Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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The following chapter, “Gambit,” opens with a brief rumination of older-in-milieu codes of conduct. It pivots into a gloss of some time, during which Buckkeep slides into winter and Fitz attends to his then-few assigned duties. He also moons after Molly, for which Burrich gently chides him. The older man offers what seems some useful advice, but he is stricken when Fitz relates the way in which Patience cautioned him against pursuing Molly.

Fitz takes Burrich’s advice and amends his behavior. He also finds himself being drawn more and more closely to the wolf cub he had rescued as he works to rehabilitate him. And he finds himself growing closer to Kettricken, who is effectively alone at what remains, for her, a foreign court whose customs are opaque to her. As he converses with her, overly boldly, Fitz realizes that he has been manipulated by Chade into becoming her de facto adviser, a role he continues to ply among also calling on Patience daily.

Fitz also finds himself summoned to Shrewd, and he encounters Regal as he answers the summons. After a tense exchange, Regal moves on, and Fitz attends on his king. He finds the King’s chambers strangely secluded and Shrewd himself somewhat addled–until the new chamber servant, Wallace, leaves. After he does, Shrewd tasks Fitz with a mission to a northern Duchy, Bearns, where there are rumors of budding unrest and rebellion surrounding a self-styled Virago.

As he departs from his king, Fitz encounters Serene, alongside whom he had studied the Skill. She had succeeded Galen, and she had taken on his hatred of Fitz. The encounter worries him as he prepares for and heads off to his errand.

In the end, the errand runs smoothly. Fitz provokes a challenge from Virago he needs not fight; his more clandestine training ensures that she presents the symptoms associated with oathbreaking, and she flees. The Duke and his daughter offer strange familiarity that leaves Fitz entirely uneasy.

Early in the chapter, Burrich makes a comment, with “bitterness in his voice,” regarding being unwed and, to his knowledge, childless. The comment and its delivery suggest that the homoerotic overtones between him and Chivalry (previously noted here, here, and here) may not sound as clearly as the earlier novel had implied–which would reflect continued conceptual development as Hobb continued work on the series. Or it could imply that the relationship, being one along uneven power dynamics, was more coercive than the earlier novel implied, which has an entirely different set of resonances.

The gloss on the events of Fitz’s mission to Bearns is perhaps more telling. His target’s name is telling; the Six Duchies tend towards emblematic names, and “Virago” fits in the archaic sense of “woman who does manly, heroic deeds” and the more common current sense of “unpleasant and ill-tempered woman.” (And it might be argued that many traditionally masculinized virtues are unpleasant and of ill temper, as well.) She evidently thinks herself more the former and shows herself more the latter. Fitz’s handling of the situation is remarkably good; he not only eliminates Virago, but he does so in a way that leaves her unable to be a rallying point for further action, shaming her without lifting his blade. He is, ultimately, good at his job, and if he were to confine himself to doing that job, things might be otherwise than they turn out. But that’s material for later parts of the write-up.

More help is always welcome–and appreciated!

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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A chapter titled “Dilemmas” follows and opens with a brief rumination on the Wit and the Skill before portraying Fitz waking alone in his room and staggering off to make ablutions. He returns to bed and to a fitful sleep.

When he wakes again, he finds his chamber has been tended to. As he avails himself of it, the Fool enters and checks on him, bantering with him acerbically before leaving just ahead of Patience and Lacey bustling in to check on Fitz. They fuss over him, and Patience presses upon him the folly of his putative attempts to woo Molly, citing the entanglements of his royal–if bastard–blood and Molly’s own potential prospects. Fitz protests to no avail, and Patience and Lacey leave him to rest.

After contemplating the decor in his chamber again, Fitz dozes off to be wakened by a summons from Chade. Answering it, he finds the old man considering a scroll. He is also clearly considering political implications, as he walks Fitz through a general idea of a way people might seek to exploit him. They exchange news, with Chade offering detailed information on the problems Verity and Kettricken face. Chade also offers some rebuke to Fitz for his conduct with Molly, echoing Patience’s warnings about the political ramifications. He offers some commentary about his relationship with Chivalry and Verity before returning to the topic of Fitz and Molly, urging him to heed Patience’s advice in the matter He also reiterates his warnings to Fitz for his own safety.

After their meeting, Fitz makes his way into Buckkeep Town, walking idly and taking in the gossip the place offers. Along his route, he encounters a vendor selling animals to be used for sport–including a young wolf. Fitz haggles for the wolf, purchasing him and taking him outside of the town, purposing to get him strong enough to fend for himself.

The wolf is of paramount importance in the series, and the level of engagement between Fitz and the wolf cub in the chapter makes that importance clear. Earlier events–the episodes with Nosy and Smithy in Assassin’s Apprentice–make clear that Fitz bonds to animals swiftly and deeply, and he already seems to share a particular affinity for the wolf he has found in a cage in Buckkeep Town. There will be more to come for the two of them, as is clear even without knowing from prior readings what will happen in the novel.

Less significant to the overall narrative, perhaps, is something that I noticed as I read the chapter this time and that I do not recall having noted before. Fitz wants to disregard Patience’s advice (and the emblematic name makes a bit of a joke) regarding Molly, and, having been an adolescent boy in the throes of lust that might have had something of love in it, I can well understand that desire and the recklessness that informs it. That is not what I note, though; what I note in this reading is that Chade’s reaffirmation of Patience’s advice seems, if not to persuade Fitz, at least to mollify him. Admittedly, Chade has a particular authority over Fitz, but there is still something of the “guys will only listen to ideas when other guys say them” about the matter. How to read it–a reflection of the prevailing standards surrounding the composition, a yoking of such behavior to immaturity, or something else–is not necessarily clear to me as I write this, but it is something that might stand some investigation moving forward.

It’s one of the things that I have loved about Hobb’s works. There’s a lot to unpack in them.

Any chance you could send some help my way?

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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The third chapter in the novel, “Renewing Ties,” opens with a description of an old scroll detailing the encounter of the early Six Duchies ruler, King Wisdom, and the Elderlings after which the overall series takes its name. It moves to Fitz going back out into Buckkeep Castle before he finds himself drawn to a tower room to which Verity has summoned him via the Skill. The two of them confer frankly and surprisingly openly, and Verity seems to have great affection for his bastard nephew.

When Fitz leaves Verity, Lacey, Patience’s maid, finds him and bustles him to her lady. Patience quizzes Fitz randomly, and he begins to suffer again from the lingering effects of the poison that had been used upon him. Patience recognizes his infirmity and sends him off to rest–and he encounters Molly along the way. He is initially buoyed by the encounter, but as he elicits information from her, he finds himself rebuked for his seeming drunkenness and for the many lies he had told and allowed, and he learns that matters have been poor for her family. She leaves him despairing of his infatuation with her, and he staggers back to his room to sleep.

Again, I find myself reading affectively, sympathizing with the folly of an adolescent boy trying to make sense of lust and love at once, and I have to think that that correspondence informed my early regard for the novels; when I first read the Farseer books, I did so much closer to my own adolescence than I am now (though some might say I still need to grow up), and I was not much more adept than Fitz in such matters, if I was at all. It is as good a reason as any to start to make a fuller study of something, and better than most.

There are parts of me, even now that I am largely out of academe–I’ve given up the search for an academic job, and I’m not teaching in the current session at the one school where I do still get to stand in front of a classroom–that clamor for me to make some kind of insightful, scholarly comment about the chapter. And I could tease out something about, perhaps, a suggestion of something between Charim and Verity like that I have suggested lay between Burrich and Chivalry in the imagined past of the novel, or I could point out that Hobb subtly signals the ultimately untenable nature of chivalry through reflecting on Chivalry when Fitz’s eyes meet Patience’s and “She nodded slowly, accepting the lie [Fitz had told] as necessary, and looked aside. [Fitz] wondered how many times [his] father had told her similar lies. What did it cost her to nod?” Neither would be wrong, exactly, and either might be fodder for a short piece of commentary that might well be worth doing. So might a bit linking what happens in the chapter to more of the foreshadowing that is itself a common theme in the series of novels; looking ahead only to find later that such peerings were correct is something of a motif in the main Elderlings novels, perhaps the dominant one. (I’d have to do more work on that, though.)

At another time, I will have such things to write. I hope you will continue to read them.

I’d love to have your support.

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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The next chapter, “The Homecoming,” reflects briefly on the founding of Buckkeep before moving to gloss the progress made by Fitz, Burrich, and the stableboy Hands from the Mountain Kingdom back to Buckkeep. It is a wintry journey and slower than might be hoped, the more so because Fitz’s condition impedes their travel. Too, when they lay over in an inland town, Burrich and Hands hear much of the disgruntlement about the continuing threat of the Raiders and the appreciation the people seem to have for Regal; Burrich takes the opportunity to caution Fitz that his uncle still hates him and will have him killed if he can.

At length, Fitz and his party return to Buckkeep, where they are challenged by the gate guard. After a bit of banter, they are recognized and admitted, and Burrich has to caution Fitz again about returning to his subordinate place as a bastard princeling in a place where people care about such things. Fitz accedes to the wisdom, if with difficulty, as well as to the wisdom of allowing others to do for him what his condition prevents him from doing well. And after, when Fitz makes to report to King Shrewd and King-in-Waiting Verity, he is turned away by both and muses on the changes that have occurred while he was away and with the arrival of others before him.

The device of using rumors heard in passing through a town to gloss over events is a good one; exposition is often a difficult thing to do well, though it is also necessary, so any adept handling of it is good to see. But it is not as good as the depiction of the strange tensions of adolescence that Hobb depicts in Fitz; I am not so old that I do not recall the awkwardness of my own teenage years, though they were far less eventful for me than Fitz’s are for him, and I find myself reading affectively again as I sympathize utterly with a young man who, having had a taste of being something more, chafes at being returned to older, more constraining patterns. And I sympathize, too, with the desire to be open with someone, only to have that openness set aside–gently, perhaps, as Burrich does with Fitz, but still put aside. I have a person with whom I can be so open now, and I revel in it, but I recall not being able to do so. Again, though, it’s an affective reading, and something I ought to know better than to do.

Except that the idea that any would “know better” than to allow themselves to be moved by a character in a story is a strange one. To do the work of literary study, it is necessary to be able to remove reader from text to some degree, just as a physician must be able to look at the flesh of a patient as a thing apart from a person to some degree. Yet the physician who does not engage the patient’s humanity is decried, and rightly; no scholar, no practitioner, does well to separate the humane wholly. Acknowledging it is needed, yes, but ignoring it is certainly not.

Support the labor of doing this on this Labor Day.

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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The first chapter, “Siltbay,” opens with an in-milieu reflection on the position of King/Queen-in-Waiting, which serves the Six Duchies much as the role of Prince of Wales serves the UK or Dauphin served the French monarchy; attention is paid to the holders of the title under Shrewd. It moves into a Skill-vision, with Fitz occupying Shrewd and learning both of the attack on the place in the chapter’s title and what it truly feels like to be an old man. He observes as Shrewd reasserts himself and issues orders to send aid to Siltbay; when the old man turns his attention to Fitz in his mind, their connection is broken, and Fitz makes to return to Buckkeep.

There is a bit of annoyance in the chapter–not because of what it shows, because the descriptions are well written and finely balanced, and they offer a useful musing on the status of the conflict in which the Six Duchies finds itself. No, the annoyance comes at the whiplash attitude in it. At the end of the prologue, Fitz had been ready to retire from the world; what is, in effect, a nightmare, if one “real” in showing what “is” in the milieu, turns Fitz around. It reads as hurried, somehow, something of a deus ex machina, and if there is antecedent for such in the tradition from which Hobb borrows for the novels as a whole (about which there is some discussion here), that does not mean it is the most desirable thing to see in the present text.

A sense of being rushed is something I have noted in others of Hobb’s works (this and this offer some short discussions thereof; there are others). I think it attracts my attention because I like Hobb’s writing as much as I do (and it should be clear I do; I spent the time doing a master’s thesis on her work, as well as presenting any number of papers on her writing and buying copies as circumstances have permitted across decades–and such projects as the present one). I want it to be without flaw, and so when I see something that I have to regard as being less than it could be, I cannot help but mark it. But that failing is mine, not that of the author whose work I have spent most time reading and writing about. (I think; I’ve not logged hours, but I’ve certainly written on Hobb more than I have Asimov or Tolkien, who are the two most likely competitors.)

A failing that will not be mine will be an end to the rereading before I have finished it. As I’ve noted, the reading I’m doing now is slower than I’m accustomed to doing, but that it is slower does not mean I am going to be giving up on it.

It’d still be nice to have you chip in to help support this.

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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The second of the Farseer books, Royal Assassin, opens with a brief prologue, unlike Assassin’s Apprentice. In the prologue, titled “Dreams and Awakenings,” Fitz considers (in retrospect) various magics known to the Six Duchies. He notes both that magical knowledge tends to be transmitted orally and that it requires an inborn predilection for practice. He passes on to further consideration of the authority to treat a topic in writing, musing on it for a while before shifting topics again.

Fitz’s narration shifts to consider his continuing admiration for Molly, and he comments at some length about his work as the apprentice assassin for the Duchies, quietly working for the betterment of the Kingdom through performance of heinous deeds. And he arrives at his status following the end of Assassin’s Apprentice: recovering slowly and shakily in Jhaampe from being poisoned and abused, to his annoyance. He is not eased when Burrich notes the difficulty in treating him, though in their conversation, he begins to reappraise the man who might as well be his foster-father. And, amid fits caused by the lingering injuries and damage from the poison, Fitz makes to order Burrich back to Buckkeep before finally falling into sleep.

The prologue serves as an interesting way to recapitulate the events of the first novel in the series for the benefit of those who might be picking up Royal Assassin before reading Assassin’s Apprentice–while not reading as a dreadfully dull repetition to those who have moved directly into the new novel from the last one. It also does admirably to lay out the beginning state of affairs for the still-young FitzChivalry, while offering in its initial retrospection an assurance that Fitz will outlast the events of the novel. That is important because of the novel’s position in its series; it is the second book in a trilogy, traditionally the member of a trilogy that positions the protagonist in the worse possible position. But Fitz will survive, readers are assured.

Of additional note is the bit of philosophical musing Fitz advances in the first few paragraphs of the prologue, those presented as being the work of his pen as he writes in times in the novel’s future and those following close after, when he muses to himself and not upon the in-milieu page about what right he has to document traditions in which he does not take part–particularly when his right to attest in writing to those of his own experiences is in question. Some irony could well be read into writers voicing, even through fictional characters, a reluctance to write about topics at some remove from themselves, or arrogance could be read into it, since such a stance implies that authors believe themselves to be experts in the areas upon which their writing touches. It is not as if Hobb does not make other comments about the craft of writing in her work, as I’ve noted before, so it does not come as a surprise to see such comments in the earlier parts of her corpus, even if how to interpret them may not be entirely clear.

Can I count on your support?

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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The final chapter, “The Aftermath,” opens with a description of a tapestry in Jhaampe that serves as a sort of call-ahead to later novels. It then moves to a gloss of the fallout from the previous chapter’s events, focusing on the beginnings of Fitz’s recovery and Burrich’s. What happened to August receives note, as does Regal’s behavior that glossed over all his misdeeds.

Fitz recovers but slowly, and with difficulty, and Burrich accompanies him as he returns at length to Buckkeep. Matters seem to be improving there, with Galen dead and Kettricken’s presence enlivening things. And Fitz notes that it was Nosy who saved him from the pools, dying from the effort of it. He was a good dog.

In the following epilogue, Fitz returns to his narrative present–the novel has been recounted in an informed retrospective–to consider his lingering pains and condition. A boy in his keeping is noted, as is a friend with a quiet voice, whose “No” is the last word in the novel.

Most of the chapter is denouement and setup for the next volume; the epilogue is more or less all setup for later work. There’s not necessarily much to comment upon in either–but it is a good time to reflect on the experience of re-reading.

I welcome comments from my own readers, of course; I benefit from the work of others, and I try to acknowledge all of it I receive. (Check the embedded links and other citations in my work, please!) I know that the rereading has been a different thing for me; I’ve not usually read things in the way I’ve read the novel and plan to read the rest of them for this project. Reading for pleasure, I plow through novels, often chewing though hundreds of pages in a few hours before I recall that I am me and that I have a body that has needs that must be answered. Reading for scholarly work, I thumb through pages at high speed, seeking out tag phrases I recall or notes I’ve made in margins–when I’ve made them, which I’ve not always done–to develop the arguments I mean to make. Both are, if not rushed, intense and speedy things.

By contrast, the rereading has been a slower thing. I’ve proceeded a chapter at a time, pausing between each to write the gloss and to offer the reflections I have about what I’ve read. Sometimes, I begin to move to more scholarly activity, although generally informally; I’m not bound to any one style guide here, but have tended to embed links and move on. I have been trying to restrict myself to materials readily available; as I write this, I do still have some institutional access, but I know well that many of my readers will not, and I have no desire to exclude them. (Academic publishing is also a racket, but that’s a set of comments for another time and place entirely.) I’m sure it’s come across as vain or cute at times, but this is also ultimately a vanity project, not in support of a scholarly career as the project that inspired this is. So there’s that.

It’s been enjoyable for me so far, though, and I hope it’s been a pleasure for others, as well. I’ll be moving on to the next book in the sequence, Royal Assassin, soon; I hope you’ll come along with me!

Last chapter in this novel, though there’re more to come. Help me bridge the gap!

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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The penultimate chapter, “The Wedding,” opens with only a brief blurb about Shrewd’s approach to diplomacy and Verity’s adherence to that approach. It moves swiftly into Fitz’s assessment of his situation and his conversation with Burrich about it. Burrich notices the earring Patience had given Fitz and is taken aback by it.

They are joined suddenly by Jonqui, whom they initially resist but shortly come to follow back into Jhaampe, where they find that Fitz’s room has been ransacked; Fitz realizes his store of poisons has been taken. They gather strength while Fitz frets over Verity; August arrives to deliver messages as he is commanded to do. After the Farseer cousin departs, Burrich attempts to offer Fitz his own strength through the Skill, to no avail.

After, Fitz and Burrich answer the summons that Regal had issued them, reporting to him in the hot springs that serve Jhaampe for baths. There, Burrich is incapacitated, and Regal gloats over Fitz as he tips his bastard half-nephew into a hot tub to drown. As Fitz flounders, he reflexively reaches out for Verity with the Skill, finding Galen coming to siphon his life away; Fitz, able through the slackness that precedes final surrender, offers Verity his own strength. Verity takes it, killing Galen as Galen had thought to kill him, and working powerfully through the Skill to leave August a message for Regal and to solemnize his marriage to Kettricken before he slams Fitz back into himself.

The chapter again motions towards the homoerotic relationship between Chvalry and Burrich that has received attention in this series already (here, for example). Burrich’s reaction to the earring–noting that it was a thing with which Patience, Chivalry’s widow, should not have meddled–reads less as a servant/master thing and more a thing between people particularly close. Given Melville’s comments about queerness in the novels at large, as well as Prater’s, Sanderson’s, and others’, it should not be surprising to find other suggestions of intimate relationships that transgress the “expected” dynamics of fantasy fiction in the Realm of the Elderlings novels.

The chapter also strikes a strange point of correspondence with generic expectations in offering Regal’s gloating as he makes to subdue Fitz in the baths. I have noted some of Regal’s more “normally” evil tendencies before, and I recall a 2007 course paper I wrote treating antagonist oration of the kind Regal indulges in in the chapter; in the paper (and I cringe at some of the writing I did then, but I think the idea is reasonably good), I argue that such narrations “permit character explication, in-text tactical movement, narrative pacing, and reader catharsis and return.” That is, they help show more of the character involved, allow time to move to more advantageous positions, provide a sort of lull between bouts of more intense action, and allow readers to come back to the text refreshed. Regal’s narration serves such functions, certainly, and his actions end up facilitating the undoing of his and his half-brother’s plans–fitting the trope neatly and reminding readers that Hobb continues to work with the dominant Tolkienian tradition of fantasy literature.

The next one’s the last one–in this novel. Help me bridge the gap!

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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A chapter titled “Dilemmas” follows, opening with Fitz recounting a dream of the Fool and returning swiftly to Fitz puzzling out how he can resolve the situation in which he has found himself. He turns to his cousin, August, prevailing upon him to send through the Skill to Shrewd for direction. August reluctantly accedes, or appears to, but Fitz is left with no clearer sense of what to do.

The ceremonies that bind Kettricken to Verity continue through the day. Amid them, Fitz observes August and Regal, and he determines that they discuss his own mission, which gives him unease. It has not lifted by the time he reports to Regal’s chambers as he had been bidden. Regal does not speak with him directly, but has his attendant provide Fitz directions and materials before sending him on his way.

Fitz, somewhat addled by chemicals, proceeds. He confers briefly with Kettricken, then goes to Rurisk, laying out what he knows of the continuing plot against him. Kettricken arrives in time to see Regal’s own plot come out; he has arranged for Rurisk to be poisoned independently, with Fitz poised to take the blame for it. In the ensuing fracas, Fitz kills an assailant but is taken, himself.

Fitz wakes to find Regal gloating over him. He soon passes into a drugged delirium in which he hears voices conferring through the Skill and becomes aware through the Wit of Nosy’s grief at Rurisk’s death. The old hound helps Fitz out of his bindings, and Burrich, following the Wit that he admits being able to sense, helps Fitz leave his captivity.

One thing that the chapter does well, among the many things that Hobb’s writing generally does well, is convey the notion of the narrative world existing outside the main narrative. Fitz becomes aware that there are plots involving him that he does not know about, and their presentation makes clear that they have been long in the making. It has a strangely decentering effect on Fitz. The narrative of the novel is recounted from his perspective, informed by commentaries appearing at the beginning of each chapter, so it makes sense that it focuses on him, but the present chapter makes clear that Fitz is far from the only actor in the milieu–and far from the most effective, in the present circumstance.

Tolkienian-tradition fantasy fiction usually focuses on characters who are themselves the most important people within their milieu. Frodo and Aragorn are the key figures at the end of Tolkien’s Third Age; Rand al’Thor is, in effect, the messiah of his own world; Ged becomes the de facto ruler of Earthsea, at least for a time. FitzChivalry Farseer, though, at least in the present novel, is but one piece among many in play on the board, and, in the present chapter, he seems to have been played badly.

We’re coming up on the end of one and the start of another. Help me bridge the gap!

Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.

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The next chapter, “Princes,” opens with only a brief comment on the virtues of a particular herb. It moves thence to Rurisk breaking in upon Fitz in pleasant surprise that he yet lives. He lays out that Kettricken had thought to poison him before he could poison Rurisk, and that any attempted assassination plot against him now would be fruitless. Rurisk gives Fitz a message to take to Shrewd before collecting himself and Kettricken and departing.

Fitz rests before attending more of the ceremonies marking the nuptials and the diplomacy attendant upon them. Amid them, Rurisk takes Fitz aside to show him the pride of his hunting dogs, and Fitz recognizes Nosy. Fitz make the time to speak to Burrich about the matter, laying out some of the old strain between them, but there is little reconciliation.

That night, Fitz is summoned by Regal. His uncle, drunk, demands a report on the progress towards killing Rurisk; Fitz demurs, and Regal voices discontent that things are not moving more swiftly. He commands Fitz to return to him on the next day, when he will be provided what he needs.

The herb named in the blurb at the beginning of the chapter, carryme, evokes the Phyllanthus amarus. There is some scholarship treating the herb, as witness this and this, among others. Medicinal properties and uses (including pain management) are ascribed to it, as are potentially damaging effects, which would seem to align with the introductory blurb, at least generally. And that is in keeping with Hobb’s stated desire for verisimilitude, though an interesting quirk does arise.

I’ve made the argument that Hobb’s Six Duchies echo the North American pre-invasion more neatly than the European medieval, and I’ve used the flora and fauna described in the Realm of the Elderlings as parts of that argument. Raccoons, for example, come in. The thing is, the Phyllanthus amarus is, so far as I can tell, native to southern Asia–though I will readily admit my investigation into it has been limited. (This is a volunteer project, after all; I cannot afford to spend too much time on it.) And it seems to prefer tropical and subtropical climates rather than the colder weathers of the Mountain Kingdom.

The plant’s presence in the narrative illustrates the dangers of looking for too much in the way of real-world correspondence in fantasy fiction–or any fiction, really. It is fiction because it does not have to be true in the sense of giving a factually accurate report of places and events. It often is true in other senses, usually revelatory of some kind of inner reality or guiding principle, but that truth takes teasing out of the sort that many abjure, being accustomed to having others do the work of thinking for them.

Do please help me keep doing this kind of work.