Yet another thing I find absolutely wonderful about how Jonathan Stroud wrote Lucy Carlyle is how he betrays her with the narrative.
In The Screaming Staircase, at the start of her story, Lucy gives us an idea of how she wants to be perceived; unaffected, unbothered, unburdened by fear or particularly revelatory emotions. She drops horrifically painful realities about her childhood on us as if she were describing a dull gray rock she found on the ground. She tries very, very hard to school her emotions around Lockwood and George. And if she had been written by anyone else, she might have fallen prey to the "strong independent female character" tar pit of a stereotype.
But then along comes Annabel Ward's ghost.
And the narrative looks at Lucy and says "I know how you wish to present yourself, but that's not who you are."
And Lucy is repeatedly shown to be incredibly Sensitive in so many ways. She is under the influence of the ghost of Annie Ward, but the emotions are still partly Lucy's. And most of the time she has the emotional intelligence to differentiate which feelings are hers and which ones are Annie's, and where they overlap. She chokes up with empathy on multiple occasions in the process of uncovering what happened to Annie Ward. She becomes enflamed with the desire for justice for someone who was murdered decades before she was born. She's shown that by her very nature, her emotions are her strength and not her weakness. Because she has a narrative that loves her and isn't lazy about her. She is the narrator and she tells us who she is, but the narrative shows her and us who she really is.
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not to be insane about her on main but you know I never stopped thinking about jessica right. you know I never stopped thinking about jess lockwood
shes like. she's JESS.
shes haunting the narrative. she's haunting lockwood. shes haunting nothing at all, in the literal sense, which is rather strange. shes in Lucy's face and the way she stands at the door. shes got lockwoods eyes, or maybe hes got hers. she's burned into her bedset. she's burned into her house. she's burned into wood. she's a broken pot. she's a clumsy rapier. she's waiting at the apple tree. shes sleeping under her covers. she likes stickers. she's a kid, she's a guardian, she's not going to take off the baby wallpaper in her bedroom. she's clung to youth. she's forced to grow up. she's younger than her baby brother. she's the world. shes important enough to die for. she's important enough to live because of. she's blue and swollen and on the floor and dead. she's pale and smiling and holding her brother in her lap, immortalized, shoved in a dresser drawer because somebody couldnt handle seeing her face.
she's that important. she's that important.
she's a lockwood, she's a mirror, she's lucy joan carlyle and anthony john lockwood and a reminder and a child and doomed, doomed, doomed in such a way that she could save everyone else.
she's the boxes lockwood couldn't open. she's the right time. she's warm feathers and stitches purposefully undone.
in her childishly wallpapered room, she is sitting, watching, cross legged on her bed.
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I tried the rose flavoured turkish delight for the first time about a month ago, and I'll admit, I would do literally anything to eat them again, so Edmund Pevensie, I do match your freak sir, i totally get it.
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The world, especially the modern book market and internet culture, does not deserve Suzanne Collins and her writing.
Amen.
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Happy proposal day to all who celebrate! Yet another fictional romantic conundrum that could have been solved by polyamory.
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