#Postscript to the Name of the Rose

[thirdity]

The fundamental question of philosophy (like that of psychoanalysis) is the same as the question of the detective novel: who is guilty?

Umberto Eco, Postscript to the Name of the Rose

[fantasy-the-final-frontier]

“The author should die once he has finished writing. So as not to trouble the path of the text.”

- postscript from “The Name of the Rose” by Umberto Eco (translated by William Weaver)

[flowafairy]

secret santa from who ? ✿ jjk multi

﹒postscript : knock knock, you’ve got mail. feat. ɞ‎ megumi, yuji, gojo, geto, yuta ʚ fem reader in gojo’s

megumi could only sit there and watch you enthusiastically shake the box in your hand, not making any effort to hide the frown on his face.

when you asked him to come sit with you on the couch, the last thing he expected was for you to announce you had a secret santa. which, by the way, was not him.

“why are you so excited?” megumi watches you tear open the wrapping. “it’s probably a box of cookies or someth-“

“megs, look!” megumi reluctantly looked down at the box, eyes widening at the sight—is that a plushie of him?

no, wait. it was a poorly done crochet.

“you’re adorable! your forehead is so big.” you heartily laugh, but megumi doesn’t seem to be liking this present.

megumi sends the plushie an immediate glare, that looks nothing like him.

“who…” megumi grumbles. “that idiot..”

so thats why yuji said he was getting into crocheting.

”baby, i don’t want you to open that.” yuji huffs as he attempts to snatch the bag away from you, barely putting in any effort since he knows you’re opening it either way.

yuji wanted to be your first secret santa this year arround, he had the perfect gift planned and everything and yet someone still managed to beat him to it.

“don’t be pouty, yuji.” you push him away, taking out the item from the bag. it’s a box—a ring box.

“oh wow.” you open the box, inside shining a promise ring. “look-“

“give me that.” yuji snatches it away, gazing at the ring with a judgemental look. “green isn’t even that nice of a color. you’re not wearing this.” yuji pouts.

“i wasn’t planning to.” you laugh, rolling your eyes. “looks like i’ve got a secret admirer, huh?”

“heyy! don’t say that.” yuji leans into your embrace—someone else admiring you? give him a break.

“alright, alright, sorry.” you peck his forehead.

satoru stares blankly at the present box laid out at your front door. he’d just came back from a mission, and the last thing he was expecting was a package.

“surely she wouldn’t mind..” satoru picks the present up, reading the note on it. from : your secret santa, winky face.

satoru couldn’t help but scoff. “the hell do they think they are?” satoru rips open the paper, seeing a chocolate box inside.

“woah, guess this was fate afterall…” satoru’s mouth waters, throwing the wrapper away as he opens the chocolate box.

“well well, come to papa-“

“…satoru?”

your eyes wide as you see the wrapper of the present you were about to pick up on the floor, ripped.

“is that-“ you look at the chocolate box in satoru’s hand. “my present?!”

“well you see..” satoru scratches his head nervously.

he was put on a sweets ban. but hey, shoving all the chocolates in his mouth before you could hit him was totally worth it.

suguru was just clearing out the mailbox, not expecting a blue bag to fall out.

he picks up the bag from the ground. secret santa for : you !

suguru couldn’t help his eyes slightly twitch, for you? he wasn’t aware you’re getting secret santa’s.

“this handwriting…. looks familiar.” suguru shakes his head, he’s probably just dizzy.

he walks back inside the house, calling out your name. you leave your room at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice.

“you’ve got mail, pretty.” he watches you approach him, a smile on his face. not as if he was happy right now, though.

“for me?” you take the bag curiously, reaching your hand inside as you take out a letter.

you open the letter, your face morphing into confusion as you read it. get pranked, loser!

there was a chibi drawing of satoru below it.

“that bastard.” suguru lets out a chuckle. oh he is not letting satoru get away with this.

atleast it wasn’t a love confession, poor guy would have another thing coming for him if it was.

you’ve never seen yuta this jealous before.

“you don’t even like roses.” yuta crosses his arms. “do you have to keep them? can’t you throw them away?”

you had just gotten a secret santa from somebody anonymous. you had to explain yuta what a ‘secret santa’ exactly is, but now you wish you didn’t.

he’s usually calm and gentle with you, but he’s been giving you the stink eye the past half an hour.

he can get you flowers too, your favorite infact.

“i don’t wanna throw them away, yu.” you pour some water into the vase. “they’ll die.”

yuta walks towards you, taking your hand. “please? ill buy you better ones later today.” he smiles at you sweetly.

“yuta.” you sigh, knowing you have to comply when he looks at you like that.

“fine.. ill throw them away.”

[nostalgebraist]

I feel like I've had the same experience several times now: someone does a new translation of a non-English literary classic, and all the critics praise it to the moon, so I go and try to read it, and it's turns out it's just . . . bad? Like, really bad? And weirdly bad?

A while back, I wrote about the case of Pevear and Volokhonsky. Here's another example, which I encountered while doing background research for my novel Almost Nowhere.

----

One of my novel's major characters is a literary translator, famous for his rendition of the Persian epic poem Shahnameh ("Book of Kings").

To help me write this character, I tried to read the Shahnameh myself. I started out – where else? – with the translation that seemed to be the gold standard, and which was certainly the most critically lauded.

Namely, the 2006 translation by Dick Davis, in prose with occasional shifts into verse.

Here's how the Shahnameh begins, in Davis' translation:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty? No one has any knowledge of those first days, unless he has heard tales passed down from father to son. This is what those tales tell: The first man to be king, and to establish the ceremonies associated with the crown and throne, was Kayumars. When he became lord of the world, he lived first in the mountains, where he established his throne, and he and his people dressed in leopard skins. It was he who first taught men about the preparation of food and clothing, which were new in the world at that time. Seated on his throne, as splendid as the sun, he reigned for thirty years. He was like a tall cypress tree topped by the full moon, and the royal farr shone from him. All the animals of the world, wild and tame alike, reverently paid homage to him, bowing down before his throne, and their obedience increased his glory and good fortune.

And here is the same opening, in the 1905 translation by Arthur and Edmond Warner (which I only discovered much later in the process of writing Almost Nowhere):

What saith the rustic bard? Who first designed To gain the crown of power among mankind? Who placed the diadem upon his brow? The record of those days hath perished now Unless one, having borne in memory Tales told by sire to son, declare to thee Who was the first to use the royal style And stood the head of all the mighty file. He who compiled the ancient legendary, And tales of paladins, saith Gaiúmart Invented crown and throne, and was a Sháh. This order, Grace, and lustre came to earth When Sol was dominant in Aries And shone so brightly that the world grew young. Its lord was Gaiúmart, who dwelt at first Upon a mountain; thence his throne and fortune Rose. He and all his troop wore leopard-skins, And under him the arts of life began, For food and dress were in their infancy. He reigned o'er all the earth for thirty years, In goodness like a sun upon the throne, And as a full moon o'er a lofty cypress So shone he from the seat of king of kings. The cattle and the divers beasts of prey Grew tame before him; men stood not erect Before his throne but bent, as though in prayer, Awed by the splendour of his high estate, And thence received their Faith.

Now, I can't speak at all about the source text. I have no idea how faithful or unfaithful these two translations are, and in what ways, in which places.

Still, though. I mean like, come on.

This is an epic poem about ancient kings and larger-than-life heroes.

This is a national epic, half myth and half history, narrating the proud folkloric lineage claimed by a real-world empire.

There is a way that such things are supposed to sound, in English. And it sure as hell isn't this:

What does the Persian poet say about the first man to seek the crown of world sovereignty?

Excuse me? That's your opening line? I thought I was reading a poem, here, not taking a fucking AP World Literature exam!

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Postscript

Some of the critical praise for the Davis translation, quoted on the back cover of my copy (emphasis mine):

"A poet himself, Davis brings to his translation a nuanced awareness of Ferdowsi's subtle rhythms and cadences. His "Shahnameh" is rendered in an exquisite blend of poetry and prose, with none of the antiquated flourishes that so often mar translations of epic poetry." (Reza Aslan, The New York Times Book Review) "Thanks to Davis's magnificent translation, Ferdowsi and the Shahnameh live again in English.” (Michael Dirda, Washington Post) "A magnificent accomplishment . . . [Davis’s translation] is not only the fullest representation of Ferdowsi’s masterpiece in English but the best." (The New York Sun)

[pomea]

At a certain point I said to myself that, since the Middle Ages were my day-to-day fantasy, I might as well write a novel actually set in that period. As I have said in interviews, I know the present only through the television screen, whereas I have a direct knowledge of the Middle Ages. When we used to light bonfires on the grass in the country, my wife would accuse me of never looking at the sparks that flew up among the trees and glided along the electricity wires. Then when she read the chapter on the fire, she said, “So you were looking at the sparks!” And I answered, “No, but I knew how a medieval monk would have seen them.”

umberto eco, postscript of the name of the rose

[notasapleasure]

If a character of mine, comparing two medieval ideas, produces a third, more modern, idea, he is doing exactly what culture did; and if nobody has ever written what he says, someone, however confusedly, should surely have begun to think it (perhaps without saying it, blocked by countless fears and by shame).

Umberto Eco, The Historical Novel, from his Postscript to The Name of the Rose, trans. by William Weaver

[yuri-alexseygaybitch]

Umberto Eco: an author should not explain his work

Also Umberto Eco in the postscript of The Name of the Rose:

[gogandmagog]

Anne of the Island, by L.M. Montgomery

Anne of the Island, Chapter Six! 

Getting so very close to being finally caught up. 🫡 I’m still in the book clubs dust, but if I squint, I think I can almost see you guys! Apologies to anyone that might see this, that might’ve already previously (and punctually!) shared a sentiment that I spent any amount of time reinforcing in my own posts. I haven’t skimmed the book club’s tag so far, just because I have this brain impediment where if I see someone else has already mentioned something I think, “...oh excellent! Now I needn’t bother!”, only, that everyone is so thorough that if I did go ahead and look at them, and saw everyone’s thoughts, I’m sure I’d find I had nothing left to speak on. A serial liking of all book club posts, coming soon to a notif near you, honestly.  

Some weensy Phil bullets: mostly that well, I persist in representing Team Alec (only until a certain long-legged Minister appears, of course), because here is a fellow who would at least find the mix-up of Phil’s letter postscripts “funny.” This puts him eons and miles and worlds ahead of Alonzo imo... a sense of humour is so necessary!  

Speaking of Redmond football, an insignificant matter that is once again very much nonsense and not particularly worthy of spending any large amount of much time reflecting on, yet remains a great area of interest for me personally... guys, what do we reckon the Redmond Football mascot was? Team name? I know there’s future canon abbreviation of Redmond students as “Reds,” but a colour is hardly a sufficient team name, nor do I really think it’s meant to be taken as such, and listen, no one even think of mentioning the stinking Cleaveland Browns football team to me, lmao.  

“That Gilbert of yours.” + “outraged Anne” AIR KISS to these lines specifically.  

“But Sloane was blissfully ignorant; he thought he was quite a fine fellow to be walking with two such coeds, especially Philippa Gordon, the class beauty and belle. It must surely impress Anne. She would see that some people appreciated him at his real value.” Oh, Charlie. I constantly waffle between feeling pity for Charlie, the butt of many-a-joke, and then also feeling that wellllllll his ego is a little bit exaggerated perhaps - although I suppose we get a clearer sense of that later on. Since all of Avonlea knows that Gilbert’s dead-gone on Anne, to the point of pubic heckling in a Charlottetown newspaper, we must recognise that in Charlie’s mind, he’s in active competition with Gilbert, who has certainly loved Anne the longer. Not an ounce of discernable bro-code anywhere.   

Gilbert quoting some Bret Harte verses to Anne. This boy might not have a propensity for writing original poetry, but his memorisation and ability to drop a line or two so easily? He’s got a romantic soul, for sure. In a lot of ways, between him and Anne, it’s actually Gilbert that’s the romantic one (also see: keeping the rose that fell from her hair, back at the White Sands recital), and Anne the steady practical.  

“Gilbert, who could not connect the idea of sorrow with the vivid, joyous creature beside him, unwitting that those who can soar to the highest heights can also plunge to the deepest depths, and that the natures which enjoy most keenly are those which also suffer most sharply.” This is heavy. But more than anything, something I very much enjoy about Maud’s work is her ability to maintain core characterisation. I see this line, and I also think of how much it (later) casts light onto Gilbert’s struggle to really relate to some of Walter’s Anneishness. There’s a wonderful yin and yang balance between the slinky black cats and golden retrievers of the world, and often enough they are deeply attracted to each other, but there are some differences that can never been fully reconciled.  

The matter of Spofford Avenue! Again the scholars have already done a ton of the legwork, and lots of preliminary digging into Maud’s journals, picking out real-life links between between her time in Halifax and how it corresponds to Anne’s… and they’ve decided, very logically, that Spofford Avenue was based on Young Avenue.

At the time, Halifax was one of the richest cities in Canada and building on Young Avenue, definitely reserved for prominent families and the wealthiest, apparently came with enough beautification restrictions to satisfy even the choosiest A.V.I.S. member, only of a few of which I can easily remember… that power poles were banned on the basis of being “unsightly,” for starters. I know there’s a whole essay dedicated to the ‘real’ Kingsport somewhere, and if I can find it instead of just my jumbled notes & misc. folder on it, I’ll be sure to share it in case anyone’s interested. 🧐 I also recall that a very real tobacco king called Alexander Hobrecker (‘Hobrecker House’) did indeed make residence on Young Avenue, though whether or not he really had an affinity for well-made country quilts, is anyone’s guess.

[stheresya]

It is necessary to create constraints, in order to invent freely. […] In fiction, the surrounding world provides the constraint. This has nothing to do with realism (even if it explains also realism). A completely unreal world can be constructed, in which asses fly and princesses are restored to life by a kiss; but that world, purely possible and unrealistic, must exist according to structures defined at the outset (we have to know whether it is a world where a princess can be restored to life only by the kiss of a prince, or also by that of a witch, and whether the princess’s kiss transforms only frogs into princes or also, for example, armadillos). … The constructed world will then tell us how the story must proceed. […] And it must not be thought that this is an “idealistic” position, as if I were saying that the characters have an autonomous life and the author, in a kind of trance, makes them behave as they themselves direct him. That kind of nonsense belongs in term papers. The fact is that the characters are obliged to act according to the laws of the world in which they live. In other words, the narrator is the prisoner of his own premises.

(Umberto Eco, Postscript to The Name of the Rose. Trans. by William Weaver)

[elipheleh]

The Waterloo Vase

But the first time I saw you. Rio. I took that down to the gardens. I pressed it into the leaves of a silver maple and recited it to the Waterloo Vase. It didn’t fit in any rooms.

Chapter 11, Red White & Royal Blue

The Waterloo Vase is a marble vase that stands in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. It is around 15ft high, 4.6m, and depicts the victories at the Battle of Waterloo - hence the name. The height listed varies between 15 & 18 feet, 4.6-5.5m, which probably is dependent on how they measured it.

The vase was initially commissioned by Napoleon, but after his defeat at Waterloo it was presented to the future King George VI, then Prince-Regent, who commissioned Sir Richard Westmacott to carve it. He wished for it to show the final battles of Waterloo.

Initially intended for display in the Waterloo Chamber at Windsor Castle, the weight of the vase - referenced as between twenty and forty tons - meant it wasn't feasible. After a few different locations, it was settled in the Rose Garden in Buckingham Palace in the early 1900s, and has remained there since.

The handles of the vase are depictions of angels, Victory and Defeat personified, with Defeat being shown with a shield atop their head. Above the depiction of Victory is one of Peace, who is presenting the Prince Regent with a palm leaf. Roses, crowns, shamrocks, and thistles are interlinked nearby, representing the national emblems all connected together. Also included were images of George III, then-King who had, at that time, retired from public life due to a mental illness that is now suspected to have been bipolar.

-----

There's something to be said that Henry chose not only to pour his feelings for Alex into something too big to fit inside the palace, but also that it was outside. Henry recalls that he "had better keep it a safe distance away" from himself. All his other feelings and memories were stored inside the palace, closed off and something he lives alongside, his grief and sorrow in rooms he would encounter easily. In contrast his feelings for Alex are placed outside, holding them at arms length so they can't impact him in the way he was so worried they would. They are something he has to consciously choose to revist, they are somewhere he can choose to avoid. There's a beautiful connection between the fact that his feelings about Alex and the Waterloo Vase itself were both too big to fit in any of the rooms at the palace.

The choice of the vase, with its connection to the King who was well known for dealing with mental illness - something comparable with Henry's 'dark days' - as well as George III's connection with the United States, makes it a multi-layered plot device, that on first glance appears to be much more simple than it can be read as. It is possible to draw connections between Henry and George III, tying both into the same link to history as the quotes of queer lovers through the ages Alex & Henry send as postscripts to their emails. While Henry's connection with America is the opposite to George III's - one lost the country whilst the other gained the country, albeit in different ways(!) - that link to the historical connection the UK had, and has, with the USA is notable.

Sources: Royal Collection Trust, Waterloo Vase Queen Elizabeth, Queen Mother image Good Morning Britain Coverage Chapter Eleven, Red White & Royal Blue

[7bitter]

postscript to the name of the rose, umberto eco

[erstwhilesparrow]

from Postscript to the Name of the Rose

[wickedlittlecritta]

The author should die once he has finished writing. So as not to trouble the path of the text.

-Umberto Eco, The Name of the Rose Postscript

[findswoman]

WIP Tag Game

I was tagged in this Tumblr fanfic classic by the fabulous @tarisilmarwen. Thanks so much, as always! 💜

Rules: In a new post, list the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

All righty, here’s what we’ve got, all of it Star Wars of one kind or another, of course:

Purple, Rose, and Gold

TMR postscript Spring Bingo

Heat (new version)

Zeb and cat story

Honor Guard Ball story

Ask away, good people! 😁

And here are five tags of various writers I know: @jadelotusflower @runrundoyourstuff @rendar-writes @berkinix @jedi-valjean @sassygirl579 @kanerallels —but you know, basically, if you see this and consider yourself a fanfic writer, consider yourself tagged, too. 🙂

[thejaymo]

The Name of the Rose constructs a world according to a very carefully considered set of rules. Eco asks us to believe in this world and accept these rules even when they do not always align with what we know. Only by trusting the author and the world do we come to realize it is not in fact constructed, it is real in its own right, forcing us to rethink what we believed we knew about reality. It can only play fair if we do too, and that means agreeing to its rules.

[pastedpast]

Another one of my artistic heroines, Mrs. Mary Delany (1700-1788), features in several of my earlier blog posts, and this is a book about her life that I bought from a second-hand bookshop in Glasgow last year. She made the most wonderful paper collages from tissue paper detailing a wide range of flowers set against a black background and, what's more, she started her artwork at the age of 72! Although, as the book recounts, she had already made a name for herself in eighteenth century privileged society* (she was on close terms with King George III and Queen Charlotte) for her exquisite embroidery, decorative shellwork and landscape sketches.

*On page 92 there is an example of one of those what I call the-size-of-a-small-sofa dresses, known as 'mantuas', that were favoured by the ladies who attended royal court. Mrs. Delany designed and made her own court dress from black silk which she embroidered with over 200 flowers on the overskirt alone. Her dress was not as exaggerated as those worn by the very fashionable ladies, but instead sounds like perfection, decorated with a veritable Eden of blooms: winter jasmine, hawthorn berries, sweet pea, love-in-a-mist, lily-of-the-valley, anemone, tulips, convolvulus, bluebells, roses, and many others.

POSTSCRIPT: I've actually started reading the book, instead of just grabbing notes from the back cover and flicking through to look at the pictures - and it's a real page-turner! She was more or less forced into a marriage of convenience at the age of seventeen to a wealthy man of nearly sixty, whom she described as a "large, unwieldy person, [with a] crimson countenance." After the wedding, she wrote: "when I was led to the altar, I wished from my soul I had been led, as Iphigenia* was, to be sacrificed." Poor Mary would rather have been dead than marry this decrepit oaf. But she was stuck with her gout-ridden and frequently drunk husband for six long, drawn out years, until she woke one morning, drew back the curtains of their four-poster bed and discovered him lying there drained of all life, face black.

At the age of 43 she married again, this time in a union far more agreeable to her, although the 'lowliness' of her husband's background (he was the son of a servant to one of Ireland's top judges) met with strong disapproval from the male members of her family. Despite their misgivings, Mary went ahead with the marriage to Dr. Patrick Delany and spent the following twenty-five years living in marital bliss. Indeed, her husband penned this charming poem about his beloved, in which he compared her to a rose:

O fairest emblem of the fair My pride, my life, my bliss, my care! Where all the lovelinesses meet - Beauty and grace, both bright and sweet! Emblem of Mary, gift divine. Blest be the hour that made her mine!

*In Greek mythology, Iphigenia was the daughter of King Agamemnon and Queen Clytemnestra, and was sacrificed by her father to appease the goddess Artemis before setting out with his men to fight the battle of Troy.

Photograph of the embroidered fabric used in Mary's dress. It was cut into sections and framed by her ancestors.