While some will say they seek gold eagles there behind a long gray line, Others looked to Callard and Bowser and got along just fine. In cooling spice and lance’s kin, and others, it abounds In kitchens, and at holidays, it makes its starlit rounds. Standing off the causeway road, it presses queens and kings; Its condition is desirable for a great many things.
Not a Jim Carrey portrayal, to be sure… Photo by Julia Filirovska on Pexels.com
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As I was, after too long a delay, reading pieces to update the Fedwren Project, I looked at a chapter of Kim Wilkins, Beth Driscoll, and Lisa Fletcher’s Genre Worlds: Popular Fiction and Twenty-First-Century Book Culture, “Genre Sociality Online and in Person.” I’ve got a summary of the chapter here, so I’ll not repeat it, but it is the case, as with much of what I’ve read to work on the Project, that there’s more to be said than just a summary. My contribution to that is below.
There’s a lot in the chapter I appreciate, so much so that I am seriously considering buying the book. One thing that attracted my particular attention, however, was the section “Conventions and the Importance of Being There.” Again, I’ve already written a summary and so won’t recapitulate it here, but I will note that I found myself in mind of my own experience as part of a fandom (see here). The issue the authors raise about concerns of being participant-observers is one I have considered at times as I have worked on the Project and on my Hobb reread, as well as on some of the other work I’ve done (for example, this).
There remains, certainly in popular conception, an idea that making knowledge about a thing requires a distance from that thing, that engagement and its concomitant emotional investment in a thing skews the knowledge to be made about that thing to an extent that it becomes unusable. (I do not agree with the position, as such, but I do not have to agree with it to recognize its existence or its effects–which all too often are rejection of the knowledge made.) It tends to be voiced disingenuously, of course, and rarely outside the context of academic research (and, more narrowly, the academic humanities, but one more way in which prevailing discourse devalues consideration of what it is and means to be human); a current or former baseball player, for example, will be taken more seriously when discussing the game because of experience playing the game than will a researcher who has never thrown a pitch, but a con-goer who writes about cons has to foreground that attendance and apologize (or nearly so) for the subjectivity of reporting.
As if all reporting is not subjective, at least to some degree. After all, selecting what details to convey is a choice, and it will necessarily reflect biases, inherent and otherwise.
I want to make clear that I do not fault the authors for this. As noted, I find much of value in what I’ve read of theirs, and I want to read more of theirs. They’re not to blame for gesturing towards a problem that preexists them–and, to be honest if pessimistic, will likely last long after they, and I, and you are dust and ash. It is a problem, though, and one with which I have some experience, hence my attentions. And if that is yet another example of my affective reading…well, again, it’s not faulted in readers in other areas than mine, so that I think there’s something else going on with it in those areas.
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Following an in-milieu commentary on secrets, “Lord Feldspar” begins with Fitz tidying up from the meal and preparing himself to assume the role of Lord Feldspar that has been laid out for him. After he dresses, Chade enters upon him, and the two talk together of access to the hidden corridors of Buckkeep. Chade rebukes Fitz somewhat for his inattentions at Withywoods, and Chade offers details of the assignment as Feldspar and a briefing in support of the same. After a brief consultation regarding the Fool and Bee, Fitz begins his work for Chade again.
It fits Fitz. Photo By: Kaboompics.com on Pexels.com
Fitz emerges as Feldspar into the hubbub of Winterfest preparations and celebrations, moving easily through the throng as he observes his surroundings. He does mark the presence of Witmaster Web, working to avoid contact with the man and following his assignment as he can. The procession of Six Duchies royalty–the former queen, Kettricken, as well as King Dutiful and Queen Elliania and their sons–and Fitz notes changes in their appearances and demeanors since he last met with them. He also works to immerse himself more fully in his role, finding persons of interest and relaying information about them through the Skill to Chade. His mind turns to his daughter, and he thinks of her, partly through the Skill, before retiring for the evening.
Something that occurred to me suddenly (and belatedly, I concede) is that the cover illustration on the edition of the text I’m reading presents Fitz as backhandedly angelic. He has a halo provided by the O in Hobb’s name, and shadowy wings spread from his shoulders. Both are darker than is typical of “angels,” but then, I’ve long since noted the ways in which Fitz is atypical (here, among others), and I find myself thinking that, if he is an angel, Fitz is an angel of death–still angelic, sure, but hardly a “light” figure. Not a stunning observation, I admit, and one reliant on paratext rather than text (however, this seems relevant), so hardly authorial or narrative, but still something to attend to.
More germane to the present chapter, however, there is some interest in the choices surrounding Fitz’s current alias as Lord Feldspar. The name itself refers to one of the most common minerals to be found, noted for its use in glassmaking and ceramics, among others. (Sometimes, Wikipedia is useful, and this page seems to cite its sources, which helps.) Hobb’s often-evidenced predilection towards emblematic names shows up in this; it’s…appropriate for an ostensibly nondescript observer to have the name of a common thing used in something designed to let images pass through. Similarly, Feldspar is reportedly at Buckkeep to negotiate regarding a new vein of copper ore, and copper is associated both with metalworking from early through current incarnations of it and with money, being the traditional primary component of the most basic currencies. It’s effectively everywhere and in everything, and if it’s more useful in conjunction with others, it’s far from useless on its own…and that’s hardly an inaccurate description of Fitz. Funny how that works out.
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It occurs to me that I did not provide the answer to this riddle; it’s “pen.”
Once again, I write a little song
While sitting at my desk. I have not long
In which to do the task, but there’s no wrong
In spending idle moments shaping lines
That some might read while sipping at their wines
Or in which some might see un-thought-of signs
That all may yet be well. There is a hope
In writing, though each written piece might grope
Ineptly towards some unseen hanging rope
By which it might itself and readers haul
From out that pit into which many fall:
Despair. Each verse becomes another call
To stand up, rise up, take up noble task,
Give all therein; nothing more is asked.
Looks about right. Photo by Emmanuel Ikwuegbu on Pexels.com
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Following a recollection of Nighteyes’s early experience, “Winterfest Eve at Buckkeep” opens with Fitz starting awake in unfamiliar surroundings, returning to his human experience from the dream of being a wolf. Fitz soon assesses himself and his situation, and he attends to the Fool, noting the changes that had befallen him since they had last seen one another and ruminating on the Fool’s request that he kill the Servants. He ruminates, too, on how he has left Bee and Nettle’s decision about her sister, and he notes the changes that have been enacted on Chade’s old hidden chambers as he works to set things to rights.
Moving on to this one… Image is mine, severally
As he works, Fitz reaches out to Chade through the Skill, only to find him engaged in diplomatic matters concerning Kelsingra and its potential alliance with Chalced. After brief consideration, Fitz leaves off thoughts about those efforts and resumes his work to attend to the Fool, slipping clandestinely back into the halls of Buckkeep and despondently considering his separation from Bee as he takes in the sights of holiday preparations and changes to Buckkeep Town as he approaches it. Amid his shopping, for the Fool and for Bee, he considers the difficulties involved in resuming his former identity as Badgerlock, and he returns to Chade’s hidden rooms without incident.
Once there, Fitz notes the service provided to the chambers and pens a letter to Bee. He is soon disturbed by the approach of a serving-boy, Ash, whom Fitz soon dismisses. Ash leaves a message from Chade behind, one that offers Fitz an identity as Lord Feldspar and commissions him with information-gathering–something that offers a perverse excitement, along with a reasonably complete kit for the clandestine work in which Fitz was trained long ago.
The Fool wakes, and he and Fitz talk together briefly before the Fool works to navigate himself to the chambers’ table, where food awaits. Progress is slow, but he reaches his goal, and at the table, the two exchange some reports of their doings, the Fool noting that Bee was the “son” he had sought. Fitz notes that Bee is his daughter, and some argument about that point ensues, leaving the Fool confused and either sullen or fatigued. Fitz then begins to do the work Chade has asked of him.
As all sequels seemingly must, the present novel begins with exposition, bringing a reader abreast of in-milieu current events and foregrounding major threads to be pursued in the text. Hobb handles the events-summary well, using Fitz’s confusion at waking in unfamiliar surroundings to smooth over assessment of them and the situation that puts him among them, as well as using the conversation between Fitz and the Fool to establish their current tensions. The message to Chade, something entirely reasonable to include, also permits the swift establishment of current international contexts, and Chade’s machinations give Fitz a reason to go out and get involved in larger events, making more plot possible. It’s something I appreciate as I begin to read the novel again.
As noted, this is not the first time I have read the novel. I discuss my first time doing so here, a little more than nine years ago as I write this, and while much of what is in my initial comments remains true as I write now, I have to wonder how much of it will continue to do so for me. After all, I first discuss the novel after having completed a reading of it, and I am not all the way back through the novel again as I write this. Too, I am a different man now than I was then; I am not a still-aspiring academic, and while I was a father then, nine years in the life of a child is quite a long time, and a parent cannot help but change as the child does. And some of what I discuss has changed; there seems to be much more attention given to world-building and the implications of fantastical elements in texts now than there was then, whether just by me or by creators themselves.
I do look forward to the continued rereading, truly. Looking back to some of the earlier portions of it so as to pull up references made in the present chapter (and I’ve doubtlessly missed some along the way; I’ve read and reread and written about Hobb’s works so many times they form a sort of background noise for me, and I don’t always note everything in them that there is to find) has reminded me of how long I’ve been working on this project, doing so in fits and starts along the way, updating inconsistently as I can steal moments to attend to it among the many other things that clamor for, that demand and deserve, my attention and my efforts. I have changed as I’ve done this work, although not so much because I’ve done it and continue to do it as for other reasons; having some record of the change is…interesting, at least for me.
I hope the rereading continues to be interesting for you.
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This is not the first time I’ve made a post to this webspace on Veterans Day, having done so here and here previously. As in previous years, I am somewhat…tense…concerning what I would write here, being myself not a veteran and not apt to become one at this point in my life. (If I am needed to fight, being currently aged 42 and with sciatica, never in my life having been able to do a pull-up, the war is long lost already.) I know that the standard line is “Say ‘thank you for your service’ and then shut the fuck up,” and perhaps that is the most fitting thing for me to do–but those who know me know that “shut the fuck up” isn’t really something I have it in me to do often or long. (It’s not a good thing, usually. I suppose we all have our vices.)
(Yes, I know I’m using naughty words. If you have pearls of your own, clutch away, but do kindly keep your hands off of mine.)
Some of the veterans I have known–and I know and have known more than a few, some quite well–have made much of being thanked for their service. Some have made as much about not thanking them for it, saying such things as “it was just a job” or “you don’t know what I did, so you might not want to thank me.” And it’s true; I don’t know. I know there are things that should not be said (under threat of punitive action or because they are even more impolite to discuss than the naughty words I use above). I know, too, that there are things that cannot be said, things to which words do not suffice. Which of them apply, and to what extent, is unclear to me.
Most often, the standard line is delivered in tones of snarling contempt. I’ve heard it enough, both in person and in recordings included in reporting, to know that much well. (It might be imagined easily that I’ve been told it a lot.) Like most, I bristle at it–understandably, if not perhaps always rightly. But if there are good reasons to shut up, a lack of knowledge is certainly one, and the recognition of words’ inadequacy is another. And though I am a person of words–sometimes, far too many or far too coarse–
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O, Stupid God, cast not your eyes on me!
Put your attentions where I will not be;
Mark not the path by which I from you flee!
I seek to pass in peace beyond your reach,
Who once would gladly learn and gladly teach,
And that I do so freely, I beseech
You, just for this; I ask no other thing.
I know that even this request will bring
Attention to me from whom your praises sing,
And their cacophonies will wound the ears,
As I have learned from far too many years
Of hearing them, and shedding many tears.
I have no more to shed, so let me go.
I can go quietly; no one need know.
Wielded by many, a wonder awaits,
Hidden and hanging, held within trousers
Or placed in a purse, potent in old wisdom.
At one end open, erect when in hand,
Of old, the remains of assaults upon Ansers
And Brantas; anew, it boasts of balls’ actions
By fountains fathered, that famous thing.
Again and as often, it emerges
To greet the world, gleeful, by going
Near to a naked thing, prompted by need
To make pregnant the prone one placed well in view.
Let one who has wisdom wield such a thing;
Let one who has insight say what it is.
Something of a scene… Photo by Nathan Cowley on Pexels.com
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An excerpt from a travelogue discussing the White Prophets precedes “The Raid,” which chapter begins with Bee noting her return to Withywoods with Lant and Shun. She reports a gloss of their comments, and she marks their arrival at her home with displeasure. They leave her behind in the stables, from which household servants retrieve her and make over her. She reports events to them, although she meets with some disbelief at her account. But after she is assisted in and into her chambers, Bee tries to puzzle out more of what she has experienced and what her father said to her, repairing to his study to do so. Within, she confers with Wolf-Father, who offers comfort and cryptic wisdom.
Bee wakes in the morning to a busy estate as it makes preparations for the Winterfest holiday. Bee is again tended to, making ready for the day as she puzzles yet further. She manages to slip away to her private sanctum in the walls, spending a little time there before sitting to her lessons. Perseverance joins her there, discussing with her the dogs that Fitz had acquired. Lessons begin at length, going poorly until commotion outside prompts their interruption. Investigation soon reveals the commotion to be an attack on Withywoods, and Bee and Perseverance urge the other children to flee to safety. Bee opens the hidden corridors of Withywoods to them, and she and Perseverance attempt to obscure their passage. Their flight continues, and they see the members of the household and their assailants, the latter interrogating the former.
Perseverance heads off to seek his father, leaving Bee to hide herself. She sneaks back towards the estate, determined suddenly to protect a people she recognizes as her own, but she encounters Perseverance. The two ride in haste for the nearest town, but their passage is marked, and they are pursued. Perseverance is injured, and Bee is taken, seemingly ensorcelled by the delight of her attackers at finding “the unexpected son” at last.
The epilogue that follows turns to Fitz and a rumination on memory–and the descent of his life beginning then.
And here it is, the end of the novel–and what an ending! If it is the case that the previous chapter identifies the principal forces at work in the novel, the final chapter brings them into view more overtly and personalizes the problem they present for Fitz, which problem he realizes in the epilogue. The chapter also points up the instability of gender categories in the Elderlings novels, a topic treated by Katavić, Mohon, Räsänen, Sanderson, and Schouwenaars (find abstracts and citations to the pieces in question here, please), among others; Bee, despite being female and presenting as feminine, is regarded by her captors as being a brother and an unexpected son.
It might be thought that placing such an assertion on the lips of antagonistic characters renders the assertion a faulty one, something to be scorned. As with many things Hobb does, however, the presentation is more nuanced than that. The Fool, after all, believes that the figure sought by the Servants is a son, and, on his word, Fitz looks for a son springing from the Fool. The latter should, from experience, be wary of such claims from the Fool, there having been significant tension about the Fool’s willingness (and ability) to present as a woman. The former, knowing from lived experience that such categories are unstable–certainly as applies to the Fool–have even less excuse. It must be noted, however, that Hobb often presents her protagonists as being wrong; it’s a touch of authenticity I appreciate, overall, although the (large) part of me that reads affectively is annoyed at some of the failings on display.
As if I do any better in my own life. (I likely do not.)
If I return again to Freytag’s pyramid (which may or may not be useful, admittedly) and regard the trilogy as the structure at work (which is more useful, given that even the edition I am reading–a first edition–shows “Book I of the Fitz and the Fool Trilogy” on its jacket), the final chapter and epilogue of the first volume can be read as having presented the inciting incident, ending formal exposition and setting up for rising action to come in the second book of the series. From the chapter and epilogue, and without thinking in terms of a rereading, the rising action could well be expected to be flight of Bee’s kidnappers and pursuit thereof by Fitz–although reading within the context of Hobb’s Elderlings novels and, more broadly, in her body of work would suggest that there will be no shortage of complications for both groups. Indeed, it would hardly be a Fitz novel without him running into problems, no few of his own making. (Another point of affective identification, that.) It’s been some time since I’ve read the text, however, and longer since it was more than a scan for passages to cite in the service of some argument I was trying to make. I don’t remember if I’m right…but I look forward to finding out.
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I have a job
I do it well
I offer service
I do not sell
But every day
I see new things
And wonder what
Each of them brings
Thinking about
How to earn more
But I don’t change
My life’s a bore
…something like that, sure. Photo by Franco Monsalvo on Pexels.com
I don’t complain
I just observe
I’m better off
Than I deserve
I do good work
I’m in fair shape
The barrel’s bottom
I do not scrape
Though I still look
At what appears
As I have done
Too many years
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Elliott RWI 