The flowers emerge from the soil again Green-built blooms rising from between the stones The gravel and pebbles and chunks of rock Leavings of tree-roots walking through Still waving proudly at the roadsides And I smile to see them Even if I dare not stop to smell them Knowing that the traffic will not slow for me And that I will not last long as a speedbump
I have said I like the bluebonnets. Photo by Janice Carriger on Pexels.com
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Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the serieshere.
Oh, and I am still doing #NaPoWriMo. I did have to make my update to the reading, though.
Following an excerpt from anonymous instructions to an assassin, “Confrontations” begins with Lant reporting to the Farseer elite, as well as Rosemary and Ash. Fitz reflects on Lant’s account to that point, and he speaks in Lant’s favor as Dutiful dismisses him. Discussion follows Lant’s departure, and Fitz finds himself unexpectedly tasked with seeing if any of the guards from the company that had acted ill are worth redeeming.
Is this the beginning of a murder, or of a motley crew? Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com
Fitz later confers with the Fool about the situation, which conversation is interrupted by a Skilled summons from Nettle. Fitz excuses himself from the Fool to answer it, Motley accompanying him.
Answering the summons, Fitz reports to the Queen’s Garden, where Civil Bresinga delivers tidings of Bee and Shun. Old Blood folk and their animals had noted strange movements of people, corroborated by Skill-deadened agents, leaving the Farseers with the evident intended destination of Bee and Shun’s captors. Dutiful lays out his plans, and he offers Fitz a place of honor but not one of aid, reminding Fitz who is in command of matters.
Fitz fumes silently at how he has been maneuvered, and more at the correctness of those who have done so. Thus fuming, he purposes to call upon Chade, only to find Steady there and Chade asleep. Steady confers with Fitz briefly until a stirring Chade interrupts, bidding him go retrieve their daughters. And Fitz then moves to do just that, giving directives to Foxglove and others. Foxglove gives a frank report of unit readiness, and Fitz moves off with some self-doubt to address the task of the disgraced guards. That, however, he manages neatly, if brusquely.
So much done, Fitz returns to the Fool, preparing to dose himself with elfbark and outfit himself for a covert expedition. The Fool reports his dreams as Fitz makes his preparations and excuses himself; Fitz runs into Lant on his way out, and Lant purposes to accompany him. Fitz is direct with him, urging Lant to remain behind, but it is clear he will not stay in Buckkeep.
Fitz then rejoins Foxglove, reviewing their augmented forces. Afterwards, he makes to tend to his horse, where Perseverance meets him, and they talk together briefly.
The present chapter, just after midway through the book in the printing I am reading, has a lot going on, a lot of smaller moving parts. In terms of structure, it suggests an acceleration towards the climax of Freytag’s pyramid, that the pivotal action for this novel–and perhaps for the trilogy, given that the novel is the second member of it–approaches. And in terms of content, it suggests that Fitz, despite his greater years and experience, remains the headstrong, passionate boy he was at the death of Shrewd decades before, seeking to rush ahead because he knows better than those who bear responsibility and have both more information and clearer heads than he. I am not certain whether to be delighted at the consistency of characterization or annoyed that Fitz seems not to have learned lessons that have been literally (and, yes, I do intend the pun, here) beaten into him across years–but it seems to me as I consider it that the fact to that uncertainty is an artifact of my engagement with the text, and that would seem to argue for the narrative’s effectiveness, at least with this reader.
Admittedly, such an assertion ranges once again into reading with affect; I have lost track of the number of times in this rereading series that I have found myself reading affectively, reading through my emotional reactions to the text rather than calmly applying one particular critical lens or another to it. Were I still in academe, it would be more of a problem than it presently is; as it is now, I am not much writing for classroom audiences (although I do still have the impression that some student or another reads what I write here and uses it for some schoolroom purpose or another–which is not a problem, although it would be nice to hear from those who do so). Were I in more practice than I have allowed myself to be, I might look at the present chapter through some more formal rubric than the “reader-response” that I (over-) generously label myself as using. But, alas, I am not in more practice than I am, even with the source- or reception-focused approaches that tended to undergird my scholarship when I made claims to doing it. Other major approaches do not suggest themselves to me at the moment, either, which may just be an artifact of my hammering this out between other jobs or may well be a symptom of my critical faculties atrophying.
Or it may be that this is another of my scholarly somedays, a project waiting for attention and to which I will return in time. I can hope for as much, for both the inspiration of how to treat it and the time to treat it well enough to suit myself–and maybe others. There is some comfort in that, at least.
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Looking back on what I wrote before,
Reading aloud the words to those for whom I wrote them,
In whose honor and praise I lifted my pen
And in whose honor and praise I would do so again,
Seeing one smile not only at her own,
But also at that of the other–
An uplifting joy matched only by
The fall from the other not bothering to listen
I sit surrounded by the books I’ve read– Not all, of course, that have passed through my head, Years taking many from me. They have led Me down strange roads and long, my scholar’s self, Those tomes and pamphlets ranging on each shelf That all together make the little delph Through which I, longing, search out wisdom’s ore. Such as I find, I gather, put in store For later smelting, shaping, thence to shore Up bulwarks raised against the creeping doom That seems yet more each day to o’erhead loom. If I should die here, I’ve at least my tomb, Already wrought as I’d have me surround Between my final breath and final ground.
Now, as my coffee swiftly drains away,
I ready me to face another day
Of work. These weeks, I have no time to play,
No time to smell those flowers I pass by,
Though they are fragrant as they grow up high
From roadsides. I still have not found out why
They burgeon there, but I don’t need to know
To find in them delight, nor they to grow
Demand I see or smell them. I must go
About those tasks for which I am yet paid,
Must not in them let myself be delayed;
Failure’s consequences are not stayed
Because I stayed and smelled to my delight
Those growing glories under mornings’ light.
I’d almost swear that I’ve stood there… Photo by Janice Carriger on Pexels.com
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The day of false delight has passed us by,
And though some mark it, fewer still know why
On that day of all days it’s less awry
To turn towards cruel and often harmful pranks
Than other days. I ought to offer thanks
That on one day, we are not held as cranks
Who look askance on things put forth with glee,
Who see sharp smiles and think to from them flee.
That wind has now blown out, and from its lee
We must creep out and face a world unkind
That, thinking we have put out of our minds
Its japes, still waits to us unwary find.
I will my vigil keep, despite the day;
I will thus hope ill will not me waylay.
A colorful character, certainly. Photo by Eduardo Gonzu00e1lez on Pexels.com
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