#perfect 19th century man punctuation

[clove-pinks]

I'm not done with Edward Couch (although I feel very sorry for his tragic fate). He not only looks like this but writes with the voice of an 1840s Gent in his letters home. He visits Greenland and writes to his parents: "Arrival took place this morning at 3 o’clock & one of the rummest snug little places I ever saw. x x x x x" (He uses tons of Xs in his letters, from the example in May We Be Spared to Meet on Earth).

"Old Franklin is an exceedingly good old chap." And he continues:

In our mess – we live uncommon well – too well almost – we commenced preserved meats & soups etc, a day or two ago & find them very good – in fact every thing is most comfortable – couldn’t be more so. x x x x We shall have plenty of shooting by & bye – when we arrive at our station – jammed in the ice – a regular set of game laws will come out

[iamthenightcolormeblack]

Pride and Prejudice 1940: "When Pretty Girls T-E-A-S-E-D Men Into Marriage"

Made during the Great Depression, this classic black and white film is loosely based on Austen's novel and is set in what is likely the 1830s rather than the Regency Era (late 18th century to early 19th century). It is an escapist piece which capitalizes on nostalgia for a simpler time by transporting its viewers to a chocolate-box vision of the past, while paying homage to Austen's social satire by delivering plenty of laughs along the way.

Overall Thoughts on the Film:

The first time I watched this movie, I was confused because the plot as well as the setting was revised significantly (the events after Darcy's first proposal are changed to hasten the happy ending; Darcy's letter and Elizabeth's visit to Pemberley are not included in this movie). This changing of plot points makes the 2005 movie a much more faithful adaptation in comparison with this version, in spite of the creative liberties both take with the novel.

Production Design:

The movie is a typical example of Golden Age Hollywood productions, with beautiful actresses and melodramatic flourishes added to increase the drama. Some of the lines are delivered very quickly, in keeping with the comedic style of the time.

The music: definitely not historically accurate. A lot of sentimental, "ye olde timey" string arrangements that emphasize emotions or fast-paced waltz music for balls/parties.

The 1830s costumes are beautiful; it seems as if no expense (or quantity of fabric) was spared in making them. The bonnets are way taller and have more decorations than typical 1830s bonnets. Some of the patterns/fabric choices are very 1930s, and the costumes are exaggerated in such as way as to make the wearers look like fancy turkeys.

Hair and Makeup: very 1930s, with finger/sausage curls, plucked eyebrows, lipstick/lip makeup, and long lashes.

The sets: the dollhouse-like interiors are lavishly gilded and made to look as opulent as possible. Outdoors scenes are lush, with lots of flowers and bushes; the garden in which the second proposal takes place is gorgeous. The set design transports the viewer into an idyllic vision of the bucolic English countryside.

The Lead Actors:

With the exception of Laurence Olivier, the majority of the actors are American, since this is a Hollywood production. Many of the characters in the film's imaginary vision of pastoral Britain speak American or make clumsy attempts to imitate British English.

Greer Garson: while she is definitely too old for the part, she perfectly conveys Elizabeth's intelligence, outspokenness, and sarcasm. Her facial expressions are killer as well; with the arch of an eyebrow along with a snarky side eye, she captivates us all. All in all, Garson effectively shows off Elizabeth's impertinence through her nonverbal acting (this reminds me strongly of Jennifer Ehle's Elizabeth Bennet).

Laurence Olivier: he effectively conveys Darcy's pride while hinting at his deeper feelings beneath the surface (I can see why Colin Firth spoke so highly of Olivier's portrayal of Darcy). Most importantly, the film emphasizes Darcy's intelligence; he is certainly Elizabeth's intellectual equal. While this portrayal of Darcy is very accurate to the book, Darcy's pride does go away pretty quickly (he and Elizabeth form a tentative friendship early on) and his social awkwardness isn't immediately obvious thanks to his charm. Also the unflattering hairstyle with the greasy hair and painted on sideburns makes me sad.

Key Scenes:

Opening scene: The title card appeals directly to the audience's nostalgia for a sentimental, romanticized past: “It happened in OLD ENGLAND (this was actually capitalized), in the village of Meryton…” The Bennet women are at a fabric shop, where they gossip with aunt Phillips about the rich people moving into Netherfield Park.

The carriage race: this scene, which isn’t in the original novel, represents the rivalry between the Bennets and Lucases. The mothers both want their daughters to be the first to snag the rich bachelors.

The first ball: There is a historical anachronism as the music is a waltz by Strauss, who became popular in late 19th century, specifically the Gilded Age; far too early for the Regency Era or 1830s England. Other changes from the original novel include Elizabeth meeting Wickham before Darcy; other events from Aunt Phillips’ ball (which isn’t included in this movie) and Wickham and Darcy’s confrontation are included in this scene.

Elizabeth’s impression of Darcy at the ball: she puts on airs and mocks his casual dismissal of her as tolerable (definitely a parallel with the 1995 version, where Jennifer Ehle does the same, but privately with Jane).

Great comedic change: Darcy introduces himself to Elizabeth after calling her tolerable and asks if she will dance with him (this originally takes place at Mr. Lucas' ball). Right after rejecting Darcy, she instantly agrees to dance with Wickham; in a humorous moment, Darcy evacuates to a corner of the room to sulk while seeing Wickham dance with Elizabeth.

The “Accomplished woman” scene: the dialogue lifted directly from the book for the most part. Darcy, in a departure from his trademark seriousness, shows off his playful side when reacting to Caroline Bingley's "turn about the room." I particularly like this added repartee from Elizabeth Bennet to Darcy, which is clever but also foreshadows her prejudice: “If my departure is any punishment, you are quite right. My character reading is not too brilliant.”

Elizabeth can't stand Mr. Collins: After twirling about his monocle, he pronounces that: “It might interest you to know my taste was formed by lady Catherine de Bourgh.” The best part of this scene is when Elizabeth plucks a wrong note on her harp when Collins gets really annoying.

The Netherfield ball (which is now a garden party):

Elizabeth running away from Mr. Collins: She looks rather ridiculous, almost like an overdressed turkey, in a white dress with puffy sleeves as she runs away from an overeager Collins. Then she hides in the bushes while Darcy helps her to hide, telling Collins he doesn't know where she is. It's fun but most likely not something a proper lady and gentleman would do (two people of the opposite gender out alone, shock!).

The archery scene: Darcy attempts to teach Elizabeth how to shoot a bow and arrow, even though he doesn’t hit the bullseye. She goes on to impress him by perfectly hitting the bullseye every time; Darcy learns his lesson: "Next time I talk to a young lady about archery I won't be so patronizing." Caroline Bingley, very passive aggressive as usual, shows up for her archery lesson right after and it's absolutely perfect.

Mr. Collins attempts to introduce himself to Mr. Darcy: Laurence Olivier captures Darcy so perfectly in this scene (really set the precedent for Colin Firth). When Mr. Collins starts talking (inviting Elizabeth to dance with him) Darcy tries to keep himself well-composed but has a pained expression on his face as if he’s about to pass out. Olivier masters the way Darcy can look so miserable but also disgusted and proud at the same time.

Mr. Collin's proposal to Elizabeth: I like the added touch of Mrs. Bennet pulling Elizabeth back by her skirt when she tries to run out of the room. The dialogue is taken directly from the book, and the scene is made even funnier when Collins holds on to Elizabeth's hand desperately and doesn’t let her get away. My only quibble is that Elizabeth isn’t indignant enough when Mr. Collins doesn't take no for an answer.

Elizabeth and Darcy at Rosings: I like that Olivier subtly indicates that Darcy is clearly affected upon seeing Elizabeth at Rosing, hinting at deeper feelings beneath the surface. I also like how the scriptwriter emphasizes that Darcy indirectly praises Elizabeth and enjoys their conversations, while she remains convinced that he hates her. Sadly, the original dialogue of the piano scene is not included, which is unfortunate as it allows Darcy to reveal his introvert tendencies, calling into question Elizabeth's assertion that he is unpardonably proud.

First proposal: The famous opening lines are mutilated with awkward punctuation: “It’s no use. I’ve struggled in vain. I must tell you how much I admire and love you." While the rest of the dialogue matches up closely with what happens in Austen's novel, both of the actors aren’t emotional enough; instead Elizabeth cries very daintily, and Darcy remains serene, which conflicts with the book's description of both of them being very angry and defensive at each other.

THE SCRIPT:

The first half of the film up to Darcy's first proposal follows the events of the original book closely, though certain blocks of dialogue are moved elsewhere and other events such as Mrs. Phillips' party are skipped over. The most significant changes, besides updating the setting to the 1830s, are made to the second half of the book to squeeze the key events of the story into the movie before delivering the inevitable happy ending.

Brilliant Quotes:

Mr. Bennet's reaction to Mrs. Bennet's despair over the situation of their 5 unmarried daughters: “Perhaps we should have drowned some of them at birth.”

Darcy insists Elizabeth cannot tempt him: “Ugh. Provincial young lady with a lively wit. And there’s that mother of hers.”

Darcy is an arrogant snob: “I’m in no humor tonight to give consequence to the middle classes at play.” (Technically the Bennets are part of the gentry; they just are less wealthy than Darcy).

Elizabeth's reaction to Darcy pronouncing her to be tolerable at best: “What a charming man!”

Elizabeth rebuffs Darcy's offer to dance after overhearing his insult: “I am afraid that the honor of standing up with you is more than I can bear, Mr Darcy.”

Elizabeth favors Wickham after witnessing the bad blood between him and Darcy: “Without knowing anything about it I am on your side.”

Mrs. Bennet's comment after she sends Jane to Netherfield under stormy skies: “There isn’t anything like wet weather for engagements. Your dear father and I became engaged in a thunderstorm.”

Mr. Bennet's reaction to Jane's fever: “Jane must have all the credit for having caught the cold…we’re hoping Elizabeth will catch a cold and stay long enough to get engaged to Mr. Darcy. And if a good snowstorm could be arranged we’d send Kitty over!”

The sisters' description of Mr. Collins: “Oh heavens! what a pudding face.”

Caroline Bingley at the Netherfield garden party: “Entertaining the rustics is not as difficult as I feared. Any simple childish game seems to amuse them excessively.”

Darcy reassuring Elizabeth after helping her escape Mr. Collins: “If the dragon returns St. George will know how to deal with it.”

Darcy learns his lesson after Elizabeth beats him at archery: “The next time I talk to a young lady about archery I won’t be so patronizing.”

Elizabeth comments about a curtain: “Oh that’s pretty. It’s a pity you didn’t make it bigger. You could have put it around Mr. Collins when he becomes a bore.”

Elizabeth on Kitty and Lydia: “2 daughters out of 5, that represents 40% of the noise.”

Elizabeth sees Lady Catherine for the first time: “So that’s the great lady Catherine. Now I see where he learned his manners.”

Lady Catherine's attitude towards philanthropy: “You must learn to draw a firm line between the deserving poor and the undeserving poor.”

Darcy takes Elizabeth's advice: “I’ve thought a great deal about what you said at Netherfield, about laughing more...but it only makes me feel worse."

Elizabeth and Darcy have a conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam: “He likes the landscape well enough, but the natives, the natives, what boors, what savages … Isn’t that what you think, Mr. Darcy?” With a smile: “It evidently amuses you to think so, Miss Bennet."

CHANGES FROM THE BOOK:

The first half of the film up to Darcy's first proposal follow the events of the original book closely, though certain blocks of dialogue are moved elsewhere and other events such as Mrs. Phillips' party are skipped over. The most significant changes, besides updating the setting to the 1830s, are made to the second half of the book to squeeze the key events of the story into the movie before delivering the inevitable happy ending.

With the exception of Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the portrayals of the characters are (generally) true to the book.

As I said earlier, the film neglects any sort of historical accuracy when setting the story in romanticized "Old England," where genteel people pass simple lives that revolve around dresses, tea parties, social gossip, and marriages. A lot of Austen adaptations present an idealized vision of Regency life, where people are dressed immaculately, flawlessly adhere to "chivalry," and find love in the ballroom. This contributes to the misconception that Austen's novels are shallow chick-lit books with flat characters who live for lavish parties and hot men, instead of stories of unique, complicated women who happen to be well-off but aspire towards love, respect, or independence instead of being content to make economically advantageous marriages. Austen's novels are character novels and she doesn't waste time writing about dresses or tea parties; balls, while exciting, are just another part of daily life for her characters rather than some Extremely Big Special Once In a Blue Moon Event.

Austen's multifaceted view on marriage turns into a game of matchmaking. She recognizes it as necessary for women to survive in the patriarchy, since they cannot provide for themselves unless they marry well, but at the same time, presents marriage as a means for freedom if it is a loving partnership between two people that respect each other. In contrast, marriage is a game of manipulating the partners into wanting to marry (ex. Lady Catherine and Darcy's trickery). Also, it seems to be a given that Elizabeth will marry for love, unlike in the book where it is uncertain whether she will achieve this.

Kitty and Lydia's antics are viewed much more sympathetically as those of young people having fun; in the book, their behavior harms the family's social reputation, reducing the chances the Bennet daughters have of making good marriages.

Louisa Hurst, Georgiana Darcy, and Aunt and Uncle Gardiner are not in the movie.

Wickham is introduced much earlier than in the book; he is friends with Lydia from the very beginning. Interestingly, he doesn't begin to trash-talk Darcy until Bingley leaves; in the book he does so much earlier, before the Netherfield ball.

Darcy is more considerate towards Elizabeth at the Netherfield party (ex. rescuing her from Collins), until he overhears Mrs. Bennet scheming to get the daughters married. Elizabeth forms a tentative friendship with him until finding out that he separated Jane from Bingley.

Jane is more obviously heartbroken over Bingley's departure than in the book, where she keeps her pain to herself. In the movie, she runs away to cry, which is uncharacteristic of her.

Collins is a librarian instead of a clergyman. I dislike this change because some Austen scholars/fans think that Collins being a clergyman is a deliberate choice as part of Austen's social criticism. Collins is representative of how hypocritical the Church is, since he worships Lady Catherine's wealth instead of God, and preaches moral lessons instead of actually using religion to help people. My theory is that the change was made because of the Hays Code, which led to the censorship of movies for "unwholesome" or "indecent" things; the religious criticism could have been offensive.

Elizabeth reacts rather too kindly to Charlotte marrying Collins by showing concern for the loveless marriage. While she does worry about the lack of love in the marriage, initially she is extremely surprised, outright shocked, and confused.

The scene where Darcy tries and fails to talk to Elizabeth (the "charming house" scene in the 2005 movie) just before the proposal is removed.

Darcy's letter is skipped over and Elizabeth overcomes her prejudice of Darcy very quickly, as shown when she tells Jane she regrets rejecting his proposal. This is contrary to the book, where overcoming her prejudice is an emotionally exhausting and slow process that continues all the way up until the second proposal.

The Pemberley visit is removed; instead, Elizabeth returns home to the news that Lydia has eloped. Visiting Pemberley is very important as part of Elizabeth's re-evaluation of Darcy's character and provides an opportunity for Darcy to show Elizabeth that he has changed for her. The visit is key in increasing Elizabeth's love for Darcy, and removing it means that the characters have less personal growth (also wouldn't it have been great for the audience to be treated to another gorgeous estate of "Old England?"). Instead, Darcy visits Longbourn on his own and offers his help in finding Lydia. When the news comes that Wickham accepts very little money in exchange for marrying Lydia, it isn't as shocking as it is in the book because Darcy had already expressed his intentions of helping Elizabeth earlier.

Here's the change that bugs me the most: Lady Catherine becomes good; though she is a busybody, her main priority is Darcy's happiness. Her confrontation of Elizabeth is a scheme hatched between her and Darcy as a test to be certain of Elizabeth's love. This does not make sense on so many levels: first, Darcy insists that "disguise of every sort is my abhorrence," so why would he resort to trickery, however well-intentioned, to find out if Elizabeth still loves him? Second, Lady Catherine is a social snob and objects to Elizabeth's low connections; also she has an arranged marriage planned for Darcy. Third, in the book, because Elizabeth likes Pemberley and gets along really well with his sister Georgiana, Darcy would have had some evidence that Elizabeth, in the very least, cared for him. And the added claim that Lady Catherine approves of Elizabeth because she likes rudeness and thinks Darcy needs a humorous wife irritates me further because the marriage of Elizabeth and Darcy is revolutionary since it was made in defiance of societal rules!!! Why, why, why in the name of comedy did they have to do this?!

Darcy kisses Elizabeth (in a stagey and melodramatic way) after she accepts his second proposal. Seems a bit uncharacteristic of him.

All the sisters get married at the end. Happily ever after.

CONCLUSION

This movie certainly was not aiming for faithfulness to Austen's novel; it ignores her detailed portrait of Regency era society and its attitudes and focuses on the "light, bright, and sparkling" aspect of Pride and Prejudice that gives the story its timeless appeal.

All in all, this comedy of manners is definitely a classic thanks to the clever dialogue and jokes within the script, along with some great acting.

@appleinducedsleep @dahlia-coccinea @princesssarisa @colonelfitzwilliams @austengivesmeserotonin

[fvuper]

Terror restaurant!AU

Last month I thought that the actor from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” is very similar to Tobias Menzies (James Fitzjames). And I thought that crossover of “The Terror” and “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” is the best crossover ever. In total, I came to a restaurant!AU because every fandom should have a restaurant!AU or coffeeshop!AU. (Guys, if there’s something familiar on AO3 or somewhere else I’m sorry my English language skill is low for reading English fanfics and find similarities). I share this with you because I love “The Terror” fandom of his friendliness because all we love our cold boys.

I apologize in advance to those who do not like OFC. This is my disease.

Many characters are not on the list because I didn’t know what roles to assign to them. And yes, there’s book and series canon.

This’s not fanfic, but I hope you like this.

Enjoy reading!

(grammarly app tells me that there are a lot of hard-to-read sentences and grammar and punctuation errors, I hope they will not hurt you)

Restaurant “The Terror”:

Francis Crozier - restaurant owner

Edward Little - chef

George Hodgson - sous-chef

Cornelius Hickey - cook

Magnus Manson - cook/butcher

Billy Gibbson - pastry-cook; have you seen his fingers?

John Irving - baker (secretly in love with Silna)

Henry Peglar - baker (John Bridgens’s former student)

Thomas Jopson - hall manager, barista, Crozier assistant and his son (he took mother’s last name); they father-son relationships make me feel good

Amelia Little (Hunter)(OFC) - waitress (Edward Little's ex-wife)

Thomas Evans - waiter, student

Restaurant “The Erebus”:

Sir John Franklin - restaurant owner

James Fitzjames - restaurant manager

Grahan Gore - chef

Henry Le Vesconte - sous-chef

John Bridgens - baker

Other characters:

Harry Goodsir, David McDonald, Stephan Stanley, John Peddy - doctors from the nearest hospital

Silna/Lady Silence (workers of both restaurants call her that cos she speaks very little) - veterinarian, Goodsir good friend (she knows that John Irving in love with her)

Tuunbaq - Silna dog (Samoyed)

Thomas Blanky - Crozie old friend (lost his leg after hunting; often goes to “The Terror”, chatting with Francis, and Crozie always pours free coffee to him)

Thomas Honey and Henry Collins - repairmen in both restaurants

Richard Aylmore - janitor; cos fuck him

Solomon Tozer and other marines - workers at a security company that serving both restaurants

And some random dialogues and pieces:

One time, Tuunbaq didn’t like something in Blanky, and he bit his leg. His wooden leg.

Francis Crozier's favourite coffee for a morning (and all day) is Irish. Only Jopson knows how to make correct Irish coffee for his father: “Less coffee, more whiskey”.

Sophia: “Francis, you already know that I can’t answer on your proposal. You need to look around and see, that someone is a long time watching on you.”

Francis: “Who?”

Sophia: “Manager of “The Erebus”.“

Francis: “FITZJAMES?... but, Sophia... I’m not...“

Sophia: “If it’s hard to accept, ask advice from Bridgens and Peglar. Or from Little and Jopson.“

Francis: “wait...WHAT?“

In his whole life, Crozier worked in a large number of restaurants and cafes, including Ross family and Sir John restaurants. He made the way from waiter to barmen and barista, and finally all positions at the kitchen. Francis had a wealth of life experience but didn't have proper education, therefore, many did not take him seriously. At one point, Crozier was tired of this and decided to open his own restaurant. He called it “The Terror” (because down on the street there was Franklin restaurant “The Erebus” and he thought that this would be funny and symbolically). In “The Terror” they served coffee, fresh bakery and from lunch to dinner cooked Irish cuisine.

Crozier seemed that his restaurant was the most perfect place in the world: high ceilings, green walls with wood panels, tiled floor with geometric patterns. In the corners and on the walls on the fence were growing curly green plants. All furniture (wooden tables and chairs, lamps, leather sofas) got to him like from the 19th century. On a second-floor, Francis had a small apartment.

Fitzjames invited Crozie for a date first. To Chinese restaurant.

Crozier never allowed Harry Peglar to write the menu on a scoreboard because he had lousy handwriting. Amelia didn’t write for the same reason, even if she came before everyone else. Usually, the menu wrote Irving, Jopson or Little.

Little knew Crozie from the last working place. They become good friends, so when Francis offered him a job as a chef in his restaurant, he agreed. Edward also took his wife with him from the old restaurant where they worked together to Crozie restaurant.

Actually, Jopson wasn’t the main reason for their divorce. For real they just themselves didn’t know why they got married once. Rather, Thomas was a good reason to break up.

Amelia: “It’s Jopson, I’m right?”

Little: “What are you talking about?”

Amelia: “That you fall in love with him like a little boy. Often near somewhere to him. Put off the biggest pieces of meat from stew for him at dinner, because it seems to you that he isn’t eating up. And it’s all in your wife's presence.”

Little: “And what you want to say about this?”

Amelia: “That when we gonna divorce, we will stay as friends. I hope so. Because you are a good man, Edward. But be careful with Jopson, cos when Crozier finds out that you’re dating, he will unscrew your head for any wrongdoing.”

After that conversation, Edward exhaled freely. He doesn't want to cheat on his wife, and he was glad that Amelia was so sensible woman. After two weeks they divorced. But didn’t stop communicating. On the contrary, now Little had a person whom he had to disguise his romantic troubles because of such relationships were new for him.

Sometimes, when Silna came to “The Terror”, and Irving had some free minute, he whips away her coffee from Jopson’s hands and tried with toothpick write on coffee foam “good day” or draw a smile. Come out clumsily - Jopson was in pain. He doesn't try to offer him his help, because John thanked that he needs to do this by himself. Jopson knew that one day his heart won’t stand more this barbaric mockery on his perfect coffee foam and he will just write Irving's phone number on lady Silence cup.

The Terror stuff never called Crozier “boss” or ”chief”, but called him “captain”. It seemed silly for him, but he wasn’t against.

Once Franklin invited Crozier for lunch in “The Erebus” to introduce to someone. That was James Fitzjames, and Sir John introduced him as a new restaurant manager because Franklin wanted to rest from work. They were three together at the farthest table. Francis had a strong feeling that he saw Fitzjames before or heard about him. Much later, at his apartment, Crozier remembers that he saw James at last year’s meeting of restaurateurs. They didn’t talk, but Francis could swear that the man looked at him all evening.

At some point, Crozier and Fitzjames started arguing, and when dispute got to the dead-end, they stared at each other. For a long indecent time. Only sir Franklin’s phrase ended this uncomfortable (only for him) competition: “Right in front of my salad?”.

Peglar and Bridgens often meet at neutral territory and exchange with recipes. And not only recipes.

[cromulentbookreview]

All Snake-Fascinated

“There was one time when we were children, he... he transformed himself into a snake, and he knows that I love snakes. So I went to pick up the snake to admire it, and he transformed back into himself and he was like, "Mblergh, it's me!" And he stabbed me. We were eight....at the time.” 

Or: LOKI: Where Mischief Lies by Mackenzi Lee!

I will have to admit to some difficulty writing an unbiased review of this book. Not that I normally try to be unbiased here – I mean, nobody reads this and I don’t care, I just like talking about books. But, still, with this particular book, the bias is pretty damn strong. OK, so I am a huge fan of Mackenzi Lee. I may have mentioned that here before.  Because I am a shameless fangirl who very much enjoys her writing style, I will pretty much read anything Mackenzi Lee writes. And, as someone whose general philosophy towards Marvel Movies is “shut up and take my money,” when I heard Mackenzi Lee was going to be writing a YA novel about Loki…yeah I’m pretty sure I may have broken the sound barrier. It doesn’t help that my favorite Marvel movie of all time is Thor: Ragnarok (honestly, Taika Waititi should have directed all the Marvel movies. All of them). It also doesn’t help that I like the Marvel Cinematic Universe’s version of Loki. Also not helping re: my ability to write an objective review of this book is the fact that Tom Hiddleston is extremely attractive.

I may have lost a bit of respect for him as a person re: the Great HiddleSwift PR Stunt, but…damn he’s hot. 

He can enter into a PR romance with me any day. I mean, come on:

Right?

So we’ve got the perfect storm of things that I like – an author I enjoy, a fandom in which I’ve been thoroughly entrenched since Iron Man came out in 2008, a gorgeous Englishman portraying a popular, fan-favorite character…Yeah, this is going to be tough. This review really could just be a bunch of nonsense punctuated by Tom Hiddleston gifs.

Wait. Nope. That’s exactly what it is. Damn it.

And I wonder why I’ve failed at being a real writer. Well, that and laziness and a clinically poor attention span. Oh well. That’s what Tumblr is for. I assume. Tumblr! For when you’ve failed at pretty much everything else.

Anyway: LOKI: Where Mischief Lies!

Since this is a young adult novel, we get to deal with adolescent versions of Loki and Thor, which is a pretty long time ago considering that they’re gods and they age very, very slowly. Either way, teen Loki has a best friend/partner in crime named Amora (I see what you did there, Ms. Lee, don’t think I didn’t see what you did just there). Amora is a sorceress in training, and she’s been secretly helping Loki learn magic. Asgardians aren’t big on their princes being sorcerers - they’d rather their princes be golden boy warriors with huge muscles and blonde hair. You know, like Thor. Poor Loki, eternally trapped in Thor’s shadow. 

Things get worse when, at the feast of Gullveig, Odin looks into the Godseye Mirror, which is this a supercool mirror that can show the future. The Godseye Mirror just shows general warnings about Asgard’s enemies and Odin then shares what he sees and tells everyone how they will triumph. You know, the things you do with a future-telling mirror. However, at tonight’s feast, what Odin sees in the Godseye Mirror is so terrible he refuses to speak about it publicly. Loki and Thor, eavesdropping on Odin and his council, learn that the prophecy Odin saw had to do with Loki doing something terrible. Gasp! Of course Loki has to know more. So he and Amora sneak into the vault to try and look into the Godseye Mirror themselves.

Except they accidentally break it. 

Whoops!

Amora takes the fall for the whole scheme, and, as a result, she’s permanently exiled to Midgard, where she will live the rest of her life without magic. Loki is bereft at the loss of his friend, but Frigga, being the best mom ever, takes over Loki’s magical training, Asgardian prince-standards be damned. 

An undetermined amount of time goes by (again, immortal beings, time doesn’t really have much meaning with them) with Loki still, STILL, living stuck in Thor’s shadow. Everybody loves Thor - Thor seems to be able to effortlessly do everything right, while Loki is always having to prove himself. Even when Loki follows all the rules and does everything right, he still manages to fall short of Thor. Plus, there’s still that vague Godseye Mirror prophecy hanging over his head...

When the Norn Stones - the most powerful magic amplifiers in the whole of the Nine Realms - are stolen, Odin tasks Thor with looking for them. It’s a pretty plum assignment, the sort of thing you’d ask a future King to do. Loki, on the other hand, is punted off to Midgard  to help some dumb humans. Not a very kingly assignment, but still, Loki has to do it. He arrives in 19th century London to help the SHARP Society investigate a string of murders that appear to have links to Asgardian magic. Unfortunately, the SHARP society isn’t exactly your 19th century version of SHIELD - the whole society consists of Mrs. S, the elderly widow of the society’s founder, Theo, an engineer with a badly damaged leg, and Gem, a cop who has to keep his association with the society secret or else he’ll lose his job. 

The indignities Loki must put up with just keep getting worse and worse, but still - if he wants to actually impress Odin, he has to complete this assignment. But humans are just the absolute worst. Only, Theo might not be so bad...

As a Marvel Fangirl, I absolutely loved Loki: Where Mischief Lies because of course I did. I do have a few complaints, though: at times the plot moves a little too slowly, and some of the characters, especially those of the SHARP society, seem a little underdeveloped. I wanted more scenes between Theo and Loki, more time for them to develop a rapport. Honestly, I just wanted more in general. This book could’ve been 800 pages and I would’ve been happy to read it. I mean, it’s Loki gallivanting around 19th Century London solving crimes. If you’re a fan MCU’s Loki, then you’ll love the book. If you’re a very serious book reviewer who doesn’t read books for fun, then, well, you might have a tough time of it.  

Still, who knows - the copy I read is an ARC, meaning the text is unfinished. There’s bound to be some changes made to the copy between now and the September release date, so perhaps all my complaining about pacing and underdeveloped characters will be rendered moot. We shall see. In the mean time, 19th Century London + Loki = one very happy fangirl.

RECOMMENDED FOR: Marvel fans, Loki/Tom Hiddleston fans, anyone who enjoys a fun blend of YA Fantasy and Historical Fiction, anyone who can just picture Loki running around 19th century London in a stylish waistcoat...

NOT RECOMMENDED FOR: DC Fans, comic purists, people who dislike Thor and Loki for some reason, 

RELEASE DATE: September 3, 2019

RATING: 4/5

TOTALLY UNBIASED FANGIRL RATING: 500,000,000,000,000,000,000/5

THOR RATING:

LOKI RATING:

RATING FOR ANYONE WHO DOESN’T GET THE TITLE REFERENCE:

[whats-a-clever-username]

Hallowe’en

Thought for sure I wasn’t going to get this done on time for Halloween, yet here we are.

AO3 link. Also, I got an AO3.

    “The preparations have been made. The black mare awaits me in the stable. Tonight we ride.” The message was an immediate red flag. And eerily similar to the previous four that had appeared seemingly out of the night air, keeping a perfect annual schedule. The spindly creeping handwriting was always unmistakably that of Jonathan Crane's, yet each year he was nowhere to be found. There wasn't even a trace of the horse he mentioned, and Bruce had already ruled out any symbolism behind this. There are no stables in or near Gotham, no businesses offering rental ponies this late, and Crane still hadn't made an appearance since last month. Not physical, at least. There was mention of a guest at St. Francis' Orphanage, a man in costume set to arrive at 10 PM Halloween night. Tonight. It isn't much, but it's all he has to go off of.

    Perched on the coping of a church's roof, Bruce watches the figures moving in the orphanage window, keeping his eye on the particular tall one rushing around. If his understanding of the building is correct, which it hopefully is, the room he's looking into is the kitchen. God only knows what Crane could have planned if he's lurking around in there. Poison, a bomb, a fire… Bruce forces the terrible possibilities from his mind, retrieving a bug from his belt and grappling across the street to the orphanage. Whether or not their last meeting left the rogue with a broken arm as Bruce had assumed, he could still do a horrible amount of damage. He made that painstakingly obvious the last time Bruce thought he’d had him cornered. Placing the bug on the wall just next to one of the windows, he turns his radar to the proper frequency as he grapples to another vantage point.

    “…go bad if we don’t act fast,” a voice says over the airway.

    “I understand that, thank you,” the uncanny calm voice of Crane replies, a small clang punctuating the end of his sentence. “But it’s imperative that I work quickly, and I’ve already set it to boil. Time is of the essence, Mr. Henry.”

    Pulling out a pair of high tech binoculars, Bruce zooms in on the kitchen window just as the tall figure walks out of sight. Dammit. Using a small handheld device to guide the mobile bug after the figure, he changes his vantage point yet again. He isn’t even supposed to be here yet…

    It’s been nearly two hours. Almost 11 PM. Whatever Crane’s planning is still far from definite. He’s started making his way towards the kids, according to a few of the voices. This has gone on long enough. Securing the grappling hook, Bruce swings forward once again, crashing through the glass window with a batarang at the ready. For all the fury and, frankly, fear Bruce had just felt, he finds himself at a loss of how to react at the sight he’s met with. Jonathan Crane stands amidst the crowd, dressed in 19th century clothes and a long false nose, a cast with multicolored scribbling writing on his arm greatly contrasting the black shirt and cape. Adults and children alike stare at Bruce for a moment, the sudden excited screams of kids drowning out a few of the workers whispering to one another, a few glancing at the now very pallid Crane. The man’s trembling hand nearly drops the small pumpkin it holds, what vaguely resembles a horse and rider scribbled on the gourd in black marker. The Bat and rogue lock eyes for a mere three seconds before several children swarm the vigilante’s feet, many more scrambling after them, all shouting up at Bruce in excitement. Oddly enough, two little girls shy away from the group, hiding behind Crane’s legs which are taller then even them, clinging to the costumed criminal until a man in a skeleton costume scoops both of them up and hurries away from Crane.

    “I knew it was him!” the skeleton shouted, turning to the other costumed workers. “I told you all! Why else would he be here if it wasn’t that Scarecrow freak?!”

    “Please, I-” Crane stutters, trying to explain himself.

    He’s interrupted by a fist colliding with his face, sending his glasses skittering across the floor and the pumpkin falling from his hands, splattering on the cold tile. The two little girls scream as Crane reels backwards, nearly tripping over himself as he holds the side of his face.

    “See what you can do without that fancy gas?!” another worker shouts, hitting Crane over the head with a plate which shatters against his skull.

    Falling to his knees, Crane struggles to cover his face with a broken arm, bracing himself for the next blow. Rather than a kick or punch or some other blunt object, Crane is suddenly jerked backwards, colliding with the wall as the batarang nails his cape to the surface.

    “Get the children out of here,” Bruce orders, “I’ll take care of him.”

    The workers scrambling to hurry the children away, Bruce grabs Crane by the front of his shirt, pulling him up to glare at him face to face.

    “P-Please, I didn’t do anything!” Crane blurts out, eyes as big as the plate he was hit with. “Don’t hurt me, I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

    “You’re supposed to be in Arkham, Crane,” Bruce growls.

    “They never have enough people to make dinner on Halloween,” Crane continues, beginning to ramble. “There was a volunteers wanted ad, I was the only person that showed up. No one else cared, and they were short on staff anyways, and the children-”

    “You’re going back,” Bruce interrupts.

    “They were going to go hungry if someone didn’t help out, and the cook didn’t even show up, and it just became a habit, and-” Grabbing Bruce’s wrist with his good hand, Crane begs, “please don’t send me back. I just wanted to help. Please.”

    “You have to,” Bruce denies.

    Stopping either of them from continuing, police sirens reach their ears, rapidly approaching as blue and red lights appear outside the window. Crane looks at the lights then back to Bruce, making one more attempt to plead for his freedom. He’s unable to as he’s thrown from the open window, being caught moments before colliding with the cement. He can hear a few laughs and no doubt mocking comments as his arm is taken from its sling and pulled behind his back before he’s handcuffed and forced into the back of the police car. He doesn’t dare open his eyes to look at the officers, not that he could even see them clearly.

    Jonathan Crane sits in the emptiness of his cell, his arm in a new cast and nose broken, a black eye not helping his normally hindered vision. He’d much rather be in there, away from the other jeering inmates, delighted to find the terrifying Marquise of Misery had spent his Halloween doing community service last week. His already bruised heart sunk every time one of those deranged bastards spoke to him. He can’t help but assume the worst when he hears someone walking in his direction, though he’s surprised at the words directed towards him.

    “Ya got a letter,” the guard says, throwing said letter through the bars at Jonathan. “Don’t see why any of you’re allowed to get mail, much less have anyone to send it to ya.”

    Ignoring the guard, Jonathan studies the letter before warily opening it, only further surprised by its contents. Besides a newspaper clipping praising Wayne Industries’ large donation to St. Francis, a drawing of a black horse and tall rider adorns the back of a note written to him specifically. Under the handwritten note are the names of many of the St. Francis orphans, most notably the twin girls that had taken a particular liking to him for whatever reason. Though he found it odd that someone with a hand far too skilled to be a child would write to him, much less such kind words, especially with how the workers had reacted to his revealed identity, he couldn’t help but be delighted by the possibly falsified words. There was no return address or signature, but he couldn’t imagine anyone would want it to be known they’d wrote him. The elation from the letter drowned out this thought however, Jonathan hiding it under his mattress and doing his best to read the clipping. While whoever wrote him was courteous enough to write with a large script, the newspaper would take much more time to decipher.

[taylor-carson-blog1]

        𝑰 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍.

                                                                      CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE                                                                                         Taylor Skye Carson

ARE YOU A WILMINGTON NATIVE? IF NOT, WHERE DID YOU GROW UP? TELL US ABOUT YOUR CHILDHOOD.

“I was born in Wilmington, yes,” Taylor answered with a nod. “My family has been living here throughout generations – all the way back to the late 1800s, I believe.” Though a fairly common last name, her lineage had been traced back to the 19th century in Wilmington, proceeded by family in the Nordic region of Europe. “Growing up here was a dream, and I couldn’t picture it any other way. My mother didn’t work, so she was always around, helping me with homework, etiquette, and taking me to my many extra-curriculars. My father, on the other hand, was seldom seen, but his presence was large when he was home. He was always at work. His side of the family runs a defensive law firm in town – Carson & Carson – and he used to work there until he was elected mayor when I was fourteen.” Taylor’s answers were diplomatic, of course, never revealing how alone she felt as a child. How she longed for a sibling or friends that could get to know her on a deeper level than she was allowed. Unfortunately, the young blonde was a doll – dressed in the prettiest of fabrics, made-up to the tens, and then set out on display for others to look at.

WHAT IS YOUR RELATIONSHIP LIKE WITH YOUR FAMILY? DO YOU HAVE SIBLINGS? A LARGE EXTENDED FAMILY?

“I always wanted siblings. Maybe a older brother or sister, but I am an only child.” Thought to be a perfect child due to her obedience to family and their lifestyle, Stephen and Lori never had a need for another child. Taylor had fulfilled their desires, and more. “My mother and I are close. My dad and I used to be a lot closer before I – ” Cutting herself off, Taylor shook her head and easily slid a masking smile upon her lips. “We are a strong family unit.” Save face, Taylor. Don’t reveal personal details. This isn’t your first rodeo.

DESCRIBE YOUR HIGH SCHOOL EXPERIENCE.

“High school was high school,” shrugging a dainty shoulder, Taylor wasn’t quite sure what the interviewer wanted to hear. Most people in town knew that her freshman year was when her father was elected mayor, and his reign had held steady ever since. It had effected her in regards to who she was allowed to hang out with, where she was allowed to go, and when she was allowed, but high school had been a fairly intimate time for Taylor. “I met Spencer – my wife – when we were at New Hanover,” she teased, though she knew that she wouldn’t go too far with what she revealed. That aspect of her relationship with Spencer was sacred to this day. “I didn’t get to go out much back then, for safety reasons, but it’s clear that I gained a few relationships there that have lasted for life.” Winking at the implication, such was as far as they needed to know.

WHAT WAS YOUR YEARBOOK SUPERLATIVE? WHY WAS THIS SO?

“I won two, if I remember correctly,” Taylor thought back, though wasn’t too prideful of what such awards were – hence her forgetfulness. “Most Likely to Marry Rich and the Female Best Dressed.” Inwardly rolling her eyes at the first one, it couldn’t have been further from reality… though it had been close, at one point. “I liked the second one. I take care of my appearance and am glad to have been noticed for it,” Taylor spoke in relation to more than just a dumb superlative, but the numerous times she’d been featured in local magazines for her event and gala evening-wear. “The first one was just a joke, I assume, based on who my parents are. It’s funny though, because the man I was ‘dating’ – and I use that term lightly – before Spencer, was pretty well-off, and if I hadn’t come out, we would probably be married.” The thought was horrendous, and was actually the cause of much of Taylor’s anxiety. “Fortunately, I married a cop who was at the lower-end of the pay-grade totem pole back then.”

WHAT DID YOU DO AFTER HIGH SCHOOL? DID YOU GO TO COLLEGE? IF NOT, WHY?

“After high school, I enrolled at Cape Fear Community College, mostly since my parents told me that I had to,” the blonde thought back to that phase of her life and stifled a chuckle. “They wanted me to work at the family business as a paralegal. I got my Associate’s and lasted about two years before I got bored.” Taylor’s expression remained unashamed, as money had always been a large factor in her family – one that the media knew quite well. Taylor was a trust-fund baby who didn’t truly need to work a day in her life, it had all been for experience. Ergo, the blonde figured she should say something inspirational at that point. “Looking back, I am glad that I did it though – ” lie “ – and will encourage the same in my own children. Education is important.” A large, pearly white, fake smile punctuated her assertion.

WAS THERE AN EVENT IN YOUR LIFE THAT GREATLY IMPACTED WHO YOU ARE NOW AS A PERSON?

“Plenty.” Nodding in affirmation, Taylor struggled to pick just one to elaborate on. “I think if I had to narrow them down, I’d say that coming out was probably the biggest event that has made me who I am.” Over time, it had become easier to talk about this sort of thing when it was for inspirational purposes. A professional at navigating the media, Taylor always tried to give away as little detail as possible, so she’d do so now, as well. “I had known who I was from quite a young age, and for family and professional reasons, I had to keep it under-wrap. Stifling such a large part of yourself is never the answer and will only cause more pain. At that point in my life, when I came out, it had been just an explosion of twenty-seven years of suppression. I wouldn’t recommend waiting that long for anyone unless they are in a dangerous situation, since it really prevented me from enjoying a large portion of my young adult life. I was supposed to be out falling in love, making mistakes, and growing from that, but instead, I was forced into silence.” Taylor paused, reflecting on that heavy time of her life. “I’m glad that I made the choice I did, I just wish that it would have been sooner. And if you’re struggling with your identity, just know that it gets better, and that you’re not alone. There’s plenty of lightning bugs trapped in jars, waiting to get out. Once you do, you’re gonna shine bright.”

HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE? IF NOT, DO YOU THINK THAT IS POSSIBLE FOR YOU IN THE FUTURE?

“Once.” Like most of these topics, Taylor usually tried to keep this part of her personal life private, so she remained tight-lipped… but she couldn’t help the way said lips curved upward at the nostalgic flashbacks to the beginnings of her relationship with her wife. “Eighteen years and counting.”

WHEN WERE YOU BORN AND WHAT IS YOUR ASTROLOGICAL SIGN? DOES IT INFLUENCE YOUR LIFE IN ANY WAY?

Letting out a soft sigh at the question, the southern, Christian blonde didn’t put much stock into this kind of thing, nor did she like talking about it – the astrology, that is. “I was born on June 24, 1984. I’ve been told that it makes me a Cancer, but I don’t believe in that sort of thing.” Honest and blunt about it, the dainty silver cross hanging around Taylor’s neck glimmered in the light of the room, letting off a sparkle in punctuation.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE TIME OF YEAR? TELL US SOME OF YOUR FAVORITE ACTIVITIES TO DO DURING THIS TIME.

“Oh, I love all times of the year!” Taylor’s enthusiasm peaked after such a drag of a question. “I can’t pick just one, hmm,” she hummed in thought. “I really like spring and fall because that’s soccer season and my toddlers really love playing the sport with their mama – my wife.” Spencer had played soccer all throughout high school and college and now coached the tykes little league team. It mostly consisted of them running around, pretending to do things, and occasionally stopping to pick flowers or pick up the ball, but it was still fun to watch. “Then there’s summer which, obviously, means the beach, and we have some of the most beautiful beaches in the country,” Taylor’s Wilmington-spirit shone through. “Winter is also nice because the snow is so beautiful to watch out the window and you can just cuddle with a loved one by a fire with some hot cocoa or a glass of wine.” Placing her hand over her heart, Taylor let out a dramatic, overwhelmed huff of exasperation. “We’re just so blessed to be able to experience every season here. God’s beauty in its fullest.”

WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN TEN YEARS AND WHAT DO YOU HAVE HOPED TO ACHIEVE?

“In ten years?” Taylor hadn’t expected to have to think that far ahead. “Well, shoot, i’ll be, what, forty-three? Goodness gracious!” Such was hard to fathom at her current stage in life. “I see a lot of botox, that’s for sure!” A hearty laugh sounded from the blonde as she played it off as a relatable joke, though she knew for a fact that it was definitely going to be in her future. Taylor was not ashamed of a little cosmetic plastic surgery. Her mother had always encouraged looking her best. “No, seriously, my kids will be around the middle school ages, so I’ll probably be busier with individual schedules and such. Maybe my father-in-law will have stepped down from being the chief of police and my wife will inherit that honor, which will bring a lot of change to the family, but hopefully she’ll be able to be at home more often.” Pausing, Taylor’s mind drifted off to a visual glimpse into the future and a feeling of happiness and love filled her body, causing a tingle to rush down her spine. “You know what?” She asked the interviewer, rhetorically. “I see myself happy.” It was the truth. One of the biggest truths in the interview. “Maybe it’s because I try to walk through life with rose-colored glasses but… It’s a good view to me.”

[sarkos]

John Kidd, who is 65, is well above 6 feet tall and comfortably carries the emerging evidence of many a fine dinner. He no longer has the tidy short blond hair of 30 years ago. It’s now grown out snowy white and halfway down his back, deep into Gandalf territory. He’s a devoted fan of loosefitting Hawaiian shirts, flip-flops and shorts. He has a high-water booty and takes rapid tiny steps, making every excursion feel as if we’re running late. Right off, he wants to talk about that Boston Globe article with the pigeons. His outrage is still raw. He’s particularly miffed that he was called “broke.” He wants me to know he’s flush and always has been. He has, at the ready, a notarized letter from Fleet Bank in Brookline dated 14 years ago, stating: “six months avg balance in this checking account has been $15,618.00.” I want to talk about how he left Boston University, but when the bitter memories of departmental fights at B.U. or old quarrels with students over grades come up, it’s as if he’s bitten a lemon and his entire face focuses darkly on a point just beyond his nose. Kidd told me he quit. And he did, but only after there were stories in The Boston Globe noting his temper, his treatment of students and his clashes with campus security over birds. He lingered on campus for a while, haunting Marsh Plaza, and then he disappeared. He told me he set off to Beijing. He had read “Dream of the Red Chamber,” China’s great epic novel, and become a “redologist,” an actual term for those who submerge themselves in the study of this one book. He later moved to Brazil and became fluent in Portuguese before plunging, as seemed inevitable, into that language’s own works of heroic fiction. He is obsessed now with a 19th-century book about a helpless young girl, “The Slave Isaura,” a popular work that in its early days helped end slavery (essentially, Brazil’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”). Kidd’s compulsion to understand any culture’s big book is still what gets him out of bed in the morning. As we settle down to breakfast at a swanky hotel, it’s clear that the controversies of 1988 are all still very much alive for him. Of the 5,000 or so corrections Gabler claimed to have made to “Ulysses,” there is not one of them Kidd cannot discuss, in rich detail, 30 years later. In particular, he is still steamed up about the Penelope chapter. He flipped open the book and stabbed his finger at the dead center of the famous 42-page interior monologue of Molly Bloom. Joyce originally punctuated the chapter with two periods, one at the end and one at the center, appropriately after Molly muses over the word “ashpit.” Gabler’s edition eliminated the ashpit period — then replaced it not long after Kidd made a ruckus. But when asked by a journalist once about how he came to correct this mistake, Gabler said he heard about it from a stranger who showed him a newspaper article. (More recently, Gabler assured me that he’d heard it from a “number” of sources.) “Of course, the article was Remnick’s Washington Post piece,” Kidd said, highly agitated. “There were three different portraits of me in that one article,” he went on, “huge pictures of John Kidd, one of which is like seven inches tall or something, a picture of me!” Kidd didn’t merely remember every textual change in the Gabler edition, but every minor grudge match attending each change. The old fight, it seemed, had moldered into a snit about credit. And indeed, it’s possible to dismiss Kidd as a man who found a handful of serious errors and then used his fussy mastery of minutiae to inflate a few hundred other flecks into a raging scandal. But it’s also true “Ulysses” is a book whose every detail matters. Joyce himself was consumed by his own compulsion for details, his love of coincidence and his obsession for superstition — he built the novel out of them. He once wrote to Harriet Weaver worrying about the year 1921, whose digits total 13. One outlying theory connects this arithmetic fear to Joyce’s decision to publish Ulysses on his birthday the following year, which had a sublime smoothness when written down on paper: 2/2/22. It’s also fair to wonder about Kidd’s sanity. He is fairly manic when discussing these preciously irrelevant textual changes. They all get explained in the rushed, self-interrupting fervor of the zealot. But in his encyclopedic way of talking, of thinking, of seeing, an undeniable brilliance comes through. This quality was on vivid display the afternoon he welcomed me into his apartment, a unit in a high rise with a nice view of Rio. The place is neat and walled with books on shelves. There are lots of bureaus and built-in dressers, and at one point, when he went to retrieve a book, every drawer he opened was packed top to bottom, side to side, with even more books. “You really have to read Fernando Pessoa,” he said, handing me a collection of poems, in Portuguese, by this early-20th-century Lisbon writer, titled “A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe.” I cracked open Kidd’s copy to find a swarm of marginal notes on nearly every page, cataloging textual alternatives in the many other Portuguese editions he owns. This is how John Kidd reads everything — as a search for the perfected text.

The Strange Case of the Missing Joyce Scholar

[biofunmy]

I Don’t Know How To Talk To My Parents About Kashmir

Lucy Jones for BuzzFeed News

I didn’t have a great year, if I’m being honest. In all fairness, my most recent years haven’t been great thanks to my own inherent pessimism, and I really did think that 2018 was going to kill me. But I was wrong. 2019 is the one that almost did me in: I moved to another country, tried to navigate an incredibly hostile city, survived the first year of marriage, and almost bought out the entire country’s worth of antibiotics thanks to a litany of increasingly rare and peculiar illnesses. When I recently complained to my doctor about toe stiffness, he suggested it might be gout, like I’m a rich baby living in the 19th century. (Don’t worry, it’s merely the debilitating arthritis I inherited from my mother.)

Maybe I could’ve navigated 2019 better if I didn’t simultaneously feel like my family was cracking under the pressure of a confusing geopolitical conflict. I talk to my parents a lot — every day, which is shocking even to other brown people. But in my defense, what if one of them dies and haunts me, saying, “Oh, and this is what you were doing that made you too busy to pick up a call from your mother???” This year, though, I called less and less. I just couldn’t do it. My mom is smart and my dad is funny, and I like wrapping up my worst days by complaining to them and having them calm me down and build me back up. But lately, they’ve just made me feel alone.

This is confusing and somewhat niche, but bear with me, because you’ll need it to understand why I’ve blocked or muted about half of my family on WhatsApp: In August, the Indian government revoked Article 370, which up until then, had given the state of Jammu and Kashmir a special status within India, preserving its autonomy. Kashmir, tucked between Pakistan and India, is a much-contested region both India and Pakistan have fought over in a conflict that has spanned decades. In the late ’80s and early ’90s, Kashmiri Hindus were driven out of the land after being targeted by Muslim insurgents. This is, at least, the narrative my family, along with other Hindu Indians, tells me, but according to some separatist leaders, the Indian state constructed the exodus in order to incite further conflict and be able to intervene. A hundred thousand Hindus left the valley, with only a few thousand remaining. My family considers their forced removal to be an ethnic cleansing; Kashmiri Hindus have lived in refugee camps for decades since. The conflict in Kashmir is long and complicated, but this New Yorker story is a solid primer on recent tensions in the region.

Since the revocation, Kashmir has been placed under curfew, there are internet and cell service blackouts, journalists trying to report on the region are being turned away, and Muslim residents live in fear. None of this is necessarily new, just better reported, and it’s certainly not unique behavior from Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi and his Hindu nationalist government. Modi’s record as an Indian politician has been punctuated by his anti-Muslim rhetoric, namely during the 2002 Gujarat riots. India is a stark example of how any country can fall into the deep, dark trap of religious nationalism.

Both of my parents were born and raised in Kashmir, as Hindus in the Muslim-majority state. My mom waxes poetic about Srinagar, her hometown and the largest city in Kashmir; a tourism poster of the city hangs in my brother’s home, and my half-white niece ignores it every day, proof of the privilege my parents wanted her to have when they moved to Canada. As a kid, my mom always told me stories about how my grandparents fled in the early ’90s; they were, as my dad tells me, fearful of being ethnically cleansed as Hindus in the region. I accepted these stories, believing — as I continue to believe — their fear to be sincere. Why wouldn’t I? Children of immigrants often have little history to hang on to — my brother, who was the last of our nuclear family to be born in India, has a birth certificate that’s just a handwritten note that reads “Boy, Koul.” There’s no reason to suspect your parents of biases you’re too naive to understand at 6 or 7. Other than these little stories, I dutifully ignored Kashmir. It was complicated, and I was just trying to fit in around white people. The solution, as far as my child brain was concerned, didn’t involve trying to understand the specificity of a conflict between two brown countries that I didn’t really feel a part of to begin with.

The Indian government’s logic behind the revocation was to create a space for Hindus to return to the region, decades after they had been run out or killed. But what the government did — imposing curfews, blocking internet access, creating a police state — has cut Kashmir off from the rest of the world. Kashmiri Muslims are being targeted by a government that wants to control India’s only Muslim-majority state.

As a human being, it’s been heartbreaking to watch. As a Kashmiri, it’s fucked with my sense of self.

Getty Images

Kashmiri protesters save themselves from the tear gas during a protest against Indian rule and the revocation of Kashmir’s special status in Srinagar, the summer capital of Indian-administered Kashmir, Aug. 30.

I don’t talk about Kashmir a lot because I don’t feel like I have a right to. I was born in Canada, and nothing really betrays my particular heritage other than my last name. Only other Kashmiris can pinpoint where I’m from, and they do it with glee, which does indeed tickle me, for some reason. Kashmiris find each other all over the world and we cling to the specificity of our heritage. Your mom screams at you all the time? Me too!!!! Kashmiris eat a ton of meat, we perfected rogan josh, we love nadru and tsiri tsot and sheer chai (this last one is truly one of our worst culinary contributions to the world and we should be ashamed). We were raised on Kashmiri ghazals that our other brown friends didn’t understand, because our language was particular, with no real script, and a set of some of the most specific insults known to man. Who knew there were so many ways to tell someone you’re going to fuck their sister? My mom was proud of me when I graduated high school, but she was really proud of me when I got two conch piercings in my mid-twenties.

I wouldn’t argue that 2019 is the worst that Kashmir has been through — 1990 and 2001 and 2016 were pretty bad too. But this year, the revocation of Article 370 led to more visible coverage about Kashmir than I had really seen in recent memory. It’s a region of the world rarely reported on, and the research coming out of the area is often written by and for Kashmiri Hindus. The Hindu narrative is now the prevailing one in most Indian media, aided by the current Indian government, which is deeply nationalistic and outright hostile to Muslims.

The confluence of my age, my recent status as an immigrant (but, like, from Canada so, you know, come on, Scaachi), and my increasing existential dread forced me to read more and pay better attention and, ultimately, get angrier. Maybe the only thing that’s really changed is now, in my late twenties, it’s not really possible for me to say nothing. The privilege of passivity isn’t mine anymore. I’m the youngest in my family by far, and have been treated as such for most of my life, but you can’t get away with acting like you’re 12 just because your dad still can’t believe you’re competent enough to pay your own rent. (That said, please send money. Beti here needs a new coat.)

There’s no reason to suspect your parents of biases you’re too naive to understand at 6 or 7.

But also, my god, does it not feel like every book and television show and movie and article has been about Kashmir this year? I know, logically, that’s not true, but when I was browsing the selection at a bookstore in Miami’s airport last week and found a book about Kashmir tucked between romance novels and thrillers, I felt like I was being followed by a heritage I’ve ignored for most of my life. Information and art about Kashmir reached a fever pitch in my own brain and, seemingly, in the world around me.

It’s easy, when you’re young, to tell yourself that you’ll deal with the hard things when you’re grown: I’ll learn how taxes work when I’m bigger, or, The electoral college will make more sense to me after college. These excuses work just fine when you’re a kid, but time moves faster than you do, and one day you’re 28 and sunstroked and half-drunk in the Miami International Airport and trying not to cry because you don’t understand who you are or where you came from or what you’re supposed to believe. You know you should buy the book about Kashmir, but it feels like an anvil in your hands, like it could crush your own heart. Instead, you get a bottle opener shaped like a woman, her butt connected by springs. She twerks, so you can ignore the fact that your mother’s mother tongue is dying and that you’re fighting with your whole family about the future of your little community.

My family is Hindu — so Hindu that, for years, their stories about Kashmir didn’t include the existence of Muslims at all. Like a lot of Hindus, we were taught to be friendly to Muslims, but not too friendly. We couldn’t marry them or foster any kind of real intimacy. Friendship was fine, but we were warned to not get too close. I didn’t interrogate this with my family. I merely ignored their advice, dated whom I wanted, made close friends with whomever else I wanted, and did my best.

My best wasn’t very good. It rarely is. This year, when I saw my cousins posting celebratory meals and messages of joy after the revocation, I felt like they were living in an alternate reality. It was hard for me to fathom that my own family, who is otherwise quite liberal and thoughtful, could sustain such heartlessness about Muslims in Kashmir. The seeming focus of my family, and of other Hindus in general, was that the ends would justify the means. By disrupting the region further, by creating a larger Indian military presence in the area, by refusing to protect Muslims as a minority class in the region at large, “we” would somehow be able to “return” “home.” For the first time in my life, I engaged in a pastime that I thought was largely reserved for white people: fighting with my family on Facebook about their terrible politics.

Nurphoto / Getty Images

Kashmiri women shout pro-freedom slogans during protests after Friday prayers in Srinagar in September.

One particular cousin and I went back and forth for a day, on his page and then mine. One of his friends watched our exchange and called me “a fucker” in Hindi (finally, my weekly lessons are proving useful). My smart, educated, thoughtful family referred to the New York Times’ coverage of Kashmir as “fake news” and the “biased media” refusing to hear the “Kashmiri Pandit side.” The Kashmiri Facebook groups and email lists I’m part of stopped being fun; instead, I was bombarded with chains of people trying to figure out how to get “the real story out there.” On Facebook, my conversation with my cousin dwindled thusly: “It is pretty arrogant to talk as if you have mastered the constitution of India and are able to pass judgment,” he said to me. “Your arguments are passionate but hollow to me, because you haven’t lived the life in that part of the world.” My cousin grew up in Rajasthan, a hot, arid state in Western India, hundreds of miles away from Kashmir’s cold mountains. His context is uniquely Indian and Hindu and exclusionary. Mine is global and anxious and lonely.

We haven’t talked since. I haven’t attempted to. I’m too tired.

My husband, who is white enough to get mad that turmeric stains our kitchen countertops instead of accepting placidly that everything in our home is now yellow, initially found this very funny. “See, now you’re going to have an awkward Thanksgiving dinner too!” He compared it to white people going home to their relatives to argue about their Trump-voting ways, which I guess is apt, but somehow mine feels much worse: My family has real trauma in their history, real fear, and real marginalization. It complicates their narrative significantly. I get where they’re coming from. I just think they’re wrong.

What makes my conflict with my family over Kashmir different than, say, a white person begging their relatives not to vote for Trump, is that my family is suffering from intergenerational trauma. A lot of white people don’t have a history of ethnic cleansing, a family line that’s been disrupted by government and war and death. When my mother talks about her parents having to flee Kashmir in the middle of the night, I believe her, because I can see the light in her eyes dim. I wish I could fix it for her, as if I could make the world less cruel. That doesn’t mean we should consider it acceptable that another family — any family, different from us only by religion — will suffer the same fate, decades later.

It was hard for me to fathom that my own family, who is otherwise quite liberal and thoughtful, could sustain such heartlessness about Muslims in Kashmir. 

I’m not interested in fighting over who I think is or isn’t responsible for Kashmir’s lifetime of havoc; I’m similarly not interested in hearing arguments that Muslims need to be “punished” for whatever hand a few of them may have had in destabilizing the area. But for my family, there is real fear there. They remember losing their home. My mom was already in Canada when her parents were driven out.

That’s cold comfort when it comes to seeing my own community commit the same infractions against others. The cruelty that Kashmiri Pandits experienced doesn’t mitigate our callousness toward displaced Muslims. If our home was taken from us, why would we foist that onto someone — anyone — else? None of our trauma, real or interpreted, is a valid reason for generations of lies and propaganda spread about Muslim people. It doesn’t justify Hindus reacting placidly to the subjugation of another religious group. It’s not a mistake that Modi’s government has made Muslims the target of his campaign: It’s a great, quick way to whip up Hindus.

It’s a deceptively simple thought that I keep returning to: When this happens to us, we call it ethnic cleansing. When it happens to Muslims, we call it righteous. In one context, Kashmiri Pandits are victims looking for retribution. In another, we’re a privileged class: fair-skinned, high-caste, with a religion that isn’t constantly being policed by white and brown people alike. (Or, at least, just not in the same way that Muslims are interrogated globally.)

It’s a conflict not dissimilar to the ones progressive American Jews are having now about Palestine. Though the specifics of these conflicts are different at heart, there’s a commonality there. There has to be a way to maintain and understand the historical context of your own people’s suffering while also refusing to pass that legacy down to other disenfranchised groups. There has to be a way to ask for accountability for your family’s grief and displacement without displacing others. Right? I say this to myself every few days, and sometimes it rings so naive and gullible that I can’t trust myself anymore.

I don’t know how to talk about Kashmir with my family, which makes it hard for me to know how to talk about it publicly. I have been told by some of my own blood that I’m not entitled to an opinion on it because I’ve never been to Kashmir, and because I’m not really Kashmiri since I’ve been so whitewashed by the West. But this, to me, just feels like a silencing tactic. If Hindus who live comfortably around the world, who don’t worry about being oppressed by other brown people, aren’t going to speak publicly about the harm their own community is doing, who will?

Over the course of the year, I have attempted to write about Kashmir six or seven times, both for my day job and just for myself. I interviewed other Kashmiris for my forthcoming book to try to make sense of it. At our company holiday party a few weeks ago, I cornered the only Indian immigrant I know in the newsroom and forced her to talk about Kashmir, which mostly meant me screaming in her ear over Pitbull songs. (Sorry, Tasneem, I got excited.) All of my attempts have felt like failures, mainly because this doesn’t feel like my story to tell, and yet it’s the only thing I want to talk about. The topic makes me feel stupid and uneducated and illiterate. My dad, whom I love terribly, finds my anxiety about this all very funny. He has always been liberal, believed in the same things I did, full of compassion, and has always been mindful of how racism and religious prejudices have affected me and our family. Kashmir is his big blind spot. I feel almost desperate when I talk to him about Kashmir, like I just want him to be better about this.

Weeks ago, we fought about the lack of internet and cell service in Kashmir. I argued that it was a tool to keep the people there even more oppressed. He brushed me off, laughed at me, his silly pyari beti. I didn’t call him for a few days after that. My dad has, many times in my life, launched silent treatments against me because of whatever disrespect he seemed to glean from my behavior. This year was the only time in my life I felt completely unwilling to speak to him, a Koul family first.

I don’t even think he noticed.

In March, my family is supposed to go back to India for a wedding, and I’ve asked my mother to go to Kashmir with me. It feels dishonest, somehow, to keep visiting the same places — Agra, Jaipur, Jammu, Delhi — and never go to the valley. My mom hasn’t been back there since she first left, now more than 40 years ago. She’s been afraid to return and refused to bring me as a child in case of regional unrest. She’s willing to go now, but my father is trying to chip away at the idea. His current argument is, incredibly, that it will “rain,” so why bother taking my mother to the very place she was born and grew up? As if rain might wash away the roads completely. As if he isn’t afraid of something darker, more nefarious in the region.

We may have been the hunted, sure, but now we’re the hunters. We know better, but we’re not doing better.

My parents are old as hell. Their parents are dead. My brother has forgotten his Kashmiri, and his daughter is so detached from it I’m not sure if she even knows where it is. I feel like I’m running out of time to understand a family history that will soon turn into dust. All year, I felt like something indescribable was being wrestled away from me, and I want some of it back. But do I have the right to it to begin with?

India and Pakistan have been fighting over Kashmir for my lifetime and my parents’ lifetimes. I’m not arrogant enough to think that it’ll get solved in 2020. What I’d actually like is for the unafflicted in this conflict, people like myself, young first- and second-generation kids, to recognize the legacy of trauma that we’re encouraging. I’m not asking for an answer or a definitive explanation. All I really want, to close out this terrible, year, is for my family to acknowledge a hard, complex, and unfair fact: We may have been the hunted, sure, but now we’re the hunters. We know better, but we’re not doing better.

It used to be that when an Indian person heard my last name, or where my family emigrated from, they’d smile and say, “Oh sure,” and we’d move on. But now we talk with trepidation. We’re all trying to figure out where the other has landed. Muslim Kashmiris have, rightfully, treated me with caution. Pandits, meanwhile, assume we all agree. I’ve been most disappointed with the twentysomething kids with no attachment to Kashmir beyond their grandparents’ birthplaces, who parrot what their elders are telling them about Hindus and India’s superiority. India — a country I’ve never lived in but a place that, I assumed, had to take me as I was, in a way that Canada or the US never could — has become more foreign to me.

Does being Indian mean anything, namely as someone who very much might not be Indian? Does it mean anything good? Can I, this late in my life, eons detached from the place itself, begin to refer to myself as Kashmiri instead?

In my parents’ house, on a long table in the living room, they have a few model shikaras, wooden river boats found on Dal Lake in Srinagar. As a kid, these were merely toys that represented a fantasy world to me, like something you’d see if you fell through the looking glass. It was easy to pretend as if Kashmir wasn’t real, that it was a dream my parents had, and I’d never have to think about it beyond looking at those little boats. I wasn’t allowed to, but I’d play with those boats anyway — tipping them back and forward, peering inside their windows, pushing them along the table, all while imagining a world much less fraught than the one I ended up living in. ●

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[epchapman89]

The Haunted Cappuccino

A German bishop named Johanne Fugger, traveling to Rome for an audience with the Pope in the year 1113, sent his servant ahead to discover all the best wine along the route. When his servant found what he determined to be the finest wine in any village, he would write the Latin word “Est” in chalk on the door of the inn so the bishop would know where to stop, Est being a word that in this instance meant “Here it is.”

The bishop’s servant was so impressed with the Moscato wine in the town of Montefiascone, Italy, that he wrote on the door of the inn with great enthusiasm, “Est! Est!! Est!!!,” an appellation that remains attached to the wine of that region even now. It seems the servant knew his master’s tastes well. Bishop Fugger was so enthralled with the wine that he remained in Montefiascone and kept drinking. He drank himself to death. From the stuporous fog of his last moments on earth, with his final breath it is said, he asked that his great wealth be left in trust and that every year, on the anniversary of his death, a barrel of Moscato be poured over his grave.

“Is that really your name? Raffi?”

Rafael looked up from the espresso pouring into a shot glass and into the tight smirk of a face he’d seen before. He’d only been working as a Barista at the coffeehouse for a few days, but the customer had been in several times, a regular.

“It’s short for Rafael,” he said, and smiled gamely.

“My parents made me listen to that singer, Raffi, when I was kid,” said the customer. “God, what a dork that guy was. What is that, a Mexican name?”

“It can be. In my case, it’s Italian.”

“My family used to be Italian too, but they came over so long ago they were settlers not immigrants, you know what I mean, before the Revolution.”

“Your cappuccino,” said Raffi, placing the cup and saucer on the service counter.

The customer stared down at the drink and waved his finger over it. “You know this arty farty stuff is completely lost on me, so don’t waste your time. The other baristas will tell you, Billy is a regular and spends a lot of money in here, but he doesn’t need pictures on his cappuccino.”

Billy picked up the cup, leaving the saucer behind, started to turn, then stopped and turned back. “Okay, I have to admit, I’ve never seen that before and it’s kind of cool.” He showed his cup to the customer next to him. She nodded and smiled, then rolled her eyes as Billy walked away.

Pouring wine over the grave of bishop Fugger became not only a ritual in the town of Montefiascone, but a time of celebration, a large festival so cherished that when the bishop’s money was gone, the tradition continued nevertheless. That is, until 1657, when the plague came to Montefiascone. With the plague came Capuchin monks, summoned by the mayor to establish a friary and care for the sick and dying.

The humble Franciscan friars made the townsfolk feel ashamed for the money they spent on a ridiculous celebration punctuated by the wasteful pouring of wine over a grave. They encouraged a new tradition. Money that would have been spent on the barrel of wine and countless other frivolities associated with the annual event, was used instead to help the poor. The change to this new tradition was far from welcomed by all. After a few years of being deprived of their celebration, a group of belligerent men, drunk on their beloved Moscato, confronted the Capuchin monks.

The next day, from the middle of the line where he was waiting to order, Billy called out. “Hey Ravioli, how about another skull today. I forgot to take a picture and the morons upstairs don’t believe me.”

The other baristas looked at Raffi, who just shook his head. “I think it was a tulip,” he murmured.

Billy frowned at his cappuccino a few minutes later. “What is that, a whole skeleton? I like the skull better but a whole skeleton, that’s cool too. Morbid as shit though.”

“It’s a rosette, brother.” said Raffi.

“A what? Bullshit. That’s a skeleton, a skeleton sitting cross-legged.” Billy showed his drink to the man waiting next to him, who said it looked like a flower.

“Whatever,” said Billy, turning his back on Raffi, talking as he walked away. “Next time I want just that big skull, and I’m not your bother. My brother isn’t even my brother.”

Of course, all the monks refused to fight or even defend themselves… all the monks except one, Brother Raffaele Fossombrone. It was no secret that leaders of their order questioned Raffaele’s devotion to their “Rule of Life” and considered him, perhaps, too impetuous and undisciplined for the Capuchin Brotherhood. Their concerns proved valid when the mob began shoving the monks and Brother Fossombrone backhanded one of the men across the face, shouting, “How dare you put your hands on men of God.”

This was all the excuse the angry mob needed. Since Fossombrone was the only monk willing to fight, the men converged on him and beat him in a wild frenzy until pleas from the other monks and the hands of others from the town stopped them. It was too late. He died a short time later as they were still tending to his wounds. His fellow monks carried his body back to Rome and he was buried in the crypt under the Capuchin church, Our Lady of the Conception of the Capuchins.

Billy was back after lunch and had another man with him, a man who didn’t look happy to be there. “That’s him,” said Billy, while standing right in front of Raffi. “He’s some sort of hipster goth kid, makes these spooky pictures on my cappuccinos. Do the skull. I want to show Tony.”

Raffi shook his head. “I told you, brother, it was a tulip, and this morning a rosette, and this,” he said, setting a cup down in front of Billy, “is a heart.”

“Jesus,” said Billy, staring down at his cappuccino. “You’re a sick son-of-a-bitch. I mean a skull is one thing, but that looks like … like a bloody heart inside a rib cage.”

Tony leaned over the drink and said, “It’s just a heart, like Valentine’s day. It’s sweet.” He made a heart with his hands as he backed away toward the door.

Billy looked at Raffi, squinted, then started to chuckle. “It’s some sort of joke. I get it. It’s clever. What color is the dress, right? I don’t know how you’re doing it. I don’t care actually. Whatever. It’s over now, enough with the pictures, and stop calling me brother.”

In the years after Brother Fossombrone was beat to death, the people of Montefiascone grew to believe all their misfortune was due to a curse, the curse of the Capuchin monk. The earthquake of 1697, a mysterious epidemic in 1791, cholera in 1837 and 1855, meningitis in 1916, bombing by the allies in 1944, a deadly blizzard in 1956, all these things were said to be a consequence of the curse. Ironically, the first to help during all these tragic events were the Capuchin monks; and though the townspeople accepted the help gratefully, it was said to be bad luck to look a monk in the eye, “lest our shame be made manifest and bring on the next calamity that much sooner.” So strong was this superstition, that when their Muscato wine fell out of favor, when it “lost its charm,” they blamed the curse.

Billy did not come into the coffeehouse the next day, but the day after that he waited quietly in line, frowning at his phone. He didn’t look at Raffi. Even as he stood at the service counter waiting for his drink, he kept his eyes on his phone and didn’t look up. Raffi set the cappuccino down in front of him and he blinked, moving his eyes from his phone to his drink. His expression, drooping eyelids and a deep, pouty frown, did not change.

“That’s a pile of bones with skulls on top.” he said, as if it was exactly what he expected to see on his cappuccino.

“What you are now, they once were; what they are now, you shall be.”

Billy looked up at Raffi but then let his gaze drift from his eyes to his shoulder. “What the hell does that mean? What are you talking about?”

“I said, we call it a bellflower,” said Raffi. “It’s only a bellflower, nothing more.”

“Bellflower,” said Billy, nodding as if this made perfect sense. “Sure. It’s a bellflower.”

The custom among Capuchin monks at Our Lady of the Conception of the Capuchins until the 19th century—the results of which can still be seen today—was to disinter bodies that had been buried for many years and use the bones to decorate the interior of the church. However, when Brother Raffaele Fossombrone was unburied, decades after his death, they found his body mummified. The withered, leathery skin was dark and shrunk to the bone, but largely intact, as was his Franciscan robe. Having no idea why such a thing would occur, they left the body the way they found it and placed it in the chapel, sitting on the ledge of a small alcove, surrounded by the bones of his brethren.

Billy stood outside the coffeehouse the next day for half an hour, starting for the door and then stopping, pacing, staring through the window. He didn’t look at Raffi. He seemed to stare at the spot where he usually stood waiting for his drink. When he finally came inside he didn’t stop to order a drink, he just dropped ten dollars on the counter and took his place in front of Raffi, looking down.

After a moment, Raffi pushed a cappuccino forward. Billy stared at it for several seconds, then started nodding.

“That’s me, isn’t it, the skull under that hood? That’s me and I’m dead. You’re going to say it’s a flower or a sunrise or a turtle, but it’s me, a dead man.”

“I did not pour a design in your cappuccino today, brother,” said Raffi. “It’s just a white circle.”

Billy looked up but still avoided Raffi’s eyes and growled, “I told you, I’m not your fucking brother,” and then lunged at the barista, reaching over the counter for his neck, only his arms didn’t move. His body didn’t move. Nothing moved.

Though rare, the mummified body of Brother Fossombrone has been known to change its position. The church’s official statement on this has always been that it is the result of pranksters, but it’s been happening for hundreds of years and no one has ever been caught nor confessed and no amount of security keeps it from happening. No one has ever seen the body move, but it is said that a change in the body’s position is always proceeded by a voice whispering the words found on a plaque near the entrance of the crypt: “What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.”

He watches people enter the chapel, their eyes wide as they look at all of the bones. The chapel is filled with bones, stacks and stacks of bones, rows and rows of skulls. He notices that when their eyes fall on him, their expressions change from fascination with the horrid, to apprehension, revulsion, and a touch of confusion. He isn’t bones, exactly. He is something more than a skeleton, but something far less than a body. When the people get close, he tries to speak, tries to move, tries to show them that he is alive… or if not alive, then something. But he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. In his mind he is shouting at them, begging for help, but the chapel remains silent beyond the soft murmuring of his visitors. The people wrinkle their noses and the children stay carefully behind the adults who take pictures reluctantly and then leave without looking back. Eventually, when the chapel has been empty for a long time and grown dark, Billy stops screaming.

Mike Ferguson (@aboutferguson) is an American coffee professional and writer based in Atlanta and currently part of the marketing team at Olam Specialty Coffee. Read more Mike Ferguson on Sprudge. 

The post The Haunted Cappuccino appeared first on Sprudge.

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[hughonson-blog]

ENG 358 Week 8 Benchmark Assignment Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation

 Follow Below Link to Download Tutorial

https://homeworklance.com/downloads/eng-358-week-8-benchmark-assignment-rhetoric-rhetorical-grammar-punctuation/

 For More Information Visit Our Website (   https://homeworklance.com/ )

 Email us At: Support@homeworklance.com  or lancehomework@gmail.com

 ENG 358 Week 8 Benchmark Assignment Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation

 Details:

Prepare this assignment according to the instructions in “Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation.”

This resource is not a worksheet; prepare your responses in a separate document.

 Part I: Parts of Sentence

 Directions: Using knowledge learned in the previous lessons, please identify the forms and functions for each sentence.

 Example:

My roommates/ fixed  /               spaghetti and garlic bread            / for dinner    / on Friday.

NP1                        predV                   NP2                                                        prep ph                prep ph                                :Form

Subject                 transV                   dir obj                                                   adverbial             adverbial                             :Function

  1.     After his long recovery from an injury, the pitcher threw a perfect game.

 2.     We named our two cats Rita and Harvey.

 3.     The prominent researcher gave her assistant a quick tutorial.

 4.     Before her final exam, Jill became nervous.

 5.     The business major made the library his main retreat for studying.

 6.     Morgan bought me a red Corvette for my birthday.

 7.     The executive committee named him salesperson of the year.

 8.     The important study prompted changes in health care for the elderly.

 9.     The teacher had always given back assignments promptly.

 10.   Has your clean laundry been folded yet?

  Part II: Punctuation

 Directions: In a separate document, use commas, colons, and dashes to revise and/or combine the following sentences.

 1.     The expenses to the investors including unforeseen repairs to infrastructure were almost enough to drive them away from the market.

2.     In our culture most people see crickets as noisy pests in other cultures people see them as a food source.

3.     A steady increase in the use of electronic devices such as smart phones laptop computers and tablets has led to a steady stream of profits especially for manufacturers.

4.     Experts in education argue that these technologies which are now common in the classroom have a significant impact on the way students learn.

5.     My favorite snacks almonds and bananas are good but also healthy.

6.     Most students and teachers probably do not know that first-year composition courses which are an almost universal requirement in higher education were first introduced at Harvard in the late 19th century.

7.     Health care experts recommend a combination of preventative care strategies diet exercise and reduced stress to avoid costly medical procedures later in life.

8.     Marcus Tullius Cicero a famous Roman orator became interested in public speaking at an early age. As a young man partly because of his elite education in Rome he became involved in politics through the Roman court system. He became known for speaking out against the violence that Roman dictators such as Julius Caesar supported. As an enemy of Mark Antony who was a member of the Second Triumvirate, Cicero was named an enemy of the state. The result was his death.

[johnmedranofan-blog]

ENG 358 Week 8 Benchmark Assignment Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation

 Follow Below Link to Download Tutorial

http://devryfinalexam.com/downloads/eng-358-week-8-benchmark-assignment-rhetoric-rhetorical-grammar-punctuation/

 For More Information Visit Our Website (   https://homeworklance.com/ )

 Email us At: Support@homeworklance.com  or lancehomework@gmail.com

 ENG 358 Week 8 Benchmark Assignment Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation

 Details:

Prepare this assignment according to the instructions in “Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation.”

This resource is not a worksheet; prepare your responses in a separate document.

 Part I: Parts of Sentence

 Directions: Using knowledge learned in the previous lessons, please identify the forms and functions for each sentence.

 Example:

My roommates/ fixed  /               spaghetti and garlic bread            / for dinner    / on Friday.

NP1                        predV                   NP2                                                        prep ph                prep ph                                :Form

Subject                 transV                   dir obj                                                   adverbial             adverbial                             :Function

  1.     After his long recovery from an injury, the pitcher threw a perfect game.

 2.     We named our two cats Rita and Harvey.

 3.     The prominent researcher gave her assistant a quick tutorial.

 4.     Before her final exam, Jill became nervous.

 5.     The business major made the library his main retreat for studying.

 6.     Morgan bought me a red Corvette for my birthday.

 7.     The executive committee named him salesperson of the year.

 8.     The important study prompted changes in health care for the elderly.

 9.     The teacher had always given back assignments promptly.

 10.   Has your clean laundry been folded yet?

  Part II: Punctuation

 Directions: In a separate document, use commas, colons, and dashes to revise and/or combine the following sentences.

 1.     The expenses to the investors including unforeseen repairs to infrastructure were almost enough to drive them away from the market.

2.     In our culture most people see crickets as noisy pests in other cultures people see them as a food source.

3.     A steady increase in the use of electronic devices such as smart phones laptop computers and tablets has led to a steady stream of profits especially for manufacturers.

4.     Experts in education argue that these technologies which are now common in the classroom have a significant impact on the way students learn.

5.     My favorite snacks almonds and bananas are good but also healthy.

6.     Most students and teachers probably do not know that first-year composition courses which are an almost universal requirement in higher education were first introduced at Harvard in the late 19th century.

7.     Health care experts recommend a combination of preventative care strategies diet exercise and reduced stress to avoid costly medical procedures later in life.

8.     Marcus Tullius Cicero a famous Roman orator became interested in public speaking at an early age. As a young man partly because of his elite education in Rome he became involved in politics through the Roman court system. He became known for speaking out against the violence that Roman dictators such as Julius Caesar supported. As an enemy of Mark Antony who was a member of the Second Triumvirate, Cicero was named an enemy of the state. The result was his death.

[thevelonaut]

The Right Stuff.

Reader, I took a train. A student I’d worked with at college told me, at graduation last week, that his legs had been pretty shonked after a tour from The Hook to Amsterdam. He said he was covering 50k a day for 5 days, and that’d been plenty. I didn’t ask his gearing, but I know he was riding something nuts like a 48 x 18 when last I saw his rig. I’d loaded my own Rig a couple days before, and taken it for a yeager round the block. Not unwieldy; the gear felt okay, but it’s true that the 5 or 6% climbs about West Norwood did give me cause for uncertainty - it’s clear 80-miles to Dover from here, and I did not want to be locked up on some 11% gradient hammering my legs, my teeth locked up in a shitball self-hatred, and a curse heard around the world.

The first day / West Norwood → Cannon St → Dover → France

I cycled up to Cannon St on the same day that the Prudential-Ride-London-hubris-fest was heading back into the city (or, at least, the 100-mile maniacs who were done and dusted by 12.30pm were..) and found it quiet and nutso-simple. Two hours later I’m at the Dover seaport, eyeing the monstrous climbs over the North Downs and the clifftop roads that would, most likely, have devoured all my goodwill before I even left the continent.

So the train was a smart idea. So was the ferry. Even though it is, essentially, a motorway service station that happens to float, I was first on (a cyclist’s real advantage) and first off. This meant I bagged a seat at the front of the sea lounge, sat with my espresso and watched the white, sunlit cliffs in the late afternoon. The weather was breezy, nice, the sea calm. Other passengers seem to be Dutch or Belgian, since the boat was heading to Dunkirk and not Calais; this is some 25 miles further East, and thus a half-hour closer to the flatter end of continental Europe. It’s hard not to lament the end of the UK’s involvement in the EU as you pass over the short water; the channel feels very small indeed, and it’s almost impossible not to think of how close the potential for invasion has always been in the history of our small islands. We land in Dunkirk at 8pm, and I hoon it off the ramp. A man and his son, about thirteen, are on their Joe Waugh supertouristes. I pass them, and the man says he’s never seen a fixed tourer before; me neither, I say, although I do see a fella in Ypres five days later, churning it on a piece of retro steel. It’s not the worst plan. The ride into Dunkirk town is about 20k from the ferry port, a mainly uninspiring clumber through the industrial architecture and chimneytops of its massive port, through the old town and past its 19th century villas, and out to the campsite on the eastern side of the town. The bike works, cruises right nice; as expected, the only ballache is stop-starting, and this grates a little when you’re all loaded up. My right knee is a bit grumbly; I think I hurt the ligaments a while back, and it’s recurring when I train or ride harder. I also recognise I have a total bias toward my right leg; I always start on that side, I trackstand on that side, and I push harder there when I’m tired. Someone told me that backpedalling on a turbo is an excellent way of redressing this bias, but that’s not something I’m about to do.

The second day / Dunkirk → Gent

The next day, I feel good. The weather is drizzly but the sun comes out at midday. I bollock it along the sea roads, get lost because I’ve no map, and trace a line toward Ostend because that makes the most sense. When I get there, I realise there’s an ace network of canal paths and back-roads to help you get.. well, anywhere in Belgium. I haphazardly find my way to Brugges at 2pm, and eat bread and houmous on the drunkards’ benches, under a Napoleonic canopy, watching the assembled hordes of Italian, American and Chinese tourists be guided around the - admittedly beautiful - streets. Because my bags (a couple of 13l bags front and back, and a stuff sack under my saddle) are SO well-packed, I can barely carry anything extra in them. This means any and all food must be consumed on the spot. This means I eat every last spot of houmous. With a spoon. The Italians eye my with horror, My beard is a righteous ginger, tahini and chickpea flavoured wind-breaker. Indeed, I could perhaps store spare food here. I chuckle as I strap my shoes back on, and head along the Gent-Brugges canal. Now THAT is the way to travel.

This is the bike touring dream; long, straight and perfect asphalt, the canal cuts across 40k of Belgian farmland and occasional towns. I fly. There’s a wind coming out of the North East, which makes my life supreme (although I will of course be cursing it all the way back later in the week) and I get lost only once.

How? Because I WAS STUPID AND I LEFT THE CANAL PATH.

Why? BECAUSE IT SEEMED TOO EASY.

But why is easy a problem? IT ISN’T. BUT IT IS.

That’s the paradigm shift I deal with every day. If something is easy, then I shouldn’t be doing it. I know, I know; what a dipshit I am. When I started using the word velonaut to describe my adventures, that was always a reference to the early aviators, or the pioneers of Jules Verne, of Chuck Yeagerness, of the Mercury projects. Tom Wolfe, submariners, polarnauts et al. Jam-packed with self-righteousness and hubris, the Mallorian concept of doing a thing because it is there. Or Kennedy’s doing a thing because it is hard. Why climb Ventoux? Why ride to the Pyrenees? Why ride a fixed all winter? Why tour on a fixed? Why no carbon? Why does your knee hurt? Why not eat in a cafe or a restaurant? Why not take a hotel or a gites? Why the romance of motion, of tents and a can of Jupiler on a patch of grass? When will this stop?

All good questions.

But anyways, I got lost, got found, called HC from a backwater bus stop (below) and she navigated me to a social enterprise campsite nearby. The camp was run by a non-profit, started by socialists and communists who’d fought in the Belgian resistance during the second world war, and now professed a message of peace and equality in all things. It was one of my all-time favourite campings. And it was less than a tenner. The Belgian hardcase asked where my fancy gears were when looking at the Rig. One gear, I said. Old style, he said. He grunted approval and told me about the history of communism in Belgium, told me Duvel “isn’t a strong beer” and then walked by later on, as I was pished-up and lost in a stupor watching massive campsite spiders prey on the mosquitoes they’d caught. I was leathered. I’d had two bottles.

The third day / Gent → Brussels

More canals. More bridges. More sheep.

More farm roads. A hideous set of spaghetti-coiled A-roads, overpasses, gyratories and weird airport roads. I came upon Brussels from the North after about 80k of riding. It wasn’t necessarily hard work, but constant; hills became a bit more frequent, and the airport near which my destination lay never seemed to come any closer. All of a sudden, by the use of the sun, some immense triangulation of my position, and about ten wrong roads, I was outside the house where I’d be staying. It lay some 210k from where I’d left the day before, along a cobbled road near a military base. A strange, quiet part of a big city, with the only punctuation to the peace coming from intermittent jet engines. It’s where HC’s brother is living this summer. He and his wife greet me, squeeze me, feed me, leave me alone to start the rehabilitation process toward smelling nice. Merino wool wears the salty medals of effort, cycle shorts can only maintain about 130k before smelling like a dog farm. I got in a shower and eeked with the cold on my legs, the warm on my sunburned neck, and the satisfaction one can only feel when they got to where they’re heading. That’s what I think I mean by the nautics of the velo.

[anitawhatley-blog]

ENG 358 Week 8 Benchmark Assignment Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation

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 ENG 358 Week 8 Benchmark Assignment Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation

 Details:

Prepare this assignment according to the instructions in “Rhetoric, Rhetorical Grammar, and Punctuation.”

This resource is not a worksheet; prepare your responses in a separate document.

 Part I: Parts of Sentence

 Directions: Using knowledge learned in the previous lessons, please identify the forms and functions for each sentence.

 Example:

My roommates/ fixed  /               spaghetti and garlic bread            / for dinner    / on Friday.

NP1                        predV                   NP2                                                        prep ph                prep ph                                :Form

Subject                 transV                   dir obj                                                   adverbial             adverbial                             :Function

  1.     After his long recovery from an injury, the pitcher threw a perfect game.

 2.     We named our two cats Rita and Harvey.

 3.     The prominent researcher gave her assistant a quick tutorial.

 4.     Before her final exam, Jill became nervous.

 5.     The business major made the library his main retreat for studying.

 6.     Morgan bought me a red Corvette for my birthday.

 7.     The executive committee named him salesperson of the year.

 8.     The important study prompted changes in health care for the elderly.

 9.     The teacher had always given back assignments promptly.

 10.   Has your clean laundry been folded yet?

  Part II: Punctuation

 Directions: In a separate document, use commas, colons, and dashes to revise and/or combine the following sentences.

 1.     The expenses to the investors including unforeseen repairs to infrastructure were almost enough to drive them away from the market.

2.     In our culture most people see crickets as noisy pests in other cultures people see them as a food source.

3.     A steady increase in the use of electronic devices such as smart phones laptop computers and tablets has led to a steady stream of profits especially for manufacturers.

4.     Experts in education argue that these technologies which are now common in the classroom have a significant impact on the way students learn.

5.     My favorite snacks almonds and bananas are good but also healthy.

6.     Most students and teachers probably do not know that first-year composition courses which are an almost universal requirement in higher education were first introduced at Harvard in the late 19th century.

7.     Health care experts recommend a combination of preventative care strategies diet exercise and reduced stress to avoid costly medical procedures later in life.

8.     Marcus Tullius Cicero a famous Roman orator became interested in public speaking at an early age. As a young man partly because of his elite education in Rome he became involved in politics through the Roman court system. He became known for speaking out against the violence that Roman dictators such as Julius Caesar supported. As an enemy of Mark Antony who was a member of the Second Triumvirate, Cicero was named an enemy of the state. The result was his death.