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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Now April once again with showers sweet
Has risen from her bed, and poets meet
Her rising with their verses, seek to heat
The chilly ling’ring winter’s grasp away
From her soft flesh, hope with it they might play
Instead. She smiles, of course; who could gainsay
Her grace what others do to it attract?
She says no word to them, replies not back
To written pleas, not uncouth or with tact,
Nor yet to spoken words they belch aloud,
Guttural cacophonies of which they’re proud;
Children will act thus when they’re allowed,
And she is old, though she is born again
Today, the pilgrimage’s ever-friend.
Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the series here.
This is one of the chapters that needs a content warning: references to sexual violence.
Following reported commentary by Dwalia about the induction of forgetfulness and neglect, “Vindeliar” returns to Bee, noting the remarks by those around her of her improving condition and her uncertainty about the same. The progress of Dwalia’s party across is glossed, and disagreement emerges between Dwalia and Ellik about how to proceed further. Shun notices Bee’s observations and advises her against the appearance of the same, and Bee attends closely as Dwalia exploits Vindeliar’s abilities to persuade Ellik.
Seems a chill place… Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com
Progress continues, and Bee and Shun confer covertly about possible escape. When Dwalia presses Bee for conversation, she replies with reference to the futures she has seen, attempting to turn conversation, and Dwalia upbraids her for doing so. Ellik hears the upset occasioned and intervenes, determining to turn matters to his will. Vindeliar being then absent, he succeeds, and he comprehends that it is Vindeliar’s influence that has allowed Dwalia to retain command. That situation, he moves to address.
The present chapter recalls the cartoonish evil of Chalced, in which Ellik had participated at high level. Thinking back on my earlier impressions, such as I can recall them at this point, I had originally understood Chalced to be an antagonistic but not necessarily “evil” nation-state; the presentation in the Rain Wilds novels was something of an immersion-breaker for me, as I gesture towards in my rereading comments. In the present chapter, which reminds readers of the slavery practices and rampant misogyny at work in Chalced, the evils of that nation-state seem more “real,” although I cannot determine whether my reaction is to the overt presentation, the contrast with earlier work, or my inability to read the text without awareness of the broader context in which I do the reading this time around.
I do find some interest in the construction and its comparison to that of Clerres, however. While the situation in Clerres is not yet directly presented in the text–readers at this point have the Fool’s report, which may well be understood to be biased–they do have the actions of the Servants, both with Bee and with the messengers the Fool had dispatched to Fitz (here and here). While the Elderlings novels as a whole call into question the degree to which any agent of a given nation-state can be said to represent that nation-state as a whole, and while it is certainly the case that the Six Duchies is hardly an innocent place if its agents can be taken to any degree as being representative, Dwalia and her company do not give a good presentation of Clerres even if the Fool’s report can be set aside as biased. The question of which nation-state, Chalced or Clerres, is more evil is one that the chapter gestures towards, and a ponerological study might well be worth undertaking.
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The coffee cup is empty The carafe that supplied it yawning And neither is the only thing that has gone dry Dark fluid spent to some useful end Not yet brought to an end
No matter how many times I fill and brew and pour again There is always call for more Even when so much has passed that I am left shaking Hearing voices speak from lips not there I have to find more of it to spill Again Not only from cup and carafe
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I very nearly forgot I was supposed to do this I am supposed to do this And I am sorry to do it this way But it’s better that I do it this way Than that it not be done at all As some schools of thought have it Noting that Some is better than none Sometimes framed as Shots not taken Or somesuch thing
What a rush! Photo by Vlad Cheu021ban on Pexels.com
But then There are the many And many I have heard Many whose voices I heed Who urge that I Do it right Or not at all So I have to wonder if A shot from the hip is good enough This time As it has been before And the evidence of having struck a target thus Is greatly beloved Or if it would have been better To hold my fire this time As I so rarely hold my tongue
There is this Too: What poem is Ever Good enough or Done ?
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Read the previous entry in the serieshere. Read the next entry in the serieshere.
After in-milieu commentary warning of the dangers of travel through the Skill-pillars that might have been useful to characters earlier, “Marking Time” opens with Fitz searching for an outlet for his emotions, taking training alongside his new guard unit to find it. Foxglove reluctantly allows it, giving Fitz some warning, but he persists and regrets it. Afterward, he is confronted by Burrich’s son Steady, who rebukes Fitz for letting his despair flow out into the world, and as Fitz follows the younger man’s direction, the pair discuss Chade’s situation and what led up to it, as well as Steady’s own regrets regarding Bee. The risks Chade had taken are explicated, and Steady asks Fitz for the particularly strong Outislander elfbark. Fitz provides it, and after Steady takes his leave, he reviews Bee’s writings that he has brought with him, recognizing her power for prophecy as he does so.
Well, I like it, at least… Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com
The next days pass unpleasantly for Fitz, who finds himself caught between hope for Bee and fear for her. He works to navigate his restored identity as a prince of the realm, and he calls on Chade, finding him responsive but largely absent. Steady intervenes as Fitz presses his mentor, glossing the retrieval and analysis of information from where it had been sequestered. It is cold comfort, and Fitz soothes himself with thoughts of murder.
Fitz continues to wait for news and to check on the Fool, whom Spark / Ash attends. Fitz finds himself recalling his and the Fool’s shared youth, and the Fool reports some improvement. Ash reports Chade’s decline, and the three confer about what will become of Ash if Chade dies. The Fool presses Fitz to go to Clerres, and he demurs, citing his ongoing instability in the Skill and his continuing expectation of news of Bee. The Fool avers that Bee will accompany them both to the destruction of Clerres, will indeed conduct them thither, which Fitz rejects. The Fool then advises Fitz about what they will face, and Fitz begins to question whether he can enact the destruction for which the Fool has called. A discussion of logistics ensues, and Fitz asks Ash to help him with his own stitches as a means of forestalling more talk.
More time passes, and Fitz continues to work to regain his combat skills. At length, Thick and Lant return with soldiers who will be discommended, and Thick reports mistreatment at their hands. Lant receives direction and correction, and Perseverance, who had accompanied the group from Buckkeep, is taken aside to give report. Fitz accepts the boy’s report and commends him to the care of one of the senior stable staff, offering a final set of instructions to him.
The present chapter is slightly longer than normal, some twenty-five pages in the edition I have of the novel. I am reminded once again that I need to take a look at a cohesive print-run of the Elderlings novels to see if there is some pattern of chapter-length at work in them and, if there is, what significance that pattern has for the corpus. It remains among my scholarly somedays, things to which I look with some yearning even as I question whether I ought to maintain any pretense of scholarship, being as many years out of academe as I am. But then, given what all is happening in and to academe as I sit and write this, perhaps my small works here and in a few other places–yes, I do still have some stuff going on, about which I expect to write more later–are among what will be regarded as the last vestiges of what might have been a tradition. Or maybe they will be sparks from which some new flame is kindled to warm the heart and light the mind, but I am probably unreasonably vain to think such thoughts and write them where others are apt to see them.
As often before, I find myself reading with no small degree of affect. I expect this is something deliberately constructed, of course; the Eight Deadly Words being a thing, its inverse would be seen as desirable, and “relatability” is something that many readers look for in what they read. While I dislike the term–I don’t know why, but something about it strikes me as insipid, although I recognize it is my own taste at work and not something “wrong” with the word itself–I acknowledge that readers are far from wrong to look to see themselves reflected in what they read, and I acknowledge that so much is true for other media, as well. Representation matters, of course, and people should see themselves represented in the media available to them, just as they well ought to see and be led to empathize with those different from themselves. And while I am fortunate not to have been in the position of waiting for news of my own daughter as she languishes in captivity, I have been anxious to learn how my daughter has fared and impatient with the delay in news reaching me, chafing at my inability to do anything in the moment to make things better for her and chastising myself for my failures with her. And I find, like Fitz, that there is some use in knowing that others have done as much and more; even if it is not a comfort–and it is not; that others feel poorly does not make a poor feeling rich–it is good to have a reminder that others have done things and thus that we can also do them.
There is much to do, ever and always. Having the reminder that what needs doing can be done, one of the many things that a good read offers, is thus a welcome thing.
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They say Who still say such things– A shrinking population as Mom and Dad buy the farm And some corporation buys the farm– Make hay while the sun shines And I am glad For now At least The sky is clear and bright And the green is swelling But some rainfall would be welcome