramatically. from his debut at ducati onwards, he didn't crash in a single race for one and a half seasons... but then suddenly did so three times in a row, starting at laguna 2008. before his ducati days, he'd had the reputation of a fast but crash-prone rider, who may have often been overriding mediocre machinery but whose mistakes had a nasty tendency to multiply. dancing on a knife's edge is all well and good, but the knife will eventually bite

there might be the temptation here to make comparisons to marc's approach. despite similar placements in pseudoscientific typologies, however, they are far too different to be drawing too many parallels. casey does not have marc's lack of self-preservation, the fearlessness, the ability to seemingly dismiss entirely the damage being done to his body. what casey has is a tortured set of instincts that never allowed him to do anything less than push to the maximum regardless of the cost, paired with an unyielding discipline instilled from a young age by parents who preached he 'do it right' in everything he did. the need to always find the limit. when the bike allows it, casey excels more than any other rider ever could. when it doesn't, he crashes. a lot. the other key difference between the two riders is casey's innate negativity - which was often directed at everyone in his vicinity but was still at its harshest when evaluating his own performances. casey was a wee bit infamous back in the day for being intensely self-critical even after winning, never quite satisfied with either himself or his bike and unwilling to consider not openly voicing those criticisms in the immediate aftermath of winning by about forty seconds. here, the boundaries between rider and bike are inevitably collapsed, for it is the package that is subjected to scrutiny. this is what casey's self-worth is built on: knowing how good he is at riding at bikes but simultaneously never feeling like he is doing well enough. the bike is an extension of himself in that it is another thing that needs to be perfect but never can be

that's the magic of casey's ducati stint in particular, isn't it? a capricious rider taming a capricious bike. casey's hardly one to use any sort of bike fucker or even bike fucker adjacent vocabulary, and he'd insist on a clean separation between himself and his machine. but let's just ignore him on this and assume it's all repression. which brings us back to where this post started - his lack of romanticism that stemmed from how joyless being 'a rider' was to him. for all that he loved riding bikes, for all that he loved winning races, for all that he took pleasure in his own ability, it was never about having fun. it's not about courting the bike, it's about doing a job. funnily enough, valentino explicitly said way back in 2009 that casey wasn't a romantic rider - which, yes, is a bit of an odd thing to say about your rival, but he's not wrong. there's few things in life less romantic than obsessing over imperfections. casey tamed rubbish bikes with the exact same clinical efficiency that he extracted performance from himself, even when his body was hardly a cooperative partner in that mission. when he found the limit successfully, he was as in tune with the bike as any rider could ever be, with bike and rider relentlessly maximising performance as a package that may as well have been a single entity. he was exactly as demanding of the bike as he was of himself, with both serving as frequent targets of his ire

it is a form of identification, then, but one that was inevitably troubled, uneasy. collapsing the boundaries between casey's sense of identity as a person and a rider won't have done casey much good, with his self worth as the former entirely dependent on his self worth as the latter. he needed to feel in control of the bike as much as he needed to feel in control of himself - and even perfection was never going to be good enough for him

[a-sleepy-reader]

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov: an Analysis and Review

Foreword

Trigger warning for themes of paedophilia, sexual assault, stillbirth, manipulation, violence, and tragedy as well as gruesome descriptions of death. If you want a review free of spoilers, please scroll to the section labelled ‘Conclusion/Review without spoilers.’

Introduction

Calling Lolita a controversial novel is a safe bet. Some readers revolt at its topic, others still protest it as the inspirational romance of the century. Both give Lolita a bad name. I will say it once very clearly; plot-wise, Lolita is a book about a paedophile who grooms, manipulates, isolates, and rapes a twelve year old girl. It is disturbing subject material to say the least, subject material that has to be given more thought than its protagonist’s ramblings of adoration for the book’s namesake. 

For instance, despite its fluctuating reputation, Lolita has found itself to be a playful and humorous novel to many, a “...comedy of horrors” according to the San Francisco Chronicle. So what is Lolita, exactly? A comedy? A thriller? Both? It is time to examine this twisted novel and see just how tangled its thorns are.

Plot synopsis

Humbert Humbert is a typical man by most standards: a handsome, French writer and professor with a soft spot for road trips… and little girls. 

Humbert categorises the sexes into the male, the female, and the nymphet, the latter of which describes peculiar young girls Humbert feels an intangible attraction to. It is with such a nymphet that Humbert self-describingly falls in love with; rambunctious twelve-year-old Dolores(whom he dons ‘Lolita). He cannot keep his mind off of her; ‘light of my life, fire of my loins.’ In however poetic a prose he may choose to describe it, Humbert feels a physical bond to young Dolores like to no one else since his dead childhood sweetheart. Humbert goes so far to pursue the girl that he marries her mother, whom he plots to drown in the blue depths of a lake to have Dolores all to himself. However, what Humbert describes as a work of fate led to the day Dolores’ mother’s brain lay strewn about the road, smeared by an incoming car. She didn’t need to be subject to Humbert’s schemes to die.

From there on, Humbert has legal custody over the twelve-year-old fire of his loins. Raping Dolores becomes a routine. Though she does initially say yes, she is a minor incapable of consent in the imbalance of a grown man with everything to lose if she is to either escape or stop the affair; she will lose her only family if she reports him, and risks breaking his heart if she cuts off the affair altogether-unfortunates only know what people do when they have nothing to lose. Orphaned and trapped, Lolita agrees to Humbert’s ‘love.’ As he described it, ‘she had nowhere else to go.’ 

Two years pass before Dolores falls ill during their second road trip and is taken out of the hospital by an uncle aware of Humbert’s affairs. By way of escaping with this newfound relative, Dolores is finally free from Humbert’s possessive grasp. Depressed by his separation from the girl, Humbert lives a miserable life for several years before receiving a letter from Dolores herself saying she is married and pregnant. Though Humbert suspects the man behind both titles is her own uncle, Dolores refutes this by saying that, though she was in love with him, they did not settle because she refused to be in his pornographic film.

Enraged with the uncle, Humbert arrives at Dolores’ uncle’s house and murders him before being arrested. It is here that we learn Lolita is Humbert’s autobiography of the events surrounding his ‘love’ for the book’s namesake. Though he wishes for the girl-turned-woman to live for a great many years, the victim, escapee, and survivor dies in 1952 during childbirth. Her offspring is a stillborn.

Analysis

It’s a curious thing, really. That so many interpret Lolita as a romance, I mean. Of course, it often presents itself in its writing as a summery romance to read on the beach. A handsome man meets a female. An attraction is felt. Male and female confess an attraction for one another which leads them on a series of road trips following the female’s mother’s incidental death. The language is no exception to this tone-just read the first paragraph: 

“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.”

It’s made up of beautiful, flowery sentences, language suggestive of the pure romance of a man ‘in love.’ With a twelve year old girl he rapes. Yes, Lolita is one of those novels that wears many outfits, its outermost lining being that of a tragic love story of one traumatised man and his ungrateful lover. This perspective is especially interesting when taking into account Lolita’s exquisite writing; could the flowery language have prompted so many to interpret this book as a romance? Could Lolita be representative of how so many wield words to distract or deceive those trying their best to disapprove of them? Either way, few deny that Humbert is lying, to himself or to the reader, of exactly how the events of his fascination with Dolores occurred. Digging further into the book, Lolita becomes  an unreliable narrator’s documentation of the rape and manipulation directed toward a naive minor trying to cope with her mother’s death. Further still, it is a comedic satire of a paedophile’s attempts  to justify his crimes... and failing miserably. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I wasn’t even her first lover.” Deeper still and it’s one man’s search for his childhood sweetheart(dearest and deadest) he never finished loving, so he seeks, endlessly, to shower her lookalikes with unwanted ‘love.’ Without end. Without fulfilment. 

Lolita is a story of infinite stories.

Review

What first struck me about Lolita was its beautiful writing; its eloquent prose, imagery, and metaphors hopelessly hooked me from the first paragraph. Nabokov never ceases to use amazing similes, description, and personification to amplify the reader’s experience of the goings-on of Humbert and the girl. This is especially striking in contrast to its tragic subject material; Humbert will rape, and he will manipulate, and he will scheme a murder, and he will hurt so many innocent lives, but he will do so with seemingly effortless grace in the scribbles on a paper. 

Despite this, I did not find Lolita to be a difficult read regarding comprehension of the text. True, many a word I did not understand, but, despite this, I could always tell what was being communicated; the language is certainly not as dated as Hemingway nor Shakespeare. It may even be a calming read for those with a strong stomach, and will certainly teach a thing or two to those wishing to learn more about poetic writing styles done well. 

Some may find the book to be lacking in terms of plot and overall excitement, but I feel this is a subjective view rather than a relatively factual one; Lolita is not an action book. Nor is it a drama. Humbert sometimes spends pages describing the exact locations of a road trip, or exactly how he earned money in the 50’s, and so forth. Some may find this mundane; I will admit that I was, at times, bored by it myself. However, what Nabokov sacrifices in brevity he makes up for with a profound understanding of Humbert’s emotions, environment, and thoughts. 

One slight criticism I do, however, have, is that I found all of the characters in Lolita were fairly bland for me. True, Humbert is unique in his attempt to beautify the macabre, but beyond the initial shock factor of his morale and the revelation that he is seeking the love of a girlfriend from his childhood, Humbert can be mostly summarised as ‘quiet, manipulative, scheming, and possessive of Dolores.’ I was not invested in him as a character, probably due to a lack of good qualities within him; it is true that by one perspective, his story can be interpreted as tragic for him, though through the more common lens of Lolita being a 336-page manipulation of the severity of the atrocities of an evil man, Humbert loses all good qualities beyond his capabilities as a writer.

The same goes for Dolores herself, as I found her to be fairly two-dimensional; she is very sensory and seeks goods of food and adventure and she has a rambunctious heart unconcerned with how others’ feel nor how others perceive her. She is what many would call a ‘wild child,’ and though she becomes more withdrawn later in the book due to the numerous abuses she endured, I did not see much depth to her beyond face value. 

That being said, I certainly do not think the characters are bad, just that they are underwhelming in comparison to the rest of the story. 

I recommend Lolita to those enthralled by character-driven stories of nuanced emotions and traumas, a sort of story of the broken attempting to break the whole. If you are not put off by very thorough descriptions nor by a purposefully thin plot, I have the impression Lolita will revolt, horrify, hypnotise, and seduce its readers into its soft, macabre pages. 

I give Lolita a rating of 90%.

Conclusion/Review without spoilers

Lolita is a vile, endlessly layered story of trauma and the endless search for lost love, horrific abuses, of humorous wit and smirking irony, and of one man’s endless destiny of deceit. I suppose Humbert’s own initials best summarise the smile and wink this book will deliver as you holler at Humbert, weep for Dolores, or perhaps even vice versa. They do say Russians are witty, and Nabokov does not fail this reputation even when we analyse how Humbert Humbert’s initials sound in the author’s native language: 

Ha-ha.

[arrantsnowdrop]

It’s You I Want - Haldir x. Elf Reader (fluff)

Request: "The reader is maybe a child of Galadriel, and Haldir is quietly trying to pretend he isn't interested in courting them because of their status differences?"

Tags: @headless-twink

Warnings: 3,283 words (I kinda popped off), but other than that nothing

A/N: I gave the reader a brother because I thought being a single child of Galadriel and Celeborn would be lonely as heck, and I didn't wanna subject poor (y/n) to that. This was really fun to write, I do love Haldir a whole lot. Hope y'all enjoy! :D

It was midday in Lothlórien. Lady Galadriel had summoned the High Council to discuss the growing threat to border security posed by the goblins of Moria. The lesser lords and ladies of the forest and the most skilled members of the elven guard had been invited to the Chamber of Celeborn to determine how best to handle the situation.

You, being the eldest of Lady Galadriel’s children, had also been invited to attend. Though you were still quite young for an elf, you were destined to assume leadership of one of Lórien’s sectors when you were older. There was also always the possibility something could happen to either of your parents and you would take their place. Your mother saw these meetings as a way to introduce to you the responsibilities of leadership.

And that is how you found yourself stuck inside a rather dark, somber looking hall in the middle of the most sunny day Lothlórien had seen in quite some time. You almost wished you hadn’t agreed to attend, but you did recognize it was a privilege to be allowed to listen to the conversations of the High Council. You were sitting around a large wooden table in a chair next to Galadriel’s. The members of the elven guard had been sharing their experiences with the goblins thus far.

“What I am gathering,” Lord Celeborn said thoughtfully, “is that the curiosity of these orcs is growing every day.”

“Every night my patrol watches them grow closer to our borders, my Lord,” one elf added. Lord Celeborn nodded.

“We seem to have two main options, if I may detail them further,” Iachion, one of the senior marchwardens, said tentatively. Galadriel nodded for him to continue.

“Thank you, my Lady. We can either send troops out of Lothlórien to meet the orcs now, or wait until they cross our borders to attack,” he said.

“If I may, Iachion, those options seem to be on very opposite ends of the same spectrum,” you observed. “I’m sure there is some action we can take that will ensure our safety for the time being without risking so many lives.” You looked to your mother for approval on your comment, who gave you a small smile.

“I agree with (Y/n),” came a familiar voice at the opposite end of the table. There sat Haldir, head of the northern patrol. He too was a younger elf, one who had earned his place in the High Council through his much admired leadership in the elven guard.

“My patrol has discussed the actions of the orcs several times these past weeks, perhaps I could share our consensus on the situation,” he offered.

“Go on, Haldir,” your mother said.

“We believe it would be wise to increase the patrol groups in the northern and western woods, especially at night, so that the orcs do not go unmonitored,” he began.

“Yes , but monitoring the orcs will not deter them,” Iachion interrupted. You grinned as Haldir rolled his eyes slightly.

“As of now, the orcs are still quite a distance from our borders. They seem accustomed to the dark, and only travel so far from the mines that they can still return during the night,” Haldir added.

“How many nights then would it take for them to reach our borders?” Lord Celeborn asked.

“At least two, they do not travel lightly,” one elf said.

“I feel it would be unwise to take action with violent intent when the orcs do not seem keen on coming closer. As (Y/n) put it, we would be risking the lives of our own in a confrontation that might not even come to fruition otherwise,” Haldir stated.

“I agree with Haldir, mother,” you said, looking at Galadriel.

“As do I, it is always important to maintain nonviolence unless it is unavoidable,” she said thoughtfully. “The council will vote on the plan Haldir proposed, unless there is a desire for further discussion.”

You met Haldir’s gaze from across the table and offered him a small smile, brows furrowing when he looked away quickly.

“The decision carries, we will increase border patrols to monitor the orcs, but take no further action unless they grow closer,” Galadriel said, standing up to dismiss the meeting.

You got up quickly, intending to go over and compliment Haldir on his strategy, but by the time you reached the other end of the table he was nowhere to be seen.

~~~~~

By the end of the week, you found yourself practically living in the seemingly endless library of Lothlórien. Your mother has asked you and your younger brother Lodatôr to research the historical differences between the different branches of elves (“Just because you were not there to experience it does not mean it is not important to know,” your mother had said). Though you’d found the assignment rather trivial to begin with, you’d quickly become fascinated with the subject.

Your most recent read was a first-hand account by a Teleri elf who traveled to Aman, and the emotional struggle he went through after his sister abandoned the march. The work was fueled with passion and sorrow, and you understood why so many of the book’s pages were littered with tear stains.

Luckily, you had reached the end without crying too much (as your brother had poked fun at you everytime you began to tear up). You stood up from your chair to put the book back on its shelf.

“Did he make it to Aman?” Lodatôr asked from across the small table you were sharing. He too has been intrigued by the subject and was reading a book about the elves who refused to embark on the Great Journey.

“Yes, thank goodness, I was beginning to think he would turn back to try and find his sister,” you said shakily. The last few pages of the book had been quite emotional.

“Good for him,” your brother said matter-of-factly, returning his attention to the book in front of him. You chuckled softly.

Lórien’s library had been built around one of the many great trees in Caras Galadhon. The library was only slightly younger than Galadriel herself, and the further down the tree you went, the older the books got. Your particular autobiography was from the Years of the Trees, which preceded the First Age of Middle Earth. In any regard, you had a long journey down.

The particular shelf you were looking for was nearly at the bottom of the tree, which was always rather quiet - not many elves spent their free time reading about Middle Earth before the time of the Ring, especially since half of them had lived through it themselves. Others, like yourself, were not bestowed with the memory of such times. You almost laughed remembering one specific instance when Lodatôr argued with your parents over deciding to have children after the beginning of the First Age.

You turned into the area your book was from, jumping back in surprise at the sight of another elf perusing the shelves. He looked up in surprise, you grinning at the sight of the familiar blonde elf.

“Hello, Haldir, I’m sorry for startling you,” you said softly. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone else this low in the library.”

He stared at you for a moment before nodding and looking back at the books in front of him.

You slid past him, placing the book back into its designated space. Your gaze trailed to the novel next to it, gasping with delight when you saw it had been written by the sister of the aforementioned Teleri elf.

“Are you alright, (Y/n)?” Haldir asked with mild concern. You grinned at him and nodded.

“I hadn’t realized my book had a sequel of sorts, just got a little excited is all,” you said bashfully. He nodded again and looked away. You paused, biting your lip at the awkward pause in conversation.

“It’s about one of the Teleri elves,” you finally said, feeling the need to break the silence. His gaze met yours for a third time. You looked down at the new book in your hand.

“He was making the Great Journey with his family but his sister abandoned the trail in the Misty Mountains. And this book is written by said sister,” you added.

“Sounds...interesting,” Haldir stated. He was definitely uninterested, and you felt quite embarrassed for intruding upon his free time.

You nodded curtly before rushing past him and up the stairs, cursing yourself for being so talkative. What you failed to see was Haldir watching you longingly as you left, before turning his gaze to the book you had just returned and picking it up himself.

~~~~~

By the time the next High Council meeting came to pass, you had become thoroughly confused by the blonde marchwarden.

After your encounter in the library, you had tried to provoke conversation with him several times. All had been failures in your opinion.

You’d concluded that Haldir must have been introverted, or uninterested in socializing. This made sense, of course - his thoughts were likely preoccupied with the many important tasks he was charged with and he probably didn’t want to spend time distracting himself from them.

And yet, there he was, standing across the room, freely conversing with several other elves about those trivial affairs you had thought bored him. Or that seemed to bore him whenever you tried to talk to him.

You turned to your brother, who had also been invited to this particular meeting.

“Have you ever had a conversation with Haldir?” you asked quietly.

“Hmm?” Lodatôr asked, not quite paying attention. He was always bored at these meetings, constantly zoning out in the middle of discussions.

“I said have you ever talked with Haldir, the marchwarden of the north,” you insisted.

“Oh yes, many times,” he said thoughtfully. “Just last week I caught him leaving the library and we had a pleasant conversation about the eastward expansion of the city.”

“Oh,” you said softly, stomach sinking.

“Why?” he asked curiously.

“I’m just curious, I’ve seen him at a few of these meetings and I was considering introducing myself,” you lied.

“You should! He’s quite fun to be around,” your brother noted. You nodded, watching Haldir laugh at something one of the young ladies of the court had said. You despised the feeling of jealousy that stirred within you.

You couldn’t focus the entire meeting. It was obvious Haldir didn’t like you for some reason; he was clearly a social elf and yet he avoided talking to you at all costs.

Had you done something to offend him in some way? Or said something that upset him? While you’d never been close to him, he was at nearly all the meetings you were asked to attend. Perhaps he had assumed you were entitled and spoiled, like so many of the younger elves in Lothlórien did.

“(Y/n)?”

Your head snapped up, wide eyes meeting those of your mother.

“Yes?” you asked bashfully.

“I asked, are you feeling alright? You look more pale than usual,” she said jokingly, with underlying concern. You looked around the table to see the elves of the court watching you intensely, Haldir included. You gulped, suddenly feeling quite small.

“May I be excused?”

At the nod of your mother you stood up abruptly, rushing out of the room before anyone could say anything.

You felt quite overwhelmed as you walked back up to your family’s flet, high up in the trees of Lórien. You also felt stupid, which was uncommon for any elf. You had been trying to socialize with Haldir for several weeks, and yet it had taken you this long to realize he did not enjoy your company.

You sat on your bed for several hours, watching as the sun sank below the treetops and trying to pinpoint what you had done to lose Haldir’s favor.

It was dark outside when Lodatôr walked into your room.

“How are you doing?” he asked softly, sitting down next to you. “You rushed out awfully fast.”

“I’m fine now,” you said, not completely a lie this time. You were feeling better, finally coming to terms with the fact Haldir probably hated you for whatever reason.

“Haldir wanted me to tell you to feel better soon,” he said. You glared at him sternly.

“Don’t joke with me, Lodatôr.”

“I’m not joking,” he said slowly, looking at you with furrowed eyebrows. “He came up to me after the meeting was dismissed asking if you were sick, and when I said I didn’t know he asked me to tell you to feel better.”

You were at a complete loss for words, mouth hanging slightly agape.

“(Y/n)-”

“Are you kidding me?” you said loudly, standing up from your bed and beginning to pace around the room.

“What is going on with you?” Lodatôr asked, also standing up, now extremely concerned about your mental wellbeing.

“All month I’ve been trying to talk to Haldir,” you seethed, “and I had finally concluded that he must just be socially reserved, but clearly that isn’t the case!”

“Well then, what is the case?” your brother inquired.

“I had just decided that he must despise me but now apparently he’s concerned about me, and I don’t know what that means!” you shouted, slamming your hand against the wall for emphatic effect.

“Oh my gosh,” Lodatôr grinned.

“Oh my gosh what?” you grumbled.

“I think he likes you.”

You gasped and whipped around, looking at your brother incredulously.

“That is most certainly not the case!” you retorted. His eyes widened and he began to laugh.

“Oh my gosh, I think you like him, too!” he exclaimed, doubling over laughing.

“Get out! Right now!” you roared, lunging at him as he scrambled out the door.

“Just talk to him!” he called as he sprinted down the hallway. You slammed the door shut and flopped onto your bed, groaning into your pillow.

Lodatôr was right, you definitely liked Haldir. There were plenty of elves who didn’t like you and you had never cared about them, and yet the mere possibility that Haldir might not like you was crushing.

Also, he was stunningly attractive. That was indisputable.

What Lodatôr said had confused you, though; he was rarely wrong when it came to understanding people (a gift you clearly did not possess), but was it possible Haldir liked you?

Before falling asleep you came to the conclusion that you needed to confront Haldir, because at least then you would know for sure - if he truly despised you, you could always ask your parents to send you off to Rivendell and study with Elrond for the next century or two.

~~~~~

The next morning you felt both determined and nervous, but you had already begun your trek down into the center of Caras Galadhon. You were walking quite fast, so it would look odd if you turned back now.

You knew Haldir was not scheduled to leave the city until noon, so it was just a matter of finding him.

“Excuse me,” you said, interrupting two young elves who you recognized from Haldir’s patrol, “have you seen Haldir this morning?”

“Yes, your grace,” one of them replied. “He said he was heading to the library to return a book.”

“Thank you!” you replied, bidding them both a good day before turning in the direction of the library.

The elf at the front desk had seen Haldir go down the building’s spiral steps, and thus down you went, nerves rapidly increasing every floor you passed.

You were beginning to think you might not even see him, that you were probably wasting your time, when you accidentally skipped a step and collided with another elf on the stairs.

You let out a small shriek, body crashing into a rather broad chest, their hands gripping your shoulders to catch you.

“I am so sorry,” you began to apologize, looking up into Haldir’s bright blue eyes. Your eyes widened.

“Are you hurt, (Y/n)?” he asked, his rather large hands still on your shoulders.

You were both panting slightly - the stairs of the library were not easy on the lungs.

You blinked once, twice, trying to come up with something to say, before deciding to throw caution to the wind.

“Do you dislike me?” you asked genuinely, almost cringing at how pathetic you sounded.

“Excuse me?” he asked, looking more concerned if that was possible.

“You just, you seem to be a fairly social elf, but you always avoid talking to me,” you rambled, “and it’s not like you’re obliged to like me but it’s starting to hurt my feelings-”

Haldir pulled you into one of the shelves swiftly as another elf made his way down the stairs. You gulped, looking up at him in the confined space.

“I just wanted to know if I had said or done something to make you upset, and to apologize if that’s the case,” you said softly, looking down at your shoes. “I've come to like you a lot, and I don’t want you to be upset with me.”

A pause. You felt like you might implode because of your nervous energy.

“I don’t dislike you,” he replied genuinely, tenderly brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. You looked back up at him in surprise.

“Really?” you asked hopefully. He chuckled a bit.

“Yes, (Y/n), you’re joyful and witty and ridiculously clever, I’m rather fond of you honestly,” he admitted. Now he was the one looking at the ground.

“Haldir, are you blushing?” you teased.

“Stop it,” he grinned, looking back up at you, a light pink spreading across his cheeks.

“I’m sorry if I made you think I disliked you, that was never my intention,” he apologized, looking at you like you were the most important thing in the world. “I was afraid of growing attached, which sounds selfish now that I’m saying it out loud,” he said, making a disgusted face. You laughed lightly.

“But that doesn’t matter now because I grew attached anyways,” he said, not meeting your gaze.

"Why would that be a problem?” you asked seriously.

“Because you are the child of two of the most powerful and respected elves in Middle Earth,” he said bluntly, “and I am a member of the elven guard.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’m not good enough for you,” he clarified, “and every time I think about you, about how much I want to court you, I realize any lord could provide you with a much better life than I ever could.”

“Haldir,” you whispered, reaching up and cupping his face softly, “It’s you I want, not some prissy member of the court.”

“Your parents-”

“My parents won’t care,” you interrupted. “They are wise, and my mother taught me to love people for who they are, not what they have.”

“(Y/n),” Haldir whispered softly.

“Yes?”

“May I kiss you?”

You smiled and nodded, eyes closing softly as Haldir leaned down, bringing his lips to yours and pulling you into him.

“You are the most beautiful and intense being I have ever met,” he mumbled against your lips. You laughed and buried your face into the crook of his neck, trying to pull him as close to you as possible.

“I read your book,” he said softly. You pulled away and looked at him quizzically.

“The one about the Teleri elf?” you inquired.

“Yes, that one,” he nodded, smiling.

“Oh my gosh, you read my book!” you squealed, beaming with excitement.

“Tonight, after my patrol ends, would you like to come over and discuss it?” he asked, gazing at you adoringly.

“I would love that, Haldir.”

[graphicabyss]

Avalanche and the Fallout

So, last time I commented on Tegoshi’s tell-all book and now it’s released and the damage is done. Such an appropriate name seeing as avalanches are sudden and destroy everything in their path. As I read the book and the related news, I struggled with both the need to convey how I felt and stop giving him so much time and attention. Sure enough, I ended up with a long review/analysis/bitching post. It's rough and mean and very long so please read at your own risk.

Facts first. The book released on Aug 5 was originally supposed to run 10,000 copies but they reportedly increased it to 50,000 due to high demand. Tegoshi also held a press-conference to talk about it on release day. It ended up being one of the best-selling books on Amazon and top seller in Entertainment.

It’s hard to talk about the book briefly. It’s 270 pages long and I had absolutely no intention to read it all but still ended up reading a good deal and words just kept pouring out of me. I could not imagine how much this book would fuck me up. I knew it would be bad but honestly I was shocked about the publication because it’s both incredibly cruel to so many people and incredibly stupid as it’s going to severely damage his reputation and future career.

I won’t even try to pretend to be objective because there’s nothing objective about the book itself. It’s a book of unsolicited opinions. If there’s one word I’d to describe it it’s ‘delusional’. Every chapter reeks of vanity and a sense of superiority as he judges every single celebrity he came in contact with and gives plenty of advice. It's a mess of careless words hastily and haphazardly thrown together in an attempt to let the world know the Real Tegoshi.

Of course, that's not how he sees it. He mentions the likes of Steve Jobs and Bill Gates saying their books give people motivation and inspiration and he wanted to do the same. Bitch, you haven't done anything to get you on that level yet.

There’s a video on his channel where he goes to the publisher to talk about the book and while he says about sending an inspirational message, the publisher only wants him to talk about Yukirin and other juicy gossip. And it’s not like poor Tegoshi was tricked into it, he readily agreed to it and he knew full well what he was doing. The book’s cover does not advertise life advice, it advertises celebrity gossip. Also nudes, which by the way, turned out to be mere topless shots. Add false advertising to the list of offenses. He really gave Bunsun a run for their money discussing half his scandals and even adding some extra. He keeps saying he only wants to clear up the rumours but somehow ends up saying things that make absolutely no difference or even make him look worse. It's like if Bunshun said "Tegoshi was partying with 5 younger women, ran around naked and then passed out drunk" and Tegoshi would be like "That's not true! There were 4 women!"

He also said he absolutely could not hide how he truly felt. And that seems to make sense except it’s one thing to just be honest and reveal some of your relevant thoughts in a carefully worded manner. But this is another thing entirely. It’s some kind of emotional exhibitionism, a compulsory desire to share his every thought and opinion on everything and everyone. Dear, there is middle ground between hiding how you really feel and giving your every single opinion. That doesn't make you honest. It makes you an asshole.

The book is divided into small chapters and most are about NEWS, past and present members and related topics, as well as most other JE artists. Some chapters are about the women he had or did not have relations with. Some are about the people he admires and his delusional plans for the future. Only a small number of chapters do not mention any names and talk about his personal experiences and thoughts.

At this point, I do not even have all the scans but I have more than enough to go off the parts I read. First off, I am now allergic to the word ‘positive’ and the phrase ‘as a man’. What the fuck does that even mean? Also, a lot of the stuff he says in the book is not new in any way and was either said before or known through other sources or rumours. There are hardly any shocking revelations anywhere, at least if you were following him as closely as I have. But hearing all these terrible opinions at once is sure a treat.

Actually, he himself described it as whining and that seems accurate because he does that for a good portion of the book, explaining how unfairly he (and other people) was treated by the industry and the press. There are many stories of hardship and resilience. There’s the good old "I suffered so much when I wasn’t the center of attention for the first time in my life”. There’s the classic “The media spreads lies about me” and other familiar narratives. Also a few tragic stories of unfulfilled love.

And not all of it is horrible. In fact, there are a few parts that I could relate to, such as the terrible way Koyama had been treated when he had to resign from ‘every’, the strange limitations for idols and how excessively strict the rules of Japanese showbiz are. But by telling those stories and complaining about JE and Japan’s entertainment industry, he is not going to make a change. All he accomplished is make things harder for himself. Bringing up the names of many artists, especially those he doesn’t even know personally, and discussing their problems is incredibly rude, intrusive and potentially damaging. Yes, the rules of Japanese entertainment suck but see how much you can achieve going against them.

And I don't like JE and not going to defend it but bitching about JE in particular is unwise for two reasons: One - not only does he owe everything to it, NEWS is still in it and what’s bad for JE is bad for NEWS. Two - JE is very powerful and has immense influence in the industry so making them your enemy when your career barely started may lead to it ending prematurely. In the end, Tegoshi Yuya’s biggest obstacle to fame isn’t JE or media. It’s Tegoshi Yuya.

It is not an autobiography book so it doesn't start with childhood. Which is a pity because I was hoping to get a glimpse of how we got to this point. There are a few clues though. 

I can tell.

Perhaps the most important chapters are those connected to his leaving the band, his reasons and motivations and that shit made me livid. He basically says that one day he imagined how awesome his solo career would be and decided he was too good to be in NEWS and the world will fall at his feet at soon as he lets it. He literally says that when he had to stay home because of the Covid-19 pandemic, he realized that God sent him a sign saying “Quickly, leave the agency!”. The pandemic is serendipity. Fuck me.

I honestly expected that the part about NEWS members at least would be nothing but praise but it also left me with very mixed feelings. First, there's a chapter "What I Told the NEWS Members" and it sounds so solemn and inspirational like "Are you sure you didn't copy that from some drama or anime? Because people do not talk like that, especially after being hit with such news." I'd love to hear their side of the story. There's also a chapter calling the members his comrades and expressing his eternal gratitude. But it's pretty clear that's not really for the members, it's to appease the fans.

There are several more chapters about the members specifically. Tegoshi has to be perfectly honest so there’s evaluation of every member, as he positions himself as the best performer by default and tells some stories that he apparently seems to think necessary to share.

For instance, there’s his story of choosing to stay in NEWS in 2011 as he told Koyashige they were miles behind Tegomass and needed to improve their singing and dancing to not drag the band down. Wait, since when can Tegoshi dance? Also the time Massu could not get a certain song right and got unresponsive as Tegoshi kept poking his mistake, so Tegoshi went berserk and thrashed Massu's things.

There is also a whole chapter about Shige and it's so weird as a former biggest Tegoshige shipper. Before I'd be happy for all the praise. Sadly, at this point if Tegoshi praises you too much it's almost a little suspicious. The whole thing is basically Tegoshi deciding that Shige is his top choice as... a man? deciding he makes the best leader and entrusting him the band. "Take care of my NEWS, Kato!" he says at the end. Fuck this shit!

Also, whatever happened to “Shige-chan?” He has made no effort to spend time with Shige out of work. And you know, they used to hang out and go on trips together when they were younger but not in recent years as Tegoshi got 'cooler' friends. I mean, his and Shige's friends probably have a 20+ difference in IQ level but still... He also only read a few of his books and unlike Massu, he does read. Mostly shitty 'how to succeed' types. All of that speaks of remarkable disinterest in Shige's actual life and thoughts.

There are several more chapters regarding NEWS as a band and what he thinks they should do and it makes me furious just talking about it. You lost any right to decide the band's future when you left them high and dry, asshole. He also claims he loves NEWS so so much and even wears the tour T-shirts (impressive!) and sings their songs in karaoke and cries! (poor thing!) On top of that he can't wait to see the STORY tour and go to see it and also broadcast it on his Youtube and do a review.......... I can't with this shit. Let's move on.

He also analyzed former members, basically calling Ryo spineless and saying he and Pi should have left sooner if they had no interest being in the band. And that’s coming from someone who tried to leave what? 4 times at least? Yes. It turns out he wanted to leave the band in 2017, in addition to 2011 and 2013. The way I see it now, 4nin NEWS was a hostage situation where Tegoshi constantly threatened to leave and other members trying to keep him happy and make him stay. He knew he was important and he got away with all kind of shit, both within the band and the agency.

In a similar manner, he takes each JE group and artist and evaluates them - what's good about it and what’s not, who’s popular and capable, what the group needs to do and so on. It’s amazingly condescending. There’s even a whole part about wanting to unite NEWS and KAT-TUN. What the fuck? Who asked you? Go film your ugly wardrobe or something.

I bet Tegoshi is so obsessed with popularity and rankings that he sees numbers over every person's and groups’ heads. Not everything in the world can be ranked and measured in numbers. He also says there are many celebrities who fucked up and acted like divas but are still popular. Way to go! Except it seems you have mistaken the order. You should succeed first, then be a dick. Also bitch, you're not Lady Gaga.

One of the biggest reasons for the anger of fans, at least the Western ones, was the way he talked about the mental issues of the former King & Prince member Iwahashi Genki and SEXY ZONE member Matsushima Sou both of whom had to step back from the industry because of their panic attacks. Even though he intended to encourage them, he expressed a fundamental misunderstanding of how panic attacks work suggesting they just had to cheer up and stay positive.

There's a whole section where he talks about a dozen female celebrities, mostly idols and actresses, dedicating a whole chapter to each. Of course, only to ‘set the record straight’. Because that’s exactly how the rumours work, you know. Particularly old ones. You tell the whole story and they go away. It's disgusting. Female artists' whole careers depend on their pure image and being associated with him can easily end it.

He also speaks of the first three girls he dated, which all sound like huge and tragic love stories as he said he loved them so much he considered marrying them but they all actually happened when he was about 16 to 20 years and after turning 20 he hasn't had a single woman that he loved that much.

And then some parts are only about himself and they are things that one should really, really keep to oneself. Nobody needs to know you drink so hard you can’t get it up. The chapter's called "I have no interest in sex" but it should really be called "I have a drinking problem". I couldn’t help but remember the scandalous article that came out in 2017 where one of his 'girl friends' sold the story of their relationship with all unsightly intimate details. I chose to defend him at the time but now I’m not even sure I can blame her. Perhaps it should be viewed as whistle-blower insider info as she warned others of what they may expect. The chapter "I have easily over a 1000 female friends" says he has this many girl contacts all over Japan and overseas but they aren't what you think they are. He only had 10 girls who he considered girlfriends, those he met 1 on 1 with. I guess the rest he just fucked so that doesn't count. Now that I think about it, I feel like 99% of all the Bunshun articles were mostly accurate.

Speaking of which... There's also a chapter where he explains why he cried during Neverland tour and he explains it by the photo with the two cons from 2011. We all know that was just a small part of it and the far bigger reason was people exposing his private messages and leaking intimate photos and stories. So much for the whole truth. Also, he whines about his reputation being hurt by the photo but has a whole chapter praising the man called Horiemon who was imprisoned for securities fraud.

There's another major revelation that shows his character. He mentions several cases where he had hissy fits in the dressing rooms, actually throwing chairs and things. Of course, for important reasons - being frustrated and angry at terrible injustices. Such as Koyama being fired from ‘every’ or him losing some parts in ChumChum after his scandal. Also the fight with Massu back in 2010 when he threw Massu’s things on the floor... It’s horrible as it is but for Massu, knowing he freaks out if you so much as breathe on his things... What a bitch.

There are also some chapters about his delusions of becoming a worldwide phenomenon but he doesn't seem to have a real plan how to achieve it. There are his ideas that are all over the place. There's the bold "Creating a new mold of entertainment" so that's producing. There's Youtube stuff. There's creating a "Tegoshi village" with ex-TOKIO Yamaguchi. He just had to pick the most problematic of his senpai. And there's an actual chapter called "Expanding to China and US Simultaneously”? Also English lessons? That all sounds very impressive, hon, but all you did so far was piggybacking on other people's fame and work. His book sold largely due to scandals and other people's names. He had a solo concert with just his NEWS solos and cover versions. And he just released a video that is an exact replica of his ItteQ segment.

One question is: how is he so confident he'll succeed fast? Well, apart form the usual delusions of grandeur. One reason for his excessive confidence is having friends in high places. At one point he's casually namedropping Abe Shinzo and the First Lady who was supposedly expected to come to the Story tour. Tegoshi said he would invite both of them to his solo concert. Yeah, I'm sure they'll come, nothing controversial about that.

I can’t imagine how it’s going to go from here but I don’t know how anyone would still want to work with him. He fucked over people he worked with for 18 years, people he claims to love, in a heartbeat so what can a new partner expect?

--------------------------------------------------

As expected by literally everyone but Tegoshi, the book made an uproar and not in a good way, with fans and agencies enraged over his words about the artists. There were many articles calling this book 'exposé book', especially focusing on him using the real names of female celebrities. Some newspapers followed up with petty articles. My favourite is an article from Tokyo Sports that specifically dug up a story that was not in the book about the way he adamantly pursued a certain female idol trying to conquer her and culminating in doing a dogeza in front of her but she still rejected him saying "Zettai yada! I will be your girlfriend number what?". Her name is not revealed, which is unfortunate, I'd like to know who that queen is.

Not all feedback was bad, of course. According to this article, many men brought it and enjoyed it. I'm sure they did. Plenty of aspirational douchebags out there. Anyway. Many fans wrote to him long angry and very detailed letters. His social media accounts have been losing followers for the past several weeks.

Perhaps the strangest thing is that he seemed genuinely surprised that instead of praise for his courage and honesty he got anger and disapproval. It wouldn't happen if he got his head out of his ass and literally asked a single one of the people he wrote about what they thought of it. 

The feedback must have been very focused as the very next day he wrote a few posts on his Twitter and Instagram indicating his concern over the feedback. On Twitter, he used the word “yacchimatta ka” as in “I messed up, didn’t I?” though stylistically I read it as “whoopsie”. Then there were two Insta stories.

2020/08/06 Ah, I'm a little tired. I'm also human. (sometimes I whine)

2020/08/06 I don't bother with those who criticize me in whatever they do. But I can't stand to see my fans, whom I treasure like my life, leave. I'm sorry. From now on, I won't whine anymore.

"I whine sometimes?" Really? that's what you call a 272 pages tell-all book? Also "I won't whine anymore"?? You think pulling off shit like that and then saying "whoopsie" is enough? It got quiet for a few days and on Aug 10 there was the apology video, which was named "This is my first and last whining". Doubt it. He uses the word ‘弱音’ which has a somewhat vague meaning, using it in an apology video in that context is confusing. Why not call apology as it is? That seems like another politician’s technique.

The apology was impressive in a way. At least it was not a blanket apology, he (or his employees) correctly identified what exactly people were mad about. He said he was really sorry for hurting his fans and causing trouble to people he wrote about. He said he understood that he doesn't have to reveal everything. He also said that he felt the love behind the anger, that fans wrote to him because they cared and were disappointed. Also said he realized that he was protected till now. It was all pretty good right until the very end when he gave a loud 'TEI!' effectively ruining the effect.

Of course, it was good that he did that but I still don't think it even began to make up for all the shit he wrote. The apology would be an adequate step after a shitty Tweet, not a fucking book. Also, I feel like more than anything he just got scared of losing his fans, maybe even sorry for hurting their feelings but not really sorry for what he did. He has no plans to change his behaviour. He wants to be at his 100% assholeness and still be adored.

Of course thousands of merciful women turned to his defence because he looked 'so sad' and even 'thinner'. That's right! He's the real victim here. Must be terrible to hear such hard criticism for the things you actually said and did.

By now I'm barely even angry anymore and a part of me feels sorry for Tegoshi. He's like a dumb spoiled child who wreaks havoc. But I have to remind myself I should not feel sorry. He is in fact an adult man of 32 who is so used he always gets his way that even a minor opposition is viewed by him as a violation of his freedom. And his charm is the very reason he always got away with all the shit he did in life up to this point. I bet he is getting a lot of hate mail and I hope his positivity prepared him for it. I remember him calling Koyama in the middle of the night to come and comfort him while he cried. Also calling Shige to come only to fall asleep in his lap. Now he's on his own. God, right now I just really wish Tegoshi would send himself to the corner and thought about what he's done. Just step aside and shut up for 5 minutes.

But he isn't gonna do it. Of course not. He had a solo concert today and is doing Youtube videos and moving even faster so that people forget about the book.

But fans never will. I can't even say if the book changed my perception or just unveiled what I knew was there all along. For years I've been discarding and questioning all the bad rumours and stories telling myself "He didn't mean it" or "That can't be true" but now it all comes together like pieces of a puzzle, and there's no need to guess anymore because he's shouting "Oh yes I fucking did and I'll do it again!"

All in all, the book paints a picture of a man who is anything but Prince Charming. It chips away any remaining illusions of a 'perfect idol' showing someone who is vain, petty, and chauvinistic. Someone who is obsessed with status and popularity so much that he is willing to sacrifice everything for it and thinks it doesn't matter how bad your reputation is as long as you succeed. Someone who is the very epitome of toxic masculinity, drinks himself to oblivion and treats women like toys. And yet, somehow, I still find myself having to fight the strong urge deep inside of me that makes me want to like him.

[thehalalgirlofficial]

BHM: the life of omar ibn said

In today’s racially charged climate, the call to learn from and reckon America’s violently colorful history with people of color has reached a fever pitch. In order to move forward, we must first study our past. This Black History Month should be more than just a time elementary school teachers rattle off facts about Madam C.J. Walker and George Washington Carver. Rather, we as a people must use this opportunity to allow ourselves to feel the long suppressed pain of our black brothers and sisters so that we may begin to heal together. Surely, much of the racial injustice that is prevalent today stems from the conscious decision to enslave masses of people against their will whilst forcing them to desert their culture, land, and families.

One such story is that of West African slave and author Omar ibn Said. In early 2019, the Library of Congress acquired the Omar Ibn Saeed collection, including his original Arabic autobiography written in the early 1800s, along with its English translation The Life of Omar Ibn Said from the 1860s. Now that these documents have been made public, we have access to firsthand accounts of slavery in America which are unedited by ibn Saeed’s owners, unlike other slave’s autobiographies that were written in English. In fact, many of the accounts of slavery and the treatment of enslaved people we read today are derived from white abolitionist writers, rather than black enslaved people. This is often because slaves did not have the time, the ability, or the resources to record their conditions, and even if an enslaved person did dare to write an autobiography, he or she risked being caught by an “owner” and being severely punished. Still, there are written accounts of some enslaved people’s experiences, but these accounts are tainted by the possibility of being dictated or altered by an “owner”. What makes ibn Said’s work exceptional is that he chose to record his life in Arabic, a medium his “owner” was unlikely to have been able to read, let alone contour to his whims. Due to his foresight, today we have access to a work that facilitates an enhanced understanding of the complications of slavery in America and what it meant to be Muslim in the 19th century.

Ibn Said begins his autobiography with Al-Mulk, the sixty-seventh chapter from the Quran. After praising Allah ﷻ and sending salutations of peace and blessings upon Muhammad ﷺ, he begins quoting the Quranic passage, 

“Blessed be He in whose hand is the kingdom and who is Almighty; who created death and life that He may make you the best of his works” {67:1}. 

It is no accident that ibn Said chose, out of 114 chapters, consisting of a total 6,236 verses, to begin with Al-Mulk, which means “The Sovereignty.” The very first ayah (verse) he pens establishes that Allah ﷻ is the owner of all and that he controls both life and death, which leaves no room for the ownership of man over any form of life. “It is a fundamental criticism of the institution of slavery,” says Mary-Jane Deeb, chief of the African and Middle Eastern Division at the Library of Congress. 

Personally, what I find astounding is the stark contrast between his manner of writing and the way in which other writers of the time incorporate religion into their work. For instance, we can observe a less nuanced tone in American author Ralph Waldo Emersons’ "Nature," published in 1836, in which he declares, 

“I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God.”

While Emerson sees God through the world around him, ibn Said understands the world around him through God. Perhaps this difference arises as a result of each writer’s position in life. Emerson already had access to material possessions, which led him on a journey to “find” God amongst a world he had already defined materialistically. On the other hand, ibn Said had very little to nothing to his name, thus his world view was shaped by the beliefs he brought with him in the long boat ride over from Futa Toro. This fundamental difference illustrates the disparity of conditions faced by free and enslaved Americans.

Interestingly, when recalling his life within America, ibn Said’s description of his experiences do not mirror the general perception of enslaved life most carry. Although he does mention the abuse he endured at the hands of Johnson, the man who he was sold to in Charleston, his dislike for Johnson isn’t solely due to him being a “wicked man,” rather he repeatedly mentions that he “had no fear of God at all.” Contrary to the notion that enslaved people fled the persecution and excruciating labor of the fields as some form of refugees, ibn Said mentions in his manuscript that he made the choice not to stay with Johnson, as he, “was afraid to remain with a man so depraved and who committed so many crimes.” Yet, when speaking of North Carolina’s governor John Owen and his brother Jim Owen, who ibn Said “remained in the place of” after being caught, he describes them as “good men” and praises them for reading the gospel and “having so much love to God.”  In fact, when asked if he “were willing to go to Charleston City,”  ibn Said responds, “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, I not willing to go to Charleston. I stay in the house of Jim Owen.” Despite being able to depict the Owens in a negative light, given that they wouldn’t understand his criticism since it was written in Arabic, he talks highly of each member of the family and even refers to Jim Owen as sied, or master, postulating that enslaved people might have had a relationship of respect and fondness towards their “masters.”

Intriguingly, ibn Said never refers to himself as a slave, and speaks about his circumstances with a refreshing air of self- reliance. To him, he didn’t flee slavery in Charleston; rather, he left a “wicked man” who ibn Said made the choice not to stay with. Perhaps the aspect of ibn Said’s life that vastly sets him apart from the mainstream understanding of a slave’s life is his advanced education. While most enslaved people are regarded as being illiterate, ibn Said wrote letters and personal writings in beautiful calligraphy and had many passages of the Qur’an committed to memory. Along with his manuscript being evidence enough of just how highly educated he was, ibn Said writes, “I continued my studies twenty-five years,” which means he was only six when he first “sought knowledge under the instruction of a Sheikh called Mohammed Seid.” Similarly, the elegance with which he writes is truly a testament to his intelligence. Aside from his cross examination of Christianity and Islam, and his interwoven subtle critisms of the institution of slavery, ibn Said masterfully uses language that illustrates both his wisdom and humility as he looks back on his life. In fact, he even includes an effective introduction and conclusion to his work. From ibn Said’s outlook on life, which allows him to describe his “master” fondly, to his blaring sense of self-determination, he redefines what it means to be an enslaved person in America.

Ibn Said, within his autobiography, attempts to analyze the interwoven tale of his experiences in regards to both Islam and Christianity. He mentions his past rituals of walking to the mosque for prayer in the daytime and at night, and the zeal with which he read the Quran, all before he came to America. Yet, he repeatedly praises the Owen’s for reading the gospel, mentioning that they would read it to him, and implies that he may have converted to Christianity. Due to the many Quranic verses and prayers scattered in his writing, it is difficult to tell whether ibn Said truly brought faith in the Christian religion or only accepted it as an outwardly gesture to ensure his safety in the South. Either way, he was able to examine each religion objectively. At one point, ibn Said even contrasts the manner in which he prayed as a Muslim in opposition to how he prays as a Christian by providing the entire chapter of Al-Fatiha from the Quran, while adding that now he prays, “Our Father.” Interestingly, he never criticizes, gives his opinion on, nor shows a preference towards either religion. This neutrality drives home not only ibn Said’s intellect, but the fact that he was simply searching for the true path, without blindly following whatever he was told.

Perhaps what sets ibn Said apart from other enslaved people in regards to religious aspirations is his twenty-five years spent in seeking out knowledge in Foto Turo. This disciplined early education instilled in him a zeal which followed him across the Atlantic, allowing him to become a lifelong learner. In fact, he was eager to listen to the gospel whenever someone would read it to him. Although he doesn’t specifically mention that he is Christian, ibn Said places a substantially large emphasis on the relationship between God and human beings, as well as the need to read and understand scripture. Even if he remained Muslim, ibn Said never makes clear his opposition to Chrisitan ideology. Rather he reiterates the necessity of faith in one’s life by praising the Owens for being a religious family while cursing at his first “owner” Johnson for his lack of attachment to God.

Aside from The Life of Omar Ibn Said’s literary brilliance and historical significance when analyzing slavery in America, the work resonates with me on a personal level. When I first heard that the Library of Congress had published this work as a collection, along with other hand written pieces such as personal letters, my interest was sufficiently piqued. What I didn’t anticipate, however, is just how much I would relate to the story of a West African slave living in the 19th century. Before reading the English manuscript of The Life of Omar Ibn Said, I first made my way through the Arabic documents. Written in mesmerizing handwriting which, due to my severe lack of knowledge, I can only describe as 19th century African calligraphy, ibn Said begins with the basmallah. As Muslims, we recognize this prayer as one to recite before embarking on any task or journey, even as small as lifting the lid off of a pot. Then he goes on to send salutations upon the Prophet Muhammad ﷺ in a manner so customary that I caught myself doing so involuntarily. When I realized he was quoting surah Al- Mulk, one that my mother helped me commit to memory and would read with me every night before going to bed as a child, I was touched. Despite being stripped of his culture, isolated from his people, and forced onto a new land, ibn Said did not forget the essentials of his religion. It was at that moment that I resolved to start reciting Al- Mulk at night again. When he mentions the Shuyukh, or scholars, under whom he gained his education, I felt the respect emanating from his words. In that moment, the oft- quoted words came to mind, “I am a slave to the one who teaches me even a single letter.”

Perhaps the most striking part of ibn Said’s journey is the fact that while on the run for nearly a month, he risked capture to stop at a church and pray. Although he knew the inherent dangers that would stem from being apprehended, ibn Said’s imaan (faith) proved stronger than his fear, as he was eventually caught and sold back into slavery. In this defiant act of his, I find reasons to feel both ashamed and hopeful. Ibn Said actually faced the possibility of being killed, yet he still chose to preserve his religious traditions. Meanwhile, when prayer time rolls in while I am still on campus, I feel the need to squeeze into the tiniest corner I can find to quickly pray just the bare minimum so that I don't inconvenience anyone else around me. Yet, the fact that ibn Said was caught and sold to a man about whom he mentions, “During the last 20 years, I have known no want in the hand of Jim Owen,” is cause enough for me to be hopeful that the slight stress I endure while praying in public will surely bring about, through Allah’s ﷻ unlimited Grace, great fortune in my own life. Although we are separated by a span of almost two centuries, ibn Said’s struggle is inspiring in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.

In the ever-divisive times in which we now find ourselves living, The Life of Omar Ibn Said is a welcome triumph of human spirit and optimism. Not only are ibn Said’s life and work subjects of intrigue, but the implications of his writing reaffirm a story that many of us have long since forgotten: American slavery does not take one shape, size, or form. Although the institution itself was horrific, we must contend that some enslaved people did find a greater purpose in their lives. Ibn Said was one of them. He rose above the hatred surrounding him, and speaks of the men who held him in captivity with astonishing reverence. How ibn Said was able to look back at the progression of events in his life and not be angered that a scholar as learned as he could be enslaved is a lesson for us all. Truly, ibn Said’s knowledge provided him with humility and wisdom. Perhaps, if he had succumbed to human nature and only displayed outrage at his conditions, which would have been completely justified, we would not have the masterpiece that is the Omar Ibn Said collection today. As we continue to engage literature and history as a way of understanding the world, Omar ibn Said stands as a reminder to value the narrative of every individual, because, rather than a large-scale standpoint in viewing the world, personal experiences speak to the very core of what it means to be human. We all deserve the chance to live prosperously and this cannot be the case until we rectify the mistakes of our past and work towards ensuring the sanctity of every life.

Carey, Jonathan. “The Extraordinary Autobiography of an Enslaved Muslim Man Is Now Online.” Atlas Obscura, Atlas Obscura, 26 Jan. 2019, https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/omar-ibn-said-autobiography-digitized.

Emerson, Ralph Waldo. “Nature.” EMERSON - NATURE--Web Text, https://archive.vcu.edu/english/engweb/transcendentalism/authors/emerson/nature.html.

ibn Said, Omar. “About This Collection  :  Omar Ibn Said Collection  :  Digital Collections  :  Library of Congress.” The Library of Congress, https://www.loc.gov/collections/omar-ibn-said-collection/about-this-collection/

[msclaritea]

Upon the Clear Distinction Between Fandom and the Baker Street Irregulars

BY LYNDSAY FAYE

November 30, 2012

In light of the ever-expanding popularity of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries in conjunction with recent adaptations including the Warner Brothers films, the BBC series, and the CBS reimagining, it falls to me to discuss certain disturbing tendencies on the part of new devotees to refer to that venerable institution, the Baker Street Irregulars, as a “fandom” when it is actually a literary society. The youth of the Sherlockian world will be excused for making this dare I say elementary error, since the case for the distinction has not been hitherto laid out. Following the summation of this article, however, fans and traditional Sherlockians alike will have reached a much clearer understanding, and the unfortunate misnomer of referring to the present Irregulars as a “fandom” will doubtless cease and be swiftly forgotten.

(Note: for the purposes of this intellectual exercise, the possibility that the BSI may potentially be a storied and erudite literary society and a happily thriving fandom simultaneously will be ignored. This decision was made in light of the fact that a noun cannot be two things concurrently, the way the Empire State Building is not both a functioning office tower and a tourist destination, and the way Bill Clinton is not both a former president and a saxophone player. Arguments that the BSI is peopled by both cultured readers and by eager fans would only muddy the issue, and therefore will not be entertained here.)

According to the Online Etymology Dictionary, the word fandom dates from 1903 and is defined simply as “the realm of avid enthusiasts.” Although undoubtedly a positive, even a flattering definition, already we can see that this is an inaccurate way of describing the Baker Street Irregulars, founded in January of 1934 by Doubleday editor Christopher Morley and later permanently established as the premier Sherlockian society by Edgar W. Smith. While the BSI was conceived as a group of congenial, clubbable men who admittedly shared an avid enthusiasm for the Great Detective, no mention whatsoever is made in the definition of fandom of a taste for adult beverages, and the drinking of toasts to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s characters, which is of such import to the group as to be codified in the BSI’s by-laws. As a matter of fact, the words “Sherlock Holmes” appear nowhere in this document, while the words “drunk,” “drink,” “round,” and “toast” occur six times in the brief record. Describing the BSI as a fandom is thus clearly a counterfactual practice, and should be treated as such.

Of note, because the dates could potentially lead to confusion, is the fact that the Irregulars were founded in 1934 in New York City, at very close to the identical time period when the science fiction fandom was forming convivial societies of “avid enthusiasts” in order to discuss space travel, interplanetary colonization, their whip-smart literary contributions, and large-chested alien females. The Futurians, according to Frederik Pohl’s autobiography, were founded in 1934 in New York City; the Scienceers were founded in 1929 in New York City; the Los Angeles Fantasy Society was founded in 1934 in Los Angeles; and the National Fantasy Fan Federation was founded in 1941 in Boston. These societies in no way resembled the BSI, however, for their purpose was to discuss speculative, fictional adventures, while the BSI’s purpose (apart from toasting) was to discuss Sherlock Holmes. The Grand Game, as it’s called, a form of meta-scholarship, bears but scant resemblance to the doings of folk who pen Middle-Earth chronologies and dictionaries of the Klingon language. Those who suggest the BSI is a fandom will also note that, as a literary society, the BSI has always been peopled with thinkers and literary luminaries such as Isaac Asimov, while the Futurians boasted as one of their members Isaac Asimov, who was undoubtedly a different Isaac Asimov to the deservedly admired creative philosopher invested in the Irregulars.

One of the most self-evident differences between the Irregulars and those involved in fandom is the latter’s tendency to memorize an enormous amount of trivia regarding their specific preoccupations, be those preoccupations Battlestar Galactica or fiction featuring anthropomorphized dragons. A member of the Star Trek fandom, for instance, could readily inform an outsider that when Captain Picard was captured by the Cardassians, he insisted despite being cruelly tortured that the number of lights shown to him numbered four; such remarkable displays of knowledge are all too common among fandom enthusiasts. Invested members of the BSI could undoubtedly inform non-Sherlockians that Sherlock Holmes’s ancestors were country squires, that John Watson was an invalided member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and that Holmes is on record as having possessed three dressing gowns (blue, purple, and mouse), but as these are matters of historical fact, knowledge of them is much more akin to familiarity with the Gettysburg Address. I say again: do not succumb to lazy terminology and misidentify the BSI as a fandom. The one is concerned with an exceedingly popular series of crime stories, and the other is concerned with pop culture.

The activities of fans vs. traditional Sherlockians are hugely divergent. While fans come together to discuss their favorite sci-fi stories, television shows, and films, Sherlockians confine their conversation (and toasts) exclusively to the sixty stories, referred to as the “canon.” No mention is made of adaptations of the Sherlock Holmes mysteries; indeed, it is safe to say that the BSI as a whole is unaware of such bastardizations of the original writings, if indeed such things as movies and television shows based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle exist, which is doubtful. In addition, fandom engages in a pastime termed “cosplay,” defined by Wikipedia as “a type of performance art in which participants don costumes and accessories to represent a specific character or idea.” Such behavior would be anathema to a Baker Street Irregular, some of whom have been photographed dressing in Victorian garb and deerstalker hats.

Denizens of the fandom community fail to confine their “avid enthusiasm” to mere discussion of hobbits and tribbles; they also, as a group, have a marked tendency to collect memorabilia relevant to their favorite characters, spending precious funds in pursuit of items such as action figures and animation cells. A comic book collector would think absolutely nothing of paying triple digits for a prized mint-condition issue of Spider-Man, for example, while my copy of the 1892 issue of the Strand Magazine…no, strike that, I beg your pardon, the comparison is similar but ultimately misleading. Irregulars of my acquaintance have amassed collections of Sherlock Holmes art, Sherlock Holmes books, Sherlock Holmes knickknacks, Sherlock Holmes pins, Sherlock Holmes translations, Sherlock Holmes reference volumes, and Sherlock Holmes talismans such as magnifying glasses or pipes, but as these are clearly objets d’art, they find no equivalency within the realm of fandom.

It is of particular importance to note that fandom participants often write what is termed fanfiction, fictional works featuring their beloved characters in various situations of the fan’s own imagining, defined as “stories about characters or settings written by fans of the original work, rather than by the original creator.” Whenever a writer pens a story about a character created by another author, that tale falls under the umbrella of fanfiction, a practice that the Baker Street Irregulars would find both mystifying and vaguely distasteful. In fact, the mere concept of writing new stories starring characters not belonging to the author would strike dismay into the hearts of the BSI, who very often write and read pastiches featuring Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (a pastiche is defined as “a work of art, literature, film, music, or architecture that openly imitates the work of a previous artist”). As you have already recognized, no doubt, pastiche is entirely different from fanfiction, as fanfiction is specified as being penned by fans, and as I have argued previously, the Baker Street Irregulars are not fans but rather a literary society, and thus are categorically incapable of writing fanfiction. The notion that they could be both we have already dismissed as specious.

One must bear in mind as well the ironclad argument that the BSI was founded in the tradition of the great metropolitan men’s clubs of the 1930s, and thus bears no resemblance whatsoever to fandoms, which are largely concerned with grown men and women wearing tights. I find this line of reasoning particularly compelling, since it is common knowledge that once a group forms around a certain idea, it remains always the identical entity, indistinguishable in its modern incarnation from its origins, free from growth, change, or adaptation. Admittedly the BSI is no longer exclusively for men, but that is an admirable mark of progress and should be considered accordingly. Just as the company Apple Inc. sells small personal circuit boards hand-crafted by the artist Steve Wozniak (keyboard and screen not included), the BSI is emphatically not a fandom. And please stop referring to them by such blatantly fallacious terminology.

Lastly, a word upon the subject of respect for the gentleman who made our literary society possible, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There are some who take mild offense to those who speak of the BSI as a fandom, but I am not of their number, though it is worth mentioning out of deference that Doyle would certainly be outraged by the term. So beloved a character was Sherlock Holmes to Doyle that he spoke of him always with the soft light of adoration in his eyes and a flush upon his cupid’s cheeks, joy suffusing his features whensoever the subject of his masterful sleuth was raised. Were Doyle to be reanimated and exposed to the neophytes who ignore all discrepancies and insist upon wrongly identifying the BSI as a fandom, his mighty love for his hero would so overwhelm him, and his fury at the misidentification swell into so vast a storm cloud of righteous rage, that he would probably decide to remain alive simply for the pure, unadulterated pleasure he derived from writing the Sherlock Holmes mysteries, and would deliver unto us sixty more cases. And lo, global warming would be reversed, and he would find a cure for herpes.

I trust that this article clears up any remaining confusion regarding the word fandom, and its woeful inexactitude when characterizing the Baker Street Irregulars. I likewise hope I have assured the reader the BSI cannot be both a respected literary society and a fandom, any more than Australia can be both a continent and an island. One earnestly hopes that this will settle the matter for good and all, and we can move on to other, better topics. In the meanwhile, I am going to don my deerstalker and write a story in which Sherlock Holmes fights the Cardassians, that being the sort of activity relevant to my interests. Thank you.

1. Am I wrong or is this a bit rude?

2. Why don’t we hear more stories about how Doyle actually loved Holmes? It’s as though people want the character to be remembered as hated.

Lyndsay Faye is the author of Dust and Shadow and The Gods of Gotham from Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam. She tweets @LyndsayFaye.

@elwinglyre @sarahthecoat @sussexbound @fellshish @artfulkindoforder @johnlockedness @ebaeschnbliah @tjlcisthenewsexy @madzither

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