Somehow, the wrinkled citrus thrown away By many hands still stands in light of day And rocks as many look on in dismay At thoughts that its foul roots still spread and sprout, That they yet linger, that none can rip out Each shoot that springs up from the soil. No doubt Remains that that invasive plant endures, That, festering, it for itself secures A foothold, fed by dozens of manures That many yet will all too gladly spread. They shovel out what falls from every head Among them, feast, and think themselves well fed. No wonder, then, such stink is in the air As leaves behind all hog-farms in compare.
Something like this, yes Photo by Daniel Dan on Pexels.com
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A good while back, I made some comments (here and here) about an exercise class I’d started and was taking. In the time since, I’ve moved to a different county and through more jobs than I care to recount, and I’m not in that class any longer, although I remember it fondly and wish the instructor (who is still in the business as of this writing, here) well.
So, where’s the pot-bell? Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
I’ve also done what I could to keep going to the gym. It hasn’t been in organized classes, as such, although I did join a gym and was reasonably diligent about going a couple of times a week. As my work situation shifted, I had more or less trouble keeping up, although I did feel guilty about missing gym time when I did. Even so, my weight rose, my waistline expanded, and I felt myself becoming…less capable.
More recently, with the newest shift in my working situation, I made an adjustment to my gym-going. Since I don’t regularly work in a town with the other gym I was a member of, I disenrolled from it and took up with a local place; it’s a lot easier for me to make a five-minute drive than a thirty-five minute one. Since my schedule has moved a bit, I’m now able to go to the gym more days, and with my family having the schedule it does, I have a block of time many mornings or most in which I would be alone at home or too early to the workplace; I have time to get some exercise in more often now than before, and I’ve been working to take advantage of that time.
I’ve never been in the best shape, to be honest. I was a scrawny kid, and I have always been a paunchy adult. I don’t expect that I’ll ever lack a flabby belly or jiggling jowls. (Part of why I wear a beard is to minimize the appearance of the latter.) But I can be better and do more, and I think it might well be the case that, over the coming weeks and months, I’ll write somewhat about the efforts I’m making to that end. If nothing else, I do have to show that I can do more than hammer out summaries and snippets of verse in this webspace.
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A brief message from Erek and Detozi to Reyall notes upcoming action from the Bird Keepers’ Guild before “Icefyre” begins. As the chapter opens, the keepers in Kelsingra assess Icefyre, wary of him and noting his injuries. Debate about how to approach the elder dragon ensues, and Rapskal steps forward. Icefyre responds, reporting his situation; he calls upon the dragons of Kelsingra to aid him in exacting revenge. As many of the dragons move off to tend to Icefyre and hold counsel, Tintaglia notes acidly that Icefyre’s concern was absent when she was injured, and the keepers and Alise note that the revenge must be taken for the attacks. Chalced is identified as the likely culprit, and it is determined that the dragons will assail it. Preparations begin in haste.
The dragons’ conference is related, Sintara and Tintaglia assessing the males among the Kelsingra dragons. Methods and the lack of memory are noted, and concerns of unintended consequences are raised. The indignity of attack prevails, however, though talk of effects does not end.
Leftrin and Alise confer, Leftrin noting that the Tarman must sail for Cassarick to inform the Traders of the dragons’ intent and possible blowback from it. Alise assesses the rapid changes that have befallen, and memories of the attack of Chalced on Bingtown rise up around her. She determines to accompany Leftrin, and she voices her concern about Hest, only to learn that he is missing. The pair put the matter of Hest aside, and preparations for departure continue.
Thymara returns to her room to find Rapskal awaiting her, acting more out of his inherited memories than from himself. She refuses him, and the two part in anger.
The next morning, the dragons as Kelsingra mass to fly against Chalced. Thymara and Tats confer about proceedings, and the arrayed host is described as it makes ready. Not all are eager who will sally forth, and goodbyes are said as the dragons and their company begin to depart. Current statuses are noted, as well, and work on Kelsingra resumes.
The present chapter, near the end of the novel and of the tetralogy, has something of a rushed feeling to it, something I’ve noted about several of the Realm of the Elderlings novels in this rereading series, as well as about this novel in another place. I continue to be somewhat put off by it, although that may well be nothing more than a matter of my personal tastes at work; there is always a concern in offering critique about how much is merely individual preference and how much is broader assessment of literary craft. As it might well be argued that I have literary pretensions at best, I can understand that my own comments on such matters could well tolerate more than one of proverbial grain of salt. But then, there’re many folks who like a lot of salt in what they eat.
As I reread the chapter, particularly the passage in which the dragons and some of their keepers make ready to depart Kelsingra and do so, I found myself in mind of scenes from Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings movies, namely those in which the people of Rohan ready themselves at Helm’s Deep. The depiction of such of the keepers as Sylve seems to me reminiscent of that of the children of Rohan, plodding forward fearfully in armor too big for them–but it’s a common enough thing, not only in Tolkienian-tradition fantasy literature, that it might simply be dipping at the same well rather than filling a cup from a bucket already pulled up.
As I reread my review of the book, though, close to eleven years on, I note there’s been some consistency in my approach to the text across time. I’m not necessarily sure how to regard it; was I more or less right all that time ago, or have I stagnated in the more-than-a-decade since? I’m gratified that the gender- and queer-studies approaches I’d noted as being open have been followed up on–indeed, so far as I can tell, they’re among the dominant threads of scholarly work done on Hobb’s writing. (Translation studies has a lot to do with her work, as well.) It’s clear, then, that I got at least something right in my early assessment of the novel; I don’t know, though, and wouldn’t much hazard to guess if I was (or am) quite right in looking at antecedents / sourcing (among others, for reasons noted in the paragraph above). I think I was (and am), of course, or I’d not’ve written as I did (then or more recently), but I’d really like some outside confirmation…
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It seems he gets dragged through this every year Grabbed up and paraded about And, yes, maybe he gets something from it But did he really ask for this And is this all there is for him?
This again? Photo by Oleg Mikhailenko on Pexels.com
There are other things in the world to wonder at Other things at which to be upset And each new day seems to bring some new affront Some tragedy or atrocity There’s no way to keep up with them all anymore If there ever was a way to do so This little flat third might well pass unremarked Amid the cacophony surrounding it on all sides Save that there’s a focus on this measure every time the song is played And the chord’s no better for sounding again
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On 29 January 2024, a guest-post to the Tales after Tolkien Society blog featured Lancelot Schaubert’s “Dear Tolkien Estate.” The poem is included in Dennis Wilson Wise’s series on new alliterative poets, and Wise comments at some length on the structure of the poem, itself. In truth, I don’t know that I have anything to add to his discussion of it, unless maybe to find something of Milton in it–the final line, “Pendragon’s poem I dare to complete” is, to my ear, a lesser echo of the claim that Paradise Lost will “soar / Above th’ Aonian mount…/[…]/And justify the ways of God to men” (1.13-26). I am certain, however, that others will be able to say more than is given to me quite at the moment.
Why not? It’s pretty. Photo by MARTHA SALES on Pexels.com
I agree with Wise that the poem is good, both in itself and as an example of the kind of thing done by the poets of the alliterative revival / survival (there is some suggestion that the alliterative form preferred by early English poetry persisted in one way or another throughout the period in which it has traditionally been held to have lapsed; the dearth of records does not exclude the possibility, and it is not likely that a long-standing mode of transmission was given up altogether), I note that it does clearly mark out its expected primary and secondary audiences. The title and the final stanza attend to the former, particularly; the subject matter, invoking Arthuriana and Tolkien’s Legendarium, suggest that the kind of nerd I am is the anticipated secondary readership.
Being the kind of nerd I am, I read the poem and am motivated to my own response; Schaubert ain’t the only one who gets to do this kind of thing:
Through ages has Arthur attracted attention, Gathered since Gildas glory, acclaim Known well to Nennius and noted, too, in Galfridian Gloucester-praise that might be a game. The man bound, Malory, mated together The tales that were told across times and lands, Put together in prison the parchments’ burdens, Set them where Spenser could sing to his queen, Hortatory halted but heard down the years. The Professor, peerless in popular eyes, Put his pen to the praise of the one who pulled The sword from the stone in the yard of St. Paul’s, One of nine worthies. That work went unfinished, As was seen to sorrow; it stands not alone As titles can tell us. The truth is No story or song is ever full-settled; How many have told of the husband of Guinevere, How many speak yet of the son of Uther, Not all in accord about Agravain’s uncle? The works of giants yet left in the world Show there was more than is now to be seen; Who would be like them must well show the work The passage of years performs. Praise is not withheld From the soup of which the stock’s source is unseen. But if it will be that the book is completed, The talent assembled and talk well taken, Let one who loves it do the labor.
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Following an announcement from the Trehaug bird-keepers to those in Bingtown calling into question Kim’s good standing among the bird-keepers, “Seductions” opens with Hest attempting to persuade one of Leftrin’s crew to allow him the run of Kelsingra. Hest reflects on similar attempts with others in Kelsingra and his lack of success with them. When Davvie happens by, Hest turns his attentions to him, plying the inexperienced boy with some initial success.
In Chalced, Sedric continues to suffer at the hands of the Duke, tended by Chassim. The pair of them commiserate about their respective situations, assessing them coolly and considering their prospects. They begrudgingly move forward.
In Kelsingra, Leftrin and Alise confer about developments, noting the clear potential for Kelsingra’s growth. How the development will be managed receives comment, as do Rapskal’s increasing instability and the dragons’ desire for vengeance upon Chalced. Amid the discussion, Leftrin suddenly proposes an entirely unorthodox marriage, and, after some consideration, Alise agrees.
Hest continues to ply Davvie, surveying Kelsingra and calculating his potential profits from it. And he makes a sudden advance on the youth.
Carson begins to grow anxious about Davvie, and Sedric follows as he searches him out. He finds Davvie in Hest’s hands, and Sedric interposes himself. Hest attempts to seduce Sedric once again, but fails.
Sedric recognizes Hest’s attempt for what it is and rebuffs him forcefully. He returns to Carson to find him conferring with his nephew, and the three make to head off. They espy the approach of Icefyre as they do.
Hest, staggered by Sedric’s refusal, chases after him briefly before the approach of dragons frightens him. He seeks a bath to restore himself, in which he finds Kalo. Hest attempts to dominate Kalo, failing utterly, and being eaten for his arrogance.
In Hest’s death, I note a(nother?) parallel to Kennit. Both of them find themselves short of a leg (Kennit here). Although it would be a wonderfully tidy bit of writing to have the serpent that took Kennit’s leg be the one who became Kalo, it does not appear to be the case; even so, the amputation does put something of a neat little bow on the parallels between the two characters. Aside from their endings, both come from Trader stock, both have unfortunate relationships with their parents, and both have narcissistic and masochistic tendencies; they both speak to something of a type in Hobb’s writing (which extends to Regal Farseer, as I’ve remarked–here and here, for example). I’ve not done the updating on the Fedwren Project that I ought, certainly, so I am not as aware of whether others have explored the type as I ought to be, but if they’ve not, it seems a useful line of inquiry to follow.
Another thought occurs as I reread the chapter. If it is the case that the Traders are mimetic of the early US, absent some (but far from all) of the perversities that accompanied the settlement efforts, and if it is the case that the progress towards and into Kelsingra mimics the further colonization of the Americas (as I’ve suggested, here and elsewhere), what does the nascent Elderling civilization in and around the renewing city become? In some ways, it seems Kelsingra is moving towards something of a utopia; the romantic aspects of the present chapter and Sedric’s discourse seem to further comments made earlier, and the notion Alise voices of Kelsingra offering many the opportunity to simply start their lives anew, if at the cost of significant work, is certainly an attractive one. Indeed, as I think on it further, I am put in mind of the “city on a hill” rhetoric that is so often espoused. How “true” that rhetoric is in the real world is an ongoing question whose answer is almost always some nuance of “not so much,” but in the Realm of the Elderlings, is it perhaps being set up to be more true than in the historical and contemporary antecedents? It would not be the first work to present what might be taken as an idealized society, of course, although for whom it would be ideal, both in milieu and outside, would still take more than a little untangling.
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Not fronting a hideaway I still find myself presented with Confronted by Not a cowboy puppet But other things Snippets of songs and shows I remember Seeing or hearing about Because I did not listen or watch them When I was young So much as I was young Being taken up by other things Older yet than I am And by some years
How can it be That I long for things I never knew Seeking in them for something new Despite their age?
But there is this At least My longings are for things that were Not for things that have never been And I think little harm would follow Did I get my wish
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Another letter from Erek to his old master, Kerig, provides an update from the previous before “The Well” begins. As the chapter opens, Rapskal pleads with Thymara to accompany him after she and Tats have taken him aside. Thymara considers recent events, conferring mentally with Sintara as Rapskal continues to plead, his words not entirely his own. At length, Thymara is persuaded, and the pair walk Kelsingra, Rapskal speaking from memories he has taken in from it and plying Thymara further. He urges her to reach into her own ancient memories for the secret of restoring Silver.
Elsewhere in the city, Reyn and Malta confer about their fortunes and those of their family and of Tintaglia. Malta places Phron’s hand upon the dragon and offers something not unlike a prayer.
Thymara resists the call to dive into memory, and she rejects Rapskal’s insistence harshly. Sintara pleads with Thymara, however, and she reluctantly descends into the well along with Rapskal. As she does, she feels the memories rising around her, and at the bottom of the shaft, she finds the remains of her past self. More memories rise within her, and she releases a hidden reservoir of Silver from which the dragons begin to drink.
Phron cries and Malta moves to feed him from her breast, the child’s parents exulting in the evidence of changes worked by Tintaglia upon him. Other dragons approach Tintaglia, shunting the Khuphruses aside as they bring Silver to Tintaglia, treating her. The elder dragon rises, hungry, and moves to hunt amid the joy of those surrounding her.
I remain pleased to see the chapter-prefaces used not only in the Asimovian style of providing greater context for the world and the events depicted in the pages of the chapters, but also to trace ongoing outside narratives. I know I’ve commented on the device before, but as it continues to be a source of delight for me, I feel I ought to remark upon it now and again. And it really is a treat to have the short little snippets–because the letters are rarely of any length, sensibly to them being carried by pigeons–do so much to illustrate what else is going on. More formally, by pointing towards events outside the main narrative, the letters assist Coleridgean willing suspension of disbelief by gesturing towards Tolkienian unexplored vistas that authenticate the act of sub-creation; more briefly, by making the presence of outside context within the milieu explicit, the letters deepen the verisimilitude of the main narrative. That is, they make the world in which the main narrative takes place “more real” than a work centering on metamorphosing dragons and their effects upon the world would otherwise be.
The depiction of the Silver in the present chapter continues to reaffirm for me the link between it and the Skill plied in the Six Duchies. I’ve commented on the perceived link a few times (such as here, here, and here), so I was already quite confident in the interpretation. Reading again of the manner in which the Silver-treatment occasions Tintaglia’s recovery offers more to bolster the interpretation; compare, for example, the dragon’s recuperation to that Fitz endures in his Skill-healing (see Golden Fool, chapters 20 and 21). The continued effort to “normalize” things across series taking place in the same milieu, relatively contemporaneously, is clear in the present chapter; it works better here than in some other places in the tetralogy, which is a pleasure to see.
The depiction of the Silver in the present chapter also continues to remind me of the EarthBlood in Donaldson’s Chronicles of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. (I write about it a bit here.) The tension between destructive force and creative power embodied in a markedly colored outflow from within the earth is telling, although I’d need to do some additional rereading to pull out the parallels more fully. Doing a bit of source-study remains tantalizing, of course, but that would require more of an investment of time, and I am not sure how much of it I am likely to have in the near future.
It’s for good reason, or reason good for me, at least. But I would still love to attend to the project, along with a great many others…
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The steam drills have long since won and Been succeeded by diesel explosions and Other fires, burning away at the fabric of the world, Leaving less work to do for fewer and fewer hammers, Driving the hands that would hold them and swing them To other tasks and seemingly gentler where The tick of a pen or pencil makes a single point and The lives of others are saved or ruined while Nobody notices and damned few care
That reminds me of a story… Photo by Ken Thomas via Wikipedia, here, and used for commentary.
The diesel is not the only successor to the steam, The hammer not the only tool being wielded less and less, But there are more hands, and they demand more tasks Because Adam’s curse is still held as blessing and Calvin still commands much in the world despite Matthew’s words to which he and many claim fealty, Or James’s, or tales of apostolic acts Passed down from hand to hand as The next best thing to Gospel truth
The new successors have their heralds Trumpeting them to the four winds and Seeking to soar above the lot of them, And no few glory in the ringing of those horns for now, The booming of the covered copper bowls that Covers the coming steps of new giants who Need grist for the mills to make their flour; They do not mark the tune as the dirge that it is, Playing out for them soon enough as it Already sings out for others
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Elliott RWI 