#medieval poetry woes

[magnetothemagnificent]

20th century English-speaking "translators" of non-English medieval poetry:

[id in alt text]

[eleancrvances]

just saw a very good production of romeo and juliet that opens in contemporary times - the characters are wearing modern clothes, listening to rap music, romeo writes bad poetry on his cellphone, the rival families fight west-side-story-style using wooden sticks... and then we reach the masked party. everyone is in period clothes because, well, it's a masked party. only then they just. never take their costumes off. at first you think "well romeo is still wearing his cape and all because he never went home to sleep, it makes sense", but then mercutio and benvolio walk in and they're still in medieval garb, the nurse has her gown from the night before... but who knows. and then tybalt and mercutio pull out not wooden sticks but very real swords, and mercutio's death marks even more clearly than usual the jump from comedy to tragedy. romeo says "this but begins the woe others must end", tybalt is killed... and prince escalus, who had appeared in the opening scene wearing suit and tie, enters with a golden cape and a crown and there's just no denying it anymore. not only did the characters never leave the masked party, they traveled back in time, reverted to age-old mechanisms, a cycle that started so long ago keeps dragging them back instead of forward. and then. romeo and juliet die. and when the fathers walk in to shake hands they're wearing modern clothes again, because maybe they can move on now. neat :,)

[isadomna]

Elisabeth of Austria, The Virtuous Queen

Elisabeth was daughter of the Emperor Maximilian II and of Maria of Austria, and granddaughter, on her mother’s side, of Charles V. Despite her foreign origins and lack of proficiency in the French language, she was considered a perfect match for the French king Charles IX. Clary Darlem reported that while Elisabeth embraced her new homeland and wanted to address the French people in their language, she recognized that it would be better to do so in Spanish and have her speech translated by her lady-in-waiting, Madame d’Aremberg. Elisabeth was described as ‘a very beautiful princess, with the complexion of her face as beautiful and delicate as the other women of her court’. Clary Darlem wrote that she was ‘charming’ and ‘gracious’.  Indeed, he argued that her beauty was ‘outstanding’.  Her beauty, chastity, wisdom, and grace were all praised in pamphlets throughout the realm, but above all she represented hope for peace in France. However, these fine qualities seemed to stand in stark contrast to the less appealing characteristics of her mother-in-law, Catherine de Médici, undermining the latter’s reputation.

Brantôme wrote that Elisabeth was ‘one of the best, gentlest, wisest, and most virtuous queens that have reigned since the reign of all kings and queens that have ever reigned’. He also insisted that she was ‘very devout, but not at all a bigot, showing her devotion by external and apparent acts that were not too much, nor too extreme’. For Darlem, Elisabeth made an ‘ephemeral and hazy’ appearance in French history that contrasted with ‘the perverted court’ of Catherine de Médici. As Du Bern de Boislandry similarly related, the virtuous Elisabeth ‘came to live in the soiled palace of Catherine de Médici and Charles IX’. He explained that, as Elisabeth was ‘raised by virtuous parents’, she ‘must have found herself isolated in the middle of a corrupt court, where infamous plots were orchestrated’. This new queen represented everything that the French court was not: virtuous, benevolent, pious, and pure.

Various accounts of Elisabeth’s life and reign also focused on her lack of interest in politics, once again casting her as the polar opposite of her mother-in-law, whose thirst for power and talent for political games were discussed at length. Du Bern de Boislandry assumed that Elisabeth ‘was not involved in any political affairs; she groaned in secret for all the woes that afflicted the realm, [which was] under the government of a prince whom she endeavoured to please’. Nevertheless, Du Bern de Boislandry insisted that ‘she ruled her house with order that she would have liked to see applied to the state’. Furthermore, he revealed that Elisabeth was far from uninterested in contemporary events, and that she wrote memoirs about the history of her time as well as composing religious poetry. Bertière described two of her works:

‘one on piety, On the Word of God, the other on history, On the significant events that happened in France, during her lifetime. She sent both of them to her sister-in-law Marguerite. Both works have disappeared without trace.'

Although we have no further details about the contents of these books, the mere fact Elisabeth was able to produce them proves that she was more than just a pretty face or a pious queen tasked with the responsibility of ensuring the royal legacy. According to Bertière, she was highly educated and wished to use her writings to promote peace and piety in a court that lacked morality.

Source:

Estelle Paranque, Forgotten Queens in Medieval and Early Modern Europe

[tolrais]

So.

Tonight I was looking for more sources on medieval music (12th century as my period of interest), being as how I am no longer a uni student (and alumni stuff at my uni is crap) I decided to have a quick look on archive.org. Most of what comes up is very outdated (think Belle Epoque outdated), which is not remotely what I'm looking for. I notice that you can order the searches by date.

'Brilliant!' I think to myself. 'I can get sources from this millennia, great!' I notice a book: My songs: Poems of the Trobairitz, by Claudia Keenan (2014). (Note here - trobairitz is a female troubadour, generally refers to those active in the 12th and 13th century)

'Oh nice!' I say to myself, not knowing what ungodly hell I am about to unleash on my eyes. 'I read Meg Bogin's translations but that collection was published in 1980, maybe a more up to date version will have more information surrounding the context than I already know, plus more nuance!'

Ahahahaha

My first inkling that something wasn't entirely right with these 'translations' was when, in her preface, Keenan refers to the trobairitz as teens. First off, we know almost nothing of the women who wrote these poems and songs, to the point that some French dude historian in like the 1890s claimed that the trobairitz were a literary experiment by male troubadours, but I digress.

Secondly, a large number of these women reference their husbands - a fact which is brought up in the next paragraph! Just...no. Why is she referring to them as teens.

The next red flag was when she explains in her preface that she omits the names of those referenced in the songs, and updates the references to something more relevant to modern audiences - so the baronys/duchys referenced in one of Azalais de Portcairague's poems become...CEOs

(We're still on the preface/introduction here, btw)

Then she mentions that she's looked at other translations, including Bogin's, and that indeed Bogin had given her blessing to 'make poetry' or something (I can't fully remember, rage kicked in shortly after) . But I figure hey, let's give this a shot, it's free and could be interesting.

Interesting is one word for it. It's just so bad. Her attempts to update it are just an AWFUL attempts at 'how do you do fellow kidsing' the reader. Lady and Dame become Girlfriend and Girl and in one case, trick. What?????? Friend becomes bro, and amigo and Frère. Alongside the CEOs, this translation of Occitan 12th century love poetry references news anchors, the White House and the freaking UN.

In the same poem.

Translation is hard, I get that. A good translation has to bridge the gap between cultural translation and differences without losing the shades of meaning of the original text, (see: terms of address in Mandarin, for example). This is especially the case with the poetry of the trobairitz, where double entendre is rife. A good translation should also make sense.

This translation does none of the above. In a good few of her 'translations' the stanzas barely make sense:

Like what the fuck is this supposed to mean???

The most egregious verse that I saw (before my laptop died, saving me from going any further was this:

I don't have any words for how bizarre this translation is. (Bear in mind that the 'translator' if I can call her that, is a 62 year old white lady professor at the university of Nevada), and that the poetry and songs that she's translating are songs of the noble women of the courts of the south of France.

The thing that always got me about the poetry of the trobairitz is that the themes used transcend the centuries - the same refrains used by Beatriz de Dia can arguably be found in songs by artists like Taylor Swift and Adele.

'I love you, I acted the way you claim you love women to be, and yet you don't pay me any attention...friend, I don't know if it's arrogance or bad intentions that makes you act this way'.

If she stripped all context from her translations it wouldn't be so bad, but she still uses footnotes to explain somethings, and in other places uses more archaic turns of phrase still...and at one point translates occitan into modern French? Ok?

Pretty sure this is also the same poem as the verse that starts Trick.

So yeah, I spent a good hour sharing screenshots with other people in my living history group. But I just dont get WHY you would translate like this??? It's just bizarre

[twilightprince101]

Packmates

So I've been needing to do some Flash Fiction stuff for my writing class recently and I've had this original idea in my head for a long while at this point. It was HEAVILY inspired by Lera Lynn's "Wolf Like Me" (thanks again Delta for showing me this album) and it's one of the few things I feel REAL proud putting out! So woe! Gay and depressed werewolves be upon ye!

“The Blood Moon draws near.”

“I’m ready.”

“You have said so often this night.”

“I’m aware.”

“Why do you repeat those words so?”

“Is ‘because you asked’ not the right choice?”

“There is a lack of conviction in your voice.”

“I’m tired, you know that by now.”

“But what is it you refer to?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Is it the exhaustion that comes from a great hunt, one that seeps through your limbs and gives you aches that spare your quarter?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Or is it the dreariness of fog that clouds your mind, seeps your vitality drop by drop until naught an ounce of bloodlust remains?”

“That too, I suppose.”

“...Your conviction wavers.”

“Can it not be both?”

“Exhaustion, though inconvenient, is a natural calling deep within oneself. It is a hunter’s blessing in disguise, as one cannot pursue their prey if not at full strength.  Dreariness is the fatigue of the soul, an infestation of hopelessness. Neither are permanent, though the latter plagues those inflicted with insidious thoughts.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“...no, I did not.”

“...”

“...Do you wish to rest before the hour comes?”

“Wouldn’t that be pointless? Considering ‘the gift’ and all that I’m going to get?”

“Perhaps, but have you not gone to great lengths to let me join in pointless activities with you over these long years?”

“.....well, can’t argue with that I guess.”

“Take reprieve in my fur, the wind bares its frost-bitten teeth this deep in the woods.”

“Oh yeah, I guess this’ll be the last chance we really get to do it like this huh?”

“Should you join us there shall be many chances. But yes, if you wish, this will be the last.”

“Yeah, thanks Katey.”

“...”

“...”

“...”

“...Do you remember what it’s like?”

“Hm?”

“Without fur, I mean. Do you remember what it feels like?”

“What thought led to this question?”

“I dunno, just…”

“...Echoes of memories come and pass, sensations of touch that are not there.”

“Do you miss it at all?”

“My memories have not faded, Jakie. Though they ebb and flow from my mind, they remain. I still remember it all.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that many times.”

“...I do remember that time long ago, when I did not bear this fur or wear these claws. I remember the cold that stung our skin, the scrapes and cuts that adorned our hairless hands.”

“Do you only remember the bad things? Or have those ebbed from your mind as well?”

“I recall them as well, Jackie. The feeling of grass pricking against our bare feet as we ran through these woods as one. The currents brushing against us as we fought the tides of the sea. I especially remember that day you had fallen into a gardener’s crop and had me accompany you in that mess you created.”

“Pfft, really now? That’s one of the things you still remember?”

“Though my mind has changed, my memories have not.”

“.....and?”

“While a part of me does reminisce of those days back home, this change of mine has given me new blessings. My claws assure me in the face of danger, my fur assures me in the face of nature. In my life, this is one of the few times I feel secure in myself.”

“Do you… feel better though? Happier? Will I feel...?”

“.........I cannot say.”

“...”

“...” “...”

“......my apologies. I have… ruined the mood, as I believe you phrase it.”

“No, no it’s okay… actually, now that I think about it, when did you first start getting so poetic?”

“Pardon me?”

“This whole... thing where you talk really fancy and in metaphors. I recognized you starting a while ago, but did you have to read through a dictionary? Or does transforming include suddenly becoming shakespearean?”

“I don’t believe that’s the right term, but yes, to my knowledge this happened gradually since I was given this gift.”

“So then, do you think when I transform tonight the same thing will happen to me? Like you bite me then I have all of medieval theater beamed into my head? Will I be The Shakespeare of Wolves?”

“It is likely, though I will not deny, it would be a shock. I have grown quite fond of the way you speak, compared to my packmates. It is akin to, say, witnessing a fish leap from a flowing stream.”

“You did that one on purpose, didn’t you?!”

“Perhaps I did, perhaps not~"

“Oooh you better watch out, when I join the pack I’m going to destroy you in the weekly poetry slams!”

“Heh, we do not have ‘slams of poetry’ where I will go. Most of our focus is turned to the hunt, though perhaps you could make a fine diplomat between packs.”

“Well, maybe I could bring poetry slams to the pack. We both could! You didn’t go to many but you still know what they’re like, what’s stopping us?”

“That would be… the moon. I do not believe recreation would become much of a priority to you once you shift tonight. Especially for you, considering the ritual.”

“Oh. Yeah, right.”

“...”

“.......”

“...........”

“...you can still leave Jakie.”

“You know I can’t.”

“And why is that?”

“You know why.”

“What of August, who had assisted us in Maplecrest? Or your bloodmate, here in Bloomfield?”

“It’s not me needing somewhere to go Kate. I know that they’d both welcome me back.”

“Then why do you persi-”

“I thought you said your memories were all still there.”

“...I have not forgotten our promise, Jakie.”

“Then you have your answer. I didn’t leave you back then, I’m not leaving you here.”

“...Jakie.”

“Don’t.”

“I am grateful for your assistance all these years, for your companionship. You have offered me comfort, companionship and assistance without question.”

“I said stop, Katie.”

“I shall always be grateful, however you must ask yourself whether or not you should continue to uphold these vows. If the Katie you loved--”

“What’s your problem?! I thought the whole thing with you is that you want to bite people, change people!”

“We do not offer this gift to all those we encounter. Only those who we find--”

“‘A spark of devotion,’ yeah I get it you’ve said that thousands of times already! So then why is it only with me you try to talk someone out of it?!”

“Beca-”

“And don’t say lack of conviction. I said I’ve wanted this for months now, that’s the whole reason we’re here!”

“...............”

“Well?!”

“I… ponder if you would believe me.”

“Spit it out.”

“...because I have always seen you as my packmate.”

“..............”

“...since my mind has changed, I have gained new desires. Whatever old ties I had have long been cut. Yet despite my change you’ve been by my side. My fur warms my body--you have warmed my soul, and that sensation shall never fade.”

“...you didn’t answer me.”

“......Should you accept my gift tonight you shall change eternally. Your conviction here lies with me, but should you accept our gift your soul will be tied to the hunt. I do not wish for you to change with your mind lingering on regrets of what could have been. I respect you as a packmate, Jakie. I wish for your choice to be true.”

“Don’t you get it? What I want is to be with you! You’re my friend, I’ve helped you all this time, I love you!”

“But through these years, have you been happy?”

“..........”

“You say this is your duty, it may be what you desire. But protecting me, has it made you happy? Can you look upon the fields of missed opportunities that have passed without a hint of longing?”

“............”

“I have never needed protection, you know as well as I. These past years of devotion, it has helped you survive. But what I yearn for is for you to live. Abandoning your own self… Do you believe you will be happy then?”

“...........”

“...........”

“.......god damn it. You never made things easy, did you?”

“I am who I am now, Jakie. I cannot give you more than that.”

“........I don’t want to leave you. I don’t even know if I can. I’ve spent so long helping you I don’t know if I… know anything else. What would I even do?”

“I… do not know. But I have seen your conviction these past years--you have several paths ahead of you. Whatever you may choose, I have faith in you. You shall always be my packmate.”

“.......yeah. Yeah…. Yeah.”

“..........”

“...............”

“...the Blood Moon has nearly reached its peak.”

“.......could we just sit together, just for a bit longer?”

“Of course.”

“....thank you.”

“.........”

“.........”

“.........”

“.........I love you, Katie.”

“I love you too, Jakie.”

[oh-no-my-hand-slipped]

Hi, Delilah here~ I've read all your snzfics, and you know how mych I adore your style and creativity 💓 So, when you feel like it, I'd like to request something where a Tiny(tm) character catches a cold (for bad weather would be nice) but does everything they can to hide it from the Big(tm) character, until they just can't anymore. You can make it sexy, you can make it sweet & care-takey... it's up to you~ 🔥

Sorry this took so long! I started writing a story, realized it wasn’t great, and had to delete it all...oh the woes of a writer...

But I have a better idea about what I’m gonna write! It just took some time to work out the kinks is all - no pun intended.

I’m thinking...medieval, specifically of the D&D-esque variety. I was going to do the intelligent small and gentle big, but that’s already been done so many times before...I wanted to mix it up a little!

Perhaps...a big healer...with a small something or other...?

Oooh, now we’re getting somewhere! I think I have a plot!

Here is your fic:

“Are we going to haveta draw straws, or will one of ya have the guts ta keep watch tonight?”

Harkand took out his dagger and started to sharpen it against the cave wall. The screeching of metal on rock almost drowned out the thunder that shook the ground beneath them. Raymond put down his book of herbs, rubbing his enormous hands on his knees.

“Perhaps guard duty isn’t necessary,” he said quietly. “I don’t know a single creature in their right might that would be out on a night such as this.”

Harkand sneered. “Ya don’ know a single bloody thing about them, do ya? Maybe if ya took your nose out of that book ‘a plants and passed a glance o’er yonder, you’d know that a little sprinkle wouldn’t stop ‘em from doin’ us in!”

Fractlin furrowed his dark eyebrows and sighed, pulling his dark cloak nearer to himself.

“I will keep watch,” he spat, his fangs gleaming. “But only to shut you up. I cannot stand your hypocritical prattling.”

“You’ve taken a lot these last few battles...” Raymond began, but was quieted by Harkand’s fierce stare.

Fractlin stood, still grinding his teeth as he parted the make-shift curtain and stalked into the night, his cloak flowing in the frigid gale. Ingrid, who has been sitting silently in a corner, spoke in hushed tones.

“I see golden light,” he murmured. “An excited soul. And yet...such tiredness...a honey-like glow that surrounds them...”

“Shaddup!” Harkand snapped. “Yer predictions never make any damn sense! Save it fer yer poetry!”

——————————

The mountains were covered in a thick layer of fog, but the sun was still shining brightly as the party emerged from the cave. Raymond stretched, his hands almost touching a nearby tree branch.

“Ah, what a morning!” he said brightly. “To think, such a beautiful scene can be made from a torrent of woe and despair. Speaking of which, where did Fractlin get off to...?”

“He’d better hurry. There’s a market today, ‘n we need as much supplies as we can get our hands on,” Harkand said, throwing his pack over his shoulder.

“There’s only so many places he could be...”

“Heh...eh...HSH’CHNX!...guh...”

Raymond’s ears stood straight up. He knew a sick sneeze when he heard one.

“Fractlin!” he called, pushing aside some foliage. “Are you...oh dear...”

Fractlin, who was usually alert and wary, was curled up in an almost dead tree, hugging his knees into his face and shivering. Raymond ran to the side of the tree, reaching his hand up to touch the shadowling’s shoulder.

“Luv, are you alright? I heard a horrid sneeze coming from here...”

Fractlin looked up. Though his face was as pale as bone, his nose and eyelids had taken on an irritated pink color.

“I was wondering whed you were going to wake up,” he said, sniffling. “I’ve been waiding here for close to an hour.”

Fractlin leaped off of the branch, landing nimbly in a crouching position. However, it was some time before he straightened up completely - and even then he had to take a few unsteady steps backward.

“Oh, wistling,” Raymond cooed, bending down to Fractlin’s level, “it seems you’ve caught something nasty while you were out in this storm. All that battle and chill must have finally exhausted you.”

“Shadowlings don’t get ill,” Fractlin snarled. “I just habben to be allergic to idiots, and there is quite an infestation in this forest.”

“Mm. Irritability is a sure sign that one isn’t feeling well. If you’d like, I could carry you to the next town. Your legs seem rather weak...”

“Only children and the elderly are to be carried. I am dothing of the sord...”

Fractlin interrupted himself with several ghastly coughs, almost doubling over before quickly recovering. He walked past a very concerned Raymond, pushing aside the foliage and joining the rest of the party.

“Have ya finished with your nap?” Harkand joked, still looking down at the map he had brought. When he finally met Fractlin’s eyes after an odd silence, he grunted.

“Ya don’ look too well. Has Raymond checked ya over?”

Fractlin sniffled. “A clean bill of health, if you must know. Like you give a feather’s follicle.”

“Aye, I know I snapped atcha last night. I wasn’t all there. I get cranky when we lose a battle...one ‘a the few bad things I got from my Pa. Probably the reason ya got these sniffles.”

Fractlin stared at Harkand, not replying.

“Lad, I’m tryin’ ta say I’m sorry.”

“You cannot apologize for whad doesn’t exist,” Fractlin finally said, rubbing his raw, red eyes. “However, I shall take your words. I have liddle choice, do I?”

Harkand started to say something, then shook his head, looking back at the map and grumbling under his breath. Raymond had come out of the foliage, and the dwarf didn’t want to say anything cross while he was around.

——————————

“Hngh...HCHX’ UH!”

Fractlin has struggled mightily not to sneeze for the fifth time in as many minutes - however, his stifling was in vain. He simply didn’t have enough energy to hold it back. However, despite his exhaustion, he kept walking alongside his peers, sometimes even overtaking them. He wanted to prove that he only had a bit of a chill, and nothing more.

However, despite having a chill, he felt rather hot. Fractlin considered shedding his cloak a few times, but he held fast. Even the simplest of actions could raise questions in his concerned friends.

“You know,” Raymond began, “there’s a small hot spring on the way to the market. Perhaps we could all benefit from the steam and heat. Its minerals are even said to cure mild illnesses...although that could very well be a myth...”

Fractlin growled. “I know exactly whad you’re gedding at, and it isn’t true. How bany times bust I say so?”

Raymond thought for a moment, then smiled.

“Oh, I meant nothing of the kind! I believe you! Truly! We are teammates, and I know that you would only tell me the utmost truth. I’m sure, no, positive, that you would never lie to me. But, by some heavenly miracle, if you were to feel out of sorts, you know you could always tell me, right?”

Raymond stopped walking and put a hand on Fractlin’s shoulder. Fractlin flinched, but stopped walking at well. Raymond put his large hands under the shadowling’s chin, lifting his face up towards his. Fractlin wanted to pull away, but the giant’s hands were so cool against his feverish neck that he couldn’t help but lean towards the touch.

“I would never,” Raymond said, looking deeply into Fractlin’s eyes, “take advantage of you at your weakest. That may be how shadowlings treat their friends, but giants and dwarves and fairies hold their friends dearly. And as such, you will be treated as a friend, not as a foe. That means if you don’t feel your best, we will take care of you. We will heal your wounds, your sickness, your sadness. Because when we find someone who is wonderful enough to fight alongside, we will do everything in our power to bring them happiness and peace, even if it means sacrificing ourselves. That’s what I promise you, as a healer and a friend.”

Raymond withdrew his hands, and Fractlin, still transfixed by both the speech and his raging fever, fell into the giant, tears forming in his eyes. Raymond, without a word, lifted Fractlin up and cradled him in his arms, holding the shadowling’s head close to his chest. Harkand gawked.

“How didja...?”

Raymond smiled and pointed to his eyes. “A giant’s gaze holds more emotion than human ones. It’s an evolutionary tactic so that we can see pain and suffering from farther away, due to us being so large. This can have an almost siren-like effect on most other creatures. I don’t use it often, but I felt this was a good time. Now, where did you say that inn was again...?”

——————————

Fractlin groaned and fluttered his eyes. He had fallen asleep, he was sure of it - but where was he now? He felt around with his hands. All he felt was warmth and comfort. Finally, after his eyes got used to the brightness peeking in through his half-squinting eyelids, he opened them completely.

He was in a large bed, with white cream sheets and caramel-colored pillows. Just beyond his reach, Raymond was knitting something with deep green yarn, moving back and forth in a rocking chair. A beautiful, crackling fire was blazing just behind him.

“Ah! The plagued one awakens,” Raymond whispered, smiling. “How are you, whistling?”

“I’m not...” Fractlin began, then coughed. He tried to start the sentence again, but he kept interrupting himself with a sickened hack that took all of his breath away. Raymond clucked his tongue and moved over to the fire. Something was boiling above it in a copper cauldron, giving off a sweet steam that even the congested Fractlin could smell.

“When will you let yourself be ill? There are few lies you could tell to convince me that you haven’t caught a cold in the nose. If you think of one that may fool me, at least drink a bit of this first so that your throat isn’t as sore.”

Raymond returned with a warm bowl of what looked like honey, but swirled around like some mage’s potion. The giant blew on it for a few minutes, letting the smoke subside a bit before bringing it to Fractlin’s lips.

“Here. This will help you feel a bit better.”

“B-but...I...heh...ngeh...”

Fractlin began to hitch, his nose twitching with effort. Raymond quickly put the bowl of soup safely on the dresser and pulled a pink handkerchief out of his pocket. He put it to Fractlin’s nose.

“Don’t hold it back this time,” Raymond said. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I...snrk...geh...HEH...GHEH...!”

Fractlin leaned back, his chest quivering in anticipation. He squeezed his eyes shut before finally shooting forward - straight into Raymond’s handkerchief.

“GEHX’CHX! Gheh...HAH’CHNX’EU!”

Raymond shook his head. “You’ll only sneeze more if you keep it back.”

Fractlin’s blinked through watery eyes, gearing up for another sneezing fit.

“Geh...nngh...”

“Let it all out. Think about trying to blow all the seeds off a dandelion. Big breath in...”

Fractlin took a shaky breath. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and fluttered.

“Geh...heh...HEH...!”

“And...out...”

“HNGH’CHEU! HEH...EH’CHEU! EH’CHEUF!”

Fractlin let our sneeze after sneeze, pulling Raymond’s handkerchief closer and closer to his nose. Snot dripped down onto the bedsheets as the fit continued - it showed no sign of stopping. Raymond rubbed Fractlin’s back, guiding him towards his hand when particularly powerful sneezes knocked him out of range from the handkerchief.

“There we are...” he soothed. “All of the bad energy comes out...good air goes in...”

Finally, Fractlin finished, his nose a deep, shiny maroon and bobbing with panting breaths. Raymond chuckled and fished another handkerchief out of his pocket.

“I believe you’ll be needing another one of these.”

Fractlin grabbed the handkerchief and began to blow, his nostrils sounding as if they were underwater.

“Snrk...bany tanks...”

“My pleasure.”

Raymond picked up the bowl of soup again and held it towards Fractlin.

“Perhaps something nice and warm to fill the empty space?”

“Embty! Huh! I am still quide full, tank you!”

A silence.

“Yes, blease.”

@delirious-delilah , I’m sorry this took so long! I hope you like it!

[betterbooksandthings]

The Medieval Fairy’s Reappearance in YA Novels

Is no one going to point out the striking similarities between fairy lovers in Medieval poetry, specifically the Briton Lai, and Young Adult (YA) Literature? Tales like Marie de France’s Lanval written in the 1100’s and Chaucer’s The Wife of Bath’s Tale, written in the 1300’s, display the role of the fairy lover in tutelage and aventure. In Medieval society, unnatural, untamed spaces of the forest were threatening, and like any good generation of people, they longed for guidance and they found it in the open arms of a fairy woman. Fairy lovers provide young men knowledge of the world in the woods and outside the court, so when they are offered a moment of choice in society, of aventure, they can acquiesce their control and step into an unknown situation. The combination proved compelling for knights in the past and YA heroines in the present. 

In Marie de France’s Lanval, the titular character is a foreign knight, whom King Author’s court has forgotten. Somehow, he stumbles across the answer to his financial woes when he is led to his fairy lover who offers him power, money,  and love in exchange for his silence. Finally, Lanval can compensate his squires and accompanying party. Financial security attracts the romantic attention of the married Queen Guinevere. Unfortunately, Guinevere, being an all-around petty asshole, decides to put Lanval on trial for sexual harassment when Lanval denies her advances and gives an, “I have a girlfriend but she lives in Canada” excuse. On the path of aventure, Lanval submits to fate and tests the limits of his bond, revealing his secret all-powerful fairy lover to the court to save his life. Instead of disappearing forever, she rides in on a white horse, picks up her boy, and rides on home to Avalon never to be heard from again. Lanval’s relationship elevates his ability to work around the trappings of court life, so when he relinquishes his freedom in a moment of aventure he achieves further success.[1]

Centuries after Lanval rode off to Avalon, we confront a more sordid and altogether questionable tale of aventure in a Briton Lai in Geffrey Chaucer’s The Wife of Bath’s Tale. The Canterbury Tales follows a group of pilgrims making their way from London to Canterbury (and, if the work were ever finished, back again), telling tales to pass the time. When we get to the Wife of Bath, an exuberant businesswoman with many ex-husbands, she tells the story of the rapist knight in the form of the Briton Lai, a archaic genre by the 1300’s, defined by aventure.[2] As a preface, this is a tale penned by a man who has a rape accusation on his record. Scholars have long questioned whether or not this tale is supposed to be an apology of sorts or a tale to bring comfort to other reformed rapists. With all this in mind do we receive a romantic chivalrous tale filled with aventure? If we go by the medieval conception of the genre, yes. 

It all began when a knight rapes a madden, as knights typically do in Medieval literature, and is put on trial by the Arthurian court. Like any good tale, the queen told the knight he had to answer the question, “What do women desire most?” or be put to death for his crime. The knight, panicking at the thought of pinning-down female desire, marries an old woman in the woods in exchange for her advice. The rapist knight parrots her answer to the court, explaining, “Generally women like to have sovereignty in their lives.” Queen Guinevere grants him clemency in light of his arrangement with the old woman in the woods. I would like to take this time to say Guinevere really shows up in this Lai, and if there were any continuity in Arthurian Legend I would slow clap for a show of personal growth. Anyways, the rapist knight experiences a moment of aventure when his old wife gives him the option of being old during the day and faithful to him at night or young during the day and sleeping around. Thankfully, the man has learned something at this point and lets her know she can do what she wants. Because he learned to give women agency, he was granted a young dutiful wife. [2]

Like their medieval predecessors, virtually all YA heroines are female and their male fairy lovers now fulfill the role of otherworldly tutor. A Medieval understanding of the fairy’s role in character development is noteworthy in the YA landscape as it leads children from the known realm, equips them to understand and work within their new surroundings, and ultimately tests their ability to navigate the world alone in moments of aventure. Recent authors like Holly Black, Cassandra Clare, Margret Rogerson, Melissa Albert, Amanda Hocking, Erica O’Rourke, Julie Kagawa, Dawn Metcalf, and Ryan Graudin have used male fairy lovers, boyfriends, or partners are used as a cipher to unlock a character’s ability to move independently through the human world and the world that lies beyond with agency. 

Maas’s A Court of Thorns and Roses, Published in 2015 introduces readers to the trials of Feyre, a teenager who hunts in the nearby forest to feed her newly destitute family. With two largely useless sisters, an abusive, lazy father, and a dead mother, she is left to protect and feed her family. That is to say, her human life is immensely sad, so much so that her eventual decline in luck appears to be par the course. Feyre kills a fairy in wolf form and is forced to live with a fairy lord over the wall. She meets Tamlin, a beastly lord who now owns her slave contract, and a fairy man who she eventually falls in love with for a short period of time.  It is not too surprising that the fairy man who you fall in love with as you overcome years of malnutrition and abuse does not make the best long term partner. Tamlin nevertheless introduces her to the world of fairies as he coddles or ignores Feyre in equal measure. More importantly, she learns the way fairies operate outside the human world and the ways she can maneuver through the world herself. Feyre cannot take hold of her own destiny until she is in possession of her own life. So, when she is released from his service, she is given the opportunity to return to her old life with plenty of money. Meanwhile, Tamlin is taken hostage by the court. [3]

I would like to interrupt to note that changes in gender roles could be due to the overwhelming number of YA books written about and for young women. Perhaps the appearance of women in the professional world requires fantasy literature where women learn how to work outside of previously defined systems. However, it can also be argued that a genre that offers praise to female authors and readers have felt welcomed publishing coming of age novels about women in YA instead of Adult Fantasy, resulting in a wealth of male fairy lovers leading young heroines through to a moment of aventure.

Back to Feyre following in rescue, as she takes up the mantle of aventure in the long-storied tradition of knights in Briton Lais. In this moment she is free from any contract or obligation other than an internal, moral compass. Her moment of aventure is defined by her complete retention of agency over the choice as Feyre steps into the unknown, trusting that she has learned enough to succeed. While this conviction is challenged as she earns back her male fairy lover’s freedom, this initial trust in aventure allows her to obtain a favorable outcome when she finally succeeds. [3]

Marie de France’s Lanval and Chaucer The Wife of Bath’s Tale inform modern heroines like Feyre, as the European imagination continues to develop stories where fairy lovers help characters navigate options of moving through spaces that were previously closed to them. In aventure, when characters follow young women to a mysterious camp in the woods, accept an old woman’s proposal for sex in return for legal protection, or rescue a lover from certain death, they make a choice to go into the unknown and accept the fate that has been put in front of them. As YA authors continue to publish fairy literature that centers female heroines, it will be interesting to watch the development of male fairy lovers alongside them.

[1] Busby, Keith, and Glyn S. Burgess. “Lanval.” The Lais of Marie De France, by Marie de France, second edition ed., Penguin Books Ltd, 2003, pp. 137–155.

[2] Chaucer, Geoffrey. “The Wife of Bath's Prologue, The Wife of Bath's Tale.” The Canterbury Tales, by Geoffrey Chaucer and Jill Mann, Penguin, 2005, pp. 211–255.

[3] Maas, Sarah J. A Court of Thorns and Roses. Bloomsbury, 2015.

[jesmusicblog]

A s  T h e  M o r n i n g  S t a r

Clips from today's concert!  My piece is made of a collage of Bible texts and poetry, with the outline of the story of David and Jonathan in the middle of it all, surrounded by words by female poets that speak of parallel friendships and love between women.  The last section combines Katherine Lee Bates poem "Madonna", where the speaker struggles to see God's love and care in amongst suffering but at last recognises holiness shining through her partner's face as she cares, and the words of Julian of Norwich that "as God is our Father so God is our Mother".  The argument is that can perceive God's love through our human relationships — while we're at it we can understand His more fully by expanding our metaphors and language from words like "Him" — and crucially loving others is of God, and God both inspires and fulfils/exceeds our longings.

the music is medieval inspired in some very specific ways, but also maybe quite obviously more generally :)

Lyrics for the whole piece below:

[1. AS LILIES]

As the morning star in the midst of a cloud,  and as the moon at the full, Shining in the temple, as shines the sun. As the rainbow that is bright in the far fair clouds, As the flower of the rose in the springtime of the year, as lilies by the water-brooks, as frankincense sweet-smelling in the days of summer,

As the perfume of jonquils, you come forth in the morning.  Like white water are you who fill the cup of my mouth,  Like a brook of water thronged with lilies. You are far and sweet as the high clouds.  How have you come to dwell with me?  How has the rainbow fallen upon my heart?  My throat sings the joy of my eyes:

My well-beloved is as a bundle of myrrh: my well-beloved shall lie between my breasts. My love, behold! thou art fair: thine eyes are like the doves. My love, behold! thou art fair,   Very kind hast thou been to me.

======

[2. AS HIS OWN SOUL]

When love has knit together two souls as one, they are two boundaries of the same destiny;  they are two wings of the same spirit.  What love commences can be finished by God alone.

And Jonathan said, “David, my brother, This morning there was a man, And it was Jonathan, who many years Had gone snared in a purpose not his own, Always I knew, Walking by my side, Another self, the true self, in a shadow Then change and completion fell upon me,  Not from myself, nor of my own devising, But marvellously spoken in a space of golden light  that glowed about the form of a boy standing in my father’s tent.

Quite suddenly the thing I lacked was there, The shadow whispering at my side had gone And stood there bodied in you, O dear young shepherd from your sheepfolds called!  Myself it was there standing, Or barren branches of myself in flower. My jailored thought flooded with light of song, And in that moment nothing was between Your soul and mine. I must in your love prosper or not at all.”

I did not live until this time    Crowned my felicity, When I could say without a crime,    I am not thine, but thee. 

======

[3. HOW ARE THE MIGHTY FALLEN]

How are the mighty fallen

in the midst of the battle,

O Jonathan, Jonathan,

Thou wast slain in the high places.

O Jonathan, my brother, woe is me for thee,

Very kind hast thou been to me.

Thy love to me was wonderful.

If you could come once more From your high place, I would not question you for heavenly lore, But, silent, take the comfort of your face. 

======

[4. MOTHER]

Which of you, if your son asks for bread, would give him a stone?  

Do you remember, at the feet divine of Mary and her Child, That mother bringing her own poor baby-boy? Sign of healing there was none; only the whine of that child, only the clinging of gaunt hands, The haloed image tranquil. Then I looked to you, Your pitying face holy with motherhood.

As God is our Father, so God is our Mother, He saith: I am! the Might and Goodness of the Fatherhood; I am! the Wisdom of the Motherhood; I am! the Light and Grace that is all-blessed Love: I am the sovereign Goodness of all things. I am that which maketh thee to love: That which maketh thee to long: I am the endless fulfilling of all true desires.

Sources:

Ecclesiasticus 50, Amy Lowell (In excelsis), The Song of Songs, 

Victor Hugo (Les Misérables: A heart beneath a stone), John Drinkwater (David and Jonathan), Katherine Phillips (To My Excellent Lucasia On Our Friendship),

2 Samuel 1, Katharine Lee Bates (If You Could Come),

Matthew 7, Katherine Lee Bates (Madonna), Julian of Norwich (Revelations of Divine Love chapter 59)

[aaknopf]

In swift, lively chapters on nineteen plays—from The Taming of the Shrew to The Tempest—Emma Smith's This Is Shakespeare explores what she calls the "gappiness" of the towering playwright’s work. However rich the poetry, the Bard was scanty on dramaturgy and stage directions, leaving us to make sense of these suggestive and suggestible texts in ways that reflect our diversity of thought in a distinctly post-Shakespearian world. "I don’t think Shakespeare writes his plays to convey messages—quite the opposite," she tells us in her chapter on Richard II, reminding us of the old Hollywood saying, "If you want to send a message, use Western Union." As she considers Richard (known as "the poet-king," for his dazzling tragic speeches) and his nemesis, Bolingbroke (whose role is "a master-class in what is unspoken"), she shows us how nonpartisan Shakespeare can be, and what rhyme has to do with it.

From Chapter 4: Richard II

For some analyses of the play, its governing principle has been understood as one of opposition, built on a perceived contrast between the two protagonists. Thus Richard versus Bolingbroke, poetry versus realism, metaphor versus plain-speaking, the feudal king versus the pragmatic politician, divine right versus realpolitik, chivalric jousts versus political murder, the medieval world of absolute monarchy versus the modern world of expediency. All these oppositions make regime change in the play come to stand for a historical watershed. Productions of the play such as Michael Bogdanov’s English Shakespeare Company (1986), which clothed Richard in gaudy, foppish, Regency clothes and Bolingbroke in sober Victorian black, or Rupert Goold’s 2012 depiction of a shimmering, gold-robed Richard facing the chainmail of his opponent, emphasize that there are two worldviews at stake here, not just a reshuffle of descendants of Edward III (Richard was the son of Edward’s eldest son; Bolingbroke the son of his fourth son). On the other hand, we could say that the two are in fact similar rather than distinct. A famous Royal Shakespeare Company production in 1974 directed by John Barton preceded each performance with a dumbshow in which an actor playing Shakespeare crowned, at random, either Richard Pasco or Ian Richardson, marking him as Richard and the other as Bolingbroke for that evening.[…] And Bolingbroke’s behaviour as king emphasizes that perhaps he is a chip off the old Black Prince block, rather than a radical alternative. The clue is in the way he speaks. As in Romeo and Juliet and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, written around the same time in Shakespeare’s career, Richard II makes extensive use of end rhyme (our usual term for Shakespeare’s verse, ‘blank’, means that it is unrhymed, but like lots of these classroom generalizations, it’s not always true). In the early scenes of this play, rhyme is particularly associated with Richard’s own quixotic authority, and with the formalized denunciations of his lords: MOWBRAY: Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try.     In that I live, and for that will I die. RICHARD: Cousin, throw down your gage. Do you begin. BOLINGBROKE: O God defend my soul from such deep sin!     (1.1.184–7) The theme of the scene here is divisive conflict and unspoken tension, but that’s lacquered over with the formal quality of rhyme, which urges towards harmony and connection. If you find it difficult to work out what’s actually happening as Richard II begins, your fog is absolutely spot-on: this is a scene about obscuring rather than communicating meaning. Basically, what can’t be said here, for obvious reasons, is that the king himself may be implicated in the death of the Duke of Gloucester. (It’s one of the ways this history play is preoccupied with what can’t be truly known about the past.) So rhyme functions in this scene to try to keep the lid on its potentially explosive energies: it’s the linguistic embodiment of Richard’s regal authority. Relatedly, Bolingbroke tends to prefer unrhymed speech as he makes his way to the throne. But we can see that along with the crown, he also takes up rhyming, with a prominent tendency towards couplets in his final scene. Here it is possible to hear the hint of insincerity that rhyme can sometimes convey to modern ears, a sense that authentic response is subordinated to mere linguistic echo. Somehow the fact that Bolingbroke’s expression of sorrow at the murder of Richard is in rhyme makes the sentiment seem sinister and phoney: Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come mourn with me for what I do lament, And put on sullen black incontinent. I’ll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.     (5.6.45–50) That the play’s new king sounds rather like the old one replaces Shakespeare’s even-handedness with something rather bleaker: the impossibility of real political change.

More on this book and author:

Learn more about This is Shakespeare by Emma Smith.

Learn more about Emma Smith.

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[weirdletter]

The Penguin Book of Hell , edited by Scott G. Bruce, Penguin Classics,  2018. Cover painting: Hell Mouth from the Hours of Catherine of Cleves. Info: penguinrandomhouse.com.

Three thousand years of visions of Hell, from the ancient Near East to modern America. From the Hebrew Bible’s shadowy realm of Sheol to twenty-first-century visions of Hell on earth, The Penguin Book of Hell takes us through three thousand years of eternal damnation. Along the way, you’ll take a ferry ride with Aeneas to Hades, across the river Acheron; meet the Devil as imagined by a twelfth-century Irish monk–a monster with a thousand giant hands; wander the nine circles of Hell in Dante’s Inferno, in which gluttons, liars, heretics, murderers, and hypocrites are made to endure crime-appropriate torture; and witness the debates that raged in Victorian England when new scientific advances cast doubt on the idea of an eternal hereafter. Drawing upon religious poetry, epics, theological treatises, stories of miracles, and accounts of saints’ lives, this fascinating volume of hellscapes illuminates how Hell has long haunted us, in both life and death.

Contents: Introduction by Scott G. Bruce Suggestion for Further Reading Acknowledgments Realms Forbidden to the Living: Ancient Greece and Rome • Tartarus, Prison of the Titans: From Hesiod’s Theogony • Netherworld Megafauna: From Seneca’s The Madness of Heracles • Odysseus at Death’s Door: From Homer’s Odyssey • Socrates Ponders the Punishment of Souls: From Plato’s Phaedo • Into the Realm of Shadows: From Virgil’s Aeneid Early Christian Hellscapes (c. 100–500 CE) • The Fire and the Worm: From the Apocalypse of Paul • The Rich Man and Lazarus: From the Gospel of Luke • Death’s Defeat: The Harrowing of Hell from the Gospel of Nicodemus On the Lip of the Abyss: The Early Middle Ages (c. 500–1000 CE) • Beyond the Black River: From the Dialogues of Gregory the Great • Behold, the Fire Draws Near Me: From Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People • Dryhthelm Returns from the Dead: From Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People • The Island of the Fire Giants: From The Voyage of Saint Brendan Into the Deepest Dark: The Vision of Tundale (c. 1150) • Welcome to Hell • The Punishment Fits the Crime • The Great Below Teaching the Torments: The High Middle Ages (c. 1000–1300) • Lessons in Horror: From the Elucidarium of Honorius of Autun • Preaching Pain: From a Medieval Priest’s Manual • Three Tales of Torment: From Caesarius’ Dialogue on Miracles • Warnings from Beyond the Grave: From Caesarius’ Dialogue on Miracles • The Abominable Fancy: From Thomas Aquinas’s Summa Theologica Abandon All Hope: Dante’s Inferno (c. 1320) • Through the Gates of Hell • The Filthy Fen • The Boiling Blood • The Forest of the Suicides • Trapped Under Ice A Heartbreaking Consort of Woes: Early Modern Afterlives (c. 1500–1700) • The Sharp Pangs of a Wounded Conscience: From a Sermon by William Dawes • Into That Eternal Furnace: From Giovanni Pietro Pinamonti’s Hell Opened to Christians to Caution Them from Entering into It • A Living Death Shall Feed Upon Them: From John Bunyan’s The Resurrection of the Dead and Eternall Judgement The Dread of Hell Peoples Heaven: The Nineteenth Century • Hell Is for Children: From John Furniss’ The Sight of Hell • A Place at Odds with Mercy: From Austin Holyoake’s Heaven & Hell: Where Situated? Hell of Our Own Making: The Twentieth Century and Beyond • The Death Factories: From Vasily Grossman’s “The Hell of Treblinka” • Fire in the Sky: From the “Testimony of Yoshitaka Kawamoto” • The Sum of Suffering: From William Blake’s “A Sentence Worse Than Death” • Guantánamo Mixtape: Music from American Detention Camps Notes Index