A Rumination on the Dog Days

Summer is in full session in the part of the world in which I live, the Texas Hill Country. Already, there have been days with high temperatures above 100ºF / 37ºC, whose lows were themselves quite high; already, the ground begins to crack from thirst, and some creeks are running dry that had flowed far more freely. Nor is this the worst of it; August has yet to arrive, and it is August that treats this part of the world as a blast furnace. Bodies exhaust themselves trying to shed heat into the heat, and, fatiguing, people feel their tempers fray faster than in fall or winter or spring. It is likely the case that the heat has killed some here already this year; it is a certainty that more will die from it than have, as any who have lived here and listened or looked will know and as any who do for any length of time will find.

Matters are somewhat improved.
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It is a beautiful place, but it is not necessarily a kind one.

Even sitting comfortably where someone else has to pay the power bill to keep the air conditioning running, I find myself battered by the brightness outside, laboring under the feeling of heat that inescapably rises from seeing the rippling rising from the pavement, warping the images of the fading green leaves beyond. Something not water seems to coruscate upon the pale ribbons that tie our towns together, glitter bedecking the gift that is this part of the world, however hot it is and will be for the coming weeks.

Because, again, it is going to get worse before it gets better. And although I have lived through this swelling cycle many times, and although many have done so more times than I and with less support than I enjoy in my indolence and ease, there will be no few who suffer for nothing that they have done other than to be where they are, bitten badly by the dogs of these days.

I can only hope they’ve had their shots.

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Hacking Things Apart

Screaming into the open air until
My throat is torn and still
Screaming up the bloody hunks
Hoping that having to stop and
Scrape some part of me off of their faces will
Make them pause long enough to look at
The world they are helping make
Tinted red by something not a sunset
And stop in horror at how the hue
Ruins all the views they had thought to have

Oh, no, there’s no metaphor here; why would you think so?
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They do not listen
Of course
And why should they when
They bathe so gladly
Drink so deeply
Of the wine of which I am a fountain
But one more small faucet pouring out upon them
And stay drunk on the spirits they ingest
?

When the time comes that
They must sober up
And they see what covers them
And the long line of those who
Wounded
Have yielded it
Who will then have the axe in hand
And swing it one more time?

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A Robin Hobb Rereading Series: Entry 355: City of Dragons, Chapter 5

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.


Following advice of a reward for information about Sedric and Alise from their families and an accompanying brief message to Detozi that notes questions of transmission integrity, “A Bingtown Trader” begins with Hest surveying Alise’s chambers in his home. He muses in annoyance on the chambers and their erstwhile occupant, and he fumes at the expense of having taken Alise as a wife and the pretense that his doing so enacts. The implications that Alise and Sedric have run off together, though Hest knows them to be false, rankle and affect his business dealings, annoying him yet further. His steps against his lover and his wife are rehearsed, and his reverie is interrupted by a visitor from Chalced.

Oh, right. This guy.
Image for commentary, of course.

Hest seeks to rebuke the visitor and is assailed for his troubles, soon pressed hard for information he does not have about Sedric’s dealings with Chalcedean agents. He is also conscripted into Chalced’s mission to acquire dragon-parts for their ruler’s health, given grim reminders of the importance of that mission to deliver.

It would seem to have been a while since Hest last appeared “in the flesh” in the narrative, as such; he is referenced and recalled, but to have him present in the narrative present is not something that happens often. And that is likely for the best; he is, as has been remarked on more than one occasion by more than one character, an unpleasant person with few, if any, redeeming qualities. Admittedly, Hobb has dwelt on such characters more than once before; depictions of Will and Regal in the Farseer novels come to mind, as do depictions of Kyle Haven in the Liveship Traders novels. Still, that Hest has only this brief direct part in the narrative after so long outside it seems marked, suggesting to my mind that he is functioning as a place-holder and character-type rather than as an actual character. That is, Hest is not important to the narrative in himself so much as he is important to the narrative for his interactions with other characters.

The potential problem that arises with this is that characters who are treated in such ways tend towards enacting and reinforcing stereotypes. Used for their narrative functions rather than having their development presented and explored, such characters do not invite the level of craft and attention that more focal figures receive, and it becomes easy to present them via a kind of short-hand, evoking or outright presenting types likely to be taken in and understood by broader readerships–and, all too often, those types are unflattering representations of classes of people. That they are so easily accessible is the result of long years of infelicity and worse, problems likely to continue because they continue to be used with minimal critique in the media people take in.

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