For those published and left unread For those revised and never published For those drafted unrevised For those not drafted, only thought For those but dreamed and never thought I mourn
Sure. Why not? Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com
The paeans hinted at but never sung The words spoken out aloud and unrecalled The lines jotted out on paper thrown away The letters sent and soon discarded The books gathering dust until they decay Sadnesses all
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After Reyall replies with reservation to Erek’s offer, “Ending a Life” opens with Alise waking in discomfort and surveying the total of her scholarship, “all in one stack.” She muses bitterly on her situation and the assertion by Rapskal that nothing of Elderling make ought to be in the hands of a non-Elderling, but soon rebukes herself for her angsty melancholy and is joined in that rebuke by the touch of Sintara’s mind on her own. Sintara signals some approval of Alise’s response, and Alise heads out to forage and survey her surroundings. While out, she encounters a big cat, which she frightens off. That done, she purposes to return to the keepers’ encampment with a warning about the predator, thinking she has earned a cup of tea as part of her own life.
Here, kitty, kitty, kitty… Image is Cburnett’s from the Wikimedia Commons, here, under a CC BY-SA 3.0 license, and is used for commentary with no assertion of endorsement
It is a brief chapter, the present one, and structurally simpler than many in the series, consisting of a single section focusing on a short time in one character’s life–a couple of hours, at most. In that length and simplicity, it serves to ease the reader into reading; even though the novel is but one in a series, and the last rather than the first, it is a new novel, thus a new reading experience, and so an easing-in rather than a dropping-in makes sense. (This is not to say that a novel ought not to start amid action and suddenly; many novels do so, and they do so well. But it is jarring to start such a novel, and jarring is not always the most desirable thing to do to a reader.)
The focus on Alise also calls attention to her ongoing character development. She has clearly had an existence of her own while the narrative has focused on other characters, rather than remaining a static figure against which the others can be measured. To my eye, it is another iteration of the kind of verisimilitude for which Hobb avowedly strives and which she in large measure delivers. (There are exceptions, of course, but, as the adage has it, “Even Homer nods.”) I have certainly had the experience in my life of not seeing someone for a time and being surprised at the ways in which they have changed; I do not think I am alone in it. Accordingly, it rings true for me that Alise has changed a bit since she last occupied Hobb’s pages, and I like even my fantasies to ring true.
They say they dream of days to come with Skies clouded as if with ash Falling on the frozen dead and nearly so Splashed with the color of blood at odd intervals And smoothly glabrous pubescent branches Hoping to kiss under parasites hanging detumescent When their breaths will freeze
Looming larger every day… Photo by Ksenia Chernaya on Pexels.com
But who will not take up their pagan chants Borrowed in season from offerings made to The sickle-wielding one whose sickle found him They will be the ones called overly libidinous And they who do not rejoice at the forests growing Even now Earlier and earlier with each year Though they stand not in Dunsinane Hands stained with Duncan’s murder But wish for broader joys They will be the ones called hateful Though the voices saying such are strained Flowing through flushed faces and Out of tightened throats
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I don’t think I’ve made a secret of my nerdiness; it’s attested here and elsewhere, not least in casual conversations I’ve had with no few people. In some ways, I’ve had to be; there’s a certain amount of nerdiness obligatory in graduate study, particularly graduate study of “that old stuff” that I studied, and there’s more involved in continuing to work with that kind of material after completing degrees and mustering out of formal academia. (Note here, here, here, and here. Note, too, that such citations, even if not necessarily formal, are themselves badges of nerdiness.) And, in the absence of a number of other ways in which people in my part of the world tend to define themselves, nerdiness does offer me some anchor for who and what I am; labels are always problematic, but they do offer sometimes-useful starting points, even to those of us who really ought to be a bit past “starting” at this point.
“In a hole in the ground…” Text from The Hobbit; image from One Wiki to Rule Them All, here, used for commentary
It shouldn’t be a surprise, then, that I mark out strange little bits of nerdiness in my own life, often in terrible puns. Today is not dissimilar, though I’m neither eleventy-one nor thirty-three to make the kind of gross joke commemorated in one volume. No, today gets marked as Hobbit Day by many of my acquaintance and affiliation, the date in Tolkien’s Legendarium on which both Bilbo and Frodo Baggins are born. While I will not be doing much to celebrate it, having other tasks to which I must apply myself, I note its happening, and the note itself reaffirms, to me and to all who see it, that I am and remain a nerd. And since I no longer have to worry about schoolroom bullies giving me wedgies or waiting with sticks for me to ride my bike past the physical plant, there is some comfort in having a reconnection to what has long been part not only of my public persona but my private personality.
We all always perform, as scholars have noted, even if the audience is only ourselves.
Today, I have my little scene, and I’ve already recited my lines.
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It was when I felt most alive, Before the fallen world contrived To overturn all that had been. I had not yet to start again Because I had but barely started In the world. Still open-hearted, I set out to make my name In cloistered world, to earn acclaim Within the ivory tower’s halls. I’d not yet hidden in the walls, A skulking mouse. I knew the world, Saw each new banner that unfurled And marked devices each displayed; I knew well, then, what was well made, Knew how to act, knew how to be, Knew how to parse what I did see, Knew what the current flow would bring. It’s easy, now, of that to sing In minor key while looking back And wondering what I now lack Of what I had then, who I was.
This was the first thing that came up searching for “2005.” I’m not sure why. Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels.com
I cannot go back now because Nobody ever can go back, And I have gained more than I lack, Which is, withal, a normal thing. My castle’s small; I am no king, Yet still some gladly take the knee, Do as I ask, though they are free, While on me, no small charge is laid. I face it, and the world, afraid And wish sometimes that I could curl Myself in bed, tight as a burl, But such hope as I have me calls. I leave my dreams where each may fall And work that I might keep the same From happening to whom I claim, Who themselves are newer started In the world, still open-hearted, Whose hopes and dreams I can defend, Though all mine, else, have reached their end. In this, at least, I’m not belied. Rest now, old dreams; for now, abide.
As was the case for the first, second, and third volumes of the Rain Wilds Chronicles, the fourth and final volume, Blood of Dragons, begins with a cast of characters. Keepers and their dragons, Bingtowners, the crew of the Tarman (including the ship’s cat), and a miscellaneous array are described, with reference to previous novels and series where appropriate.
A brief prologue, “Changes” opens with Tintaglia waking to some discomfort due to the ongoing effects of an injury incurred during an attack by Chalcedean forces. Parted from Icefyre, she realizes to her chagrin that she had been following the older dragon, and she considers the humanization of her behavior unhappily as she rehearses her purpose of reaching Malta and Reyn and the demands of travel to them. When she attempts to take off, she falters, aggravating the injury, and when she regains the air, she does so with hardened purpose.
This will not be the first time I have written about the novel, of course; I first read it soon after it was published, and I wrote about it swiftly thereafter. It has been a while, though, since I have reread the novel–not the more than ten years since the initial reading, but far longer than ought to have been the case. I am pleased to be addressing the issue now, however, not only as part of this reading series, but also because a piece of scholarship I have undertaken to do will ask me to revisit the text in some detail. (And, in support of that piece of scholarship, I think this rereading series will be useful, although I can already see places where I could wish my annotation had been better than it currently is. Perhaps some kind of reading guide can come about that will be of help to others who would focus their attentions on Hobb’s work.)
As is ever the case, I look forward to moving through the book again. I don’t have as much luxury of time to read now as I did in the past, for a number of reasons (although parenting is less of one now than previously; I am pleased to have a child who, at least for now, enjoys reading, so it’s something we can do together). Giving myself reason to read, and to read materials I enjoy, is a good thing.
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A week ago today, and at about this time, I was laid off as part of “cost-cutting measures.” It wasn’t the first time it’s happened to me, to be sure; I was laid off from a college coffee shop job and from a teaching position for much the same reason (although the latter recalled me thanks to the union of which I was a member at the time). I was a bit upset at the event, which I do not think is unreasonable; I had thought I was doing well in the job, and I was looking forward to making a few improvements to things which I must now defer for an uncertain amount of time as I look for new work. Too, where I live, much is made about the work a person does and the job a person has; being suddenly out of work and without a job is a substantial social setback, and one for which I admit I was not prepared.
Yeah, it wasn’t a good afternoon. Photo by Nathan Cowley on Pexels.com
But (and there is, of course, a but; there are, in fact, several).
I had been doing occasional freelance work throughout my time with a “regular” job, enjoying having the extra income. I’ve been able to keep doing that in the past week, and I’ve been focusing on that more narrowly, so I have some money coming in that way. Too, I’m fortunate to have a deep support network, family and friends, so as I’ve started looking for “regular” work again, I’ve had recruiters’ eyes looking over my materials, and I’ve had offers of support from a number of people come in. I appreciate it all.
Grateful though I am–and I am grateful; things could be much worse than they are, as I am well aware, and I am not unmindful that they are not–I do need some more help, and I’m happy to work to earn it. As ever, I’m happy to offer my services in the following:
Literary research
General informational/documentary research
Proofreading
Style editing
Grant writing
Copywriting
Creative writing (especially poetry)
Literature and writing tutoring
Additionally, I do have some experience in bookkeeping, and I do excellently at data-entry, so if you have some work that needs doing, let me know below. I’m happy to talk about rates and duration, and I’ll be happier to get you your money’s worth!
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Following a message from Erek to Reyall in which the former offers the latter a reference for promotion, “Strange Bedfellows” begins with Leftrin awaiting comments from Bellin, apprehensively given the strangeness of her request for private conference. She notes that crewman Hennesey has clearly become enamored of Tillamon despite the class differences, noting the potential difficulties such infatuation poses. Leftrin muses on them, as well, and agrees to address the issue. He is less sanguine when Bellin mentions Skelly‘s infatuation with one of the keepers and the problems attendant upon the same. But after Bellin leaves to return to her duties, Leftrin goes on deck and notes the clear affection present between Hennesey and Tillamon, knowing that the relationship will have to run its course.
Something of the scene… Photo by David Riau00f1o Cortu00e9s on Pexels.com
Elsewhere, Hest’s servant wakes him aboard passenger transport he loathes, and he muses sourly about Trehaug and about his servant’s shortcomings. Sitting to a meal he views with contempt, Hest looks forward to being off ship and about the errand to which the Chalcedean assailant has put him. The thought of the assailant quails Hest, and he considers the effects of having been poisoned and humiliated, the latter of which is detailed. The tasks to which Hest is assigned are also detailed, and Hest ponders their importance. As he does so, his servant presents gossip about Tintaglia and Icefyre he has overheard, and Hest considers the implications of the same.
Aboard the Tarman, Reyn grows impatient, and Leftrin lays out the challenges facing them. He also explains the circumstances of the pursuit that dogs them, and Reyn lays out his own concerns. The two confer for a time before Leftrin espies additional pursuit, a so-called impervious ship, moving upstream with good speed. The new challenge presented by the ship is detailed, and Leftrin notes that more awaits invaders in Kelsingra than they expect.
In Chalced, the Duke of Chalced muses bitterly on the reports of failure brought before him. Ordering the deaths of families, he considers his own worsening situation, and his chancellor, Ellik, confers with him. Privately, the pair drop the pretenses of formality, and Ellik warns the Duke of the intentions Chassim, his daughter, harbors. The spread of potentially seditions materials is noted and described, and Ellik cautions the Duke not to react as he is expected to, but to award Ellik Chassim as a wife. The Duke calmly explicates the potential for treachery, with which Ellik agrees calmly, and the Duke agrees to Ellik’s terms while setting one of his own: dragon blood. Ellik notes that a prisoner is en route who will provide it; a sample of the prisoner’s flesh is given to the duke, and he eats. Eased, he reaffirms his agreement to Ellik’s terms.
The epilogue, “Homeward Bound,” turns to Icefyre and Tintaglia as they hunt. Tintaglia finds herself envious of Icefyre’s more practiced abilities, and her thoughts turn to Selden. The pair fall upon prey, which Tintaglia pursues with difficulty due to her wound. The dragons confer about the injury, and Icefyre notes a silver well in Kelsingra that might be of aid. Tintaglia determines that she will return to the Rain Wilds.
I note with some appreciation the way in which the final chapter of the novel calls back to the first chapter, and the epilogue to the front matter. It does make for a nice roundedness and boundedness to the novel, helping it to feel like a complete narrative in itself despite its clear status as one volume–and neither the first nor the last–of a series.
Less structurally, the decks of the Tarman seem awash in affection, whether of the romantic sort or the more familial. Reading affectively–because I seem always to do so, anymore–I find I do not envy Leftrin the tasks of investigating and discouraging young love that he faces. Admittedly, because Hennesey’s infatuation and Skelly’s do have the potential to affect how the crew of the Tarman operates, Leftrin has a compelling interest in at least monitoring their situations; as the captain, he is ultimately responsible for the behavior and performance of the crew. Too, as Skelly’s uncle, Leftrin has a more personal interest in her love affairs, both in the context of familial affection and in the context of Trader society, in which marriages are contracts. As to the former, the fact of the keeper’s transformation into an Elderling is a potential issue; the differences in life expectancy and, potentially, in species-specific mechanics certainly deserve consideration. As to the latter, Skelly already has some arrangements made on her behalf, which Leftrin’s own romantic interests potentially affect, and while readers might balk at the idea of arranged marriages, they are already established in context as part of “how things are done” among the Traders.
By contrast, the scene in Chalced seems calculated to highlight Chalced as stereotypically evil. There has been motion toward that point already, with the long-established history of Chalced as an enslavement-based society whose practices call to mind the worst aspects of chattel slavery in the earlier United States. In the Liveship Traders series, the rampant misogyny of Chalced is highlighted (and presented as a social contagion, not lease in the characters of Kyle Haven and Satrap Cosgo). In the current series, the willingness of Chalcedeans to harvest parts from the dragons is presented as in keeping with prevailing expectations of their nation and its people; there’s something of the “of course Chalced does that stuff” present in discussions of them. The assaults on Hest, the brutalization of Selden, and the willingness to outright slaughter Malta and Phron for parts, extend it further, making Chalced depraved in a way that goes beyond the kind of propaganda that might be expected of a people about their antagonistic neighbors.
Obviously.
The death-men, however, and the Duke of Chalced’s own (relatively) easy cannibalism cement Chalced as evil in an almost cartoonish way. (Not for nothing do I use the gif from Jackson’s movies above; I have to wonder if there’s not some more or less direct influence there.) It comes off as calculated to present Chalced as irredeemably evil, almost inherently so, and while Hobb has done some of that kind of thing before (I am put in mind of Regal again), she usually embeds at least a Freudian excuse into her protagonists. Not so with Chalced, not anymore. And I find myself wondering how such a society could remain in place as a persistent antagonist for both the Traders and the Six Duchies for so long–although I note something of the common conceptions of Sparta at work in the depiction of Chalced; pervasive militarization would have such an effect, and the yoking of such to depravity could easily be read as a comment on what has become called toxic masculinity…ah, to have time to write papers (and to do the reading for that kind of writing)!
One other thing attracts my attention as I conclude discussion of this novel in this series: the seditious materials Chassim is spreading. I note with glee that the motion towards overthrow of tyranny is undertaken in illuminated verse. It is not to be wondered at that an author would valorize writing, as I have noted, but it remains a delight to see done again, all the same.
A few years back, now, I reflected on what is now and will likely continue to be regarded as the second major event in the new millennium in the United States (the first being the opening of the millennium): the terrorist attacks of 11 September 2001. It joins the fifth of November, Goliad, and the Alamo as a thing not to forget, and it is akin to 7 December 1941 in being a day that lives in infamy. Or it seems like it should, somehow, even if there seems to be less and less commemoration of, well, all such things. They’re decades gone and more, now, and there is always some new thing on which to fixate, some new wrong that deserves attention and redress (and I say so much sincerely); what has happened is crowded out by what is happening.
There is still not a picture needed for this.
So much is not inappropriate, of course. What went before cannot be changed, although regard for and understanding of it certainly can and almost as certainly should. (This is not to say evil should be excused, of course, though I know well that many will look at the revelation of nuance and detail as an attempt to do so. I see it happen too much with other things not to think that the same will happen again, and while I know that it is not strictly logical, I also know that reason is more than logic alone, despite the stated pretenses of far too many.) What is happening now can, at least to some degree, be changed; what is happening now can, at least to some degree and for some people, be improved. Who benefits and to what extent remain open questions, although they seem to be closing more daily, and in part because of what happened in the wake of the terrorist attacks whose twenty-second anniversary is today.
If we have grown scarred as the cliché has it, it shows us as having been injured and being able to feel less as a result of it. Touch the scars you have, who have them, and then the never-cut flesh beside it, and tell me which place is more sensate. Consider the scars that are shown, and consider, too, the deeper ones formed by wounds not seen but still inflicted, tears and cuts and punctures deep within that make the lungs breathe more raggedly, the bowels move in fits and starts, the heart lurch. We live who live; we endure who do. But we do not do either so well as we did before, though we parade where we have been wounded.
The wounds show more fully the more closely and the smaller we look, of course. How many and how grievous have been inflicted, have been endured, have been accepted? Smooth skin is not necessarily a prize, youth and inexperience not virtues in themselves because unearned (and is there not a fixation on earning to be found?), but not all injuries are deserved, and not all scars are merited.
These years later, having seen the results of fear indulged too long and often, have we yet learned the lessons offered for such high tuition as makes pennies of what a bursar will bill? Or will we need more remediation?
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A poem, bespoke, can be a splendid prize, Or else can be a holiday surprise, For one beloved in whose watching eyes A person wants to look both good and true. It can, instead, be made to foster rue In someone whose rebuke is overdue, A slap delivered faceward without hands, The stinging pain of which across years stands. Short strings of verse can meet many demands; They can achieve goals spurred by love or pride, They can address what is often denied, And they can speak truths all too oft belied. O, you are worth a verse or two, I say; Avail yourself of such without delay!
To be put to good use… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
In sonnet form or still an older style I push my pen as purpose will demand To meet the mandate, what must be done, Which the eater of verses, eager with eyes To look upon lines of love or of honor, Says what speaking should sit on the page, Field well furrowed and soon to bring fruit. The ink-home will empty; efforts avail To lay out the lines that will linger on, A person’s Polaris, a point for true steering To guide those who go out in the great world, Marvelous making that measure defies, Rightly through writing to reckon how life Is bettered, is boasted, while borrowed a time– Such I can say; who will sit and read it?
Elliott RWI 