I am recuperating from quite a day yesterday: we had a
big birthday party over at my parents’ house, with 32 people, family &
friends. It was a shared or combined party: I turned 40 a few months back, and
my mother will be 65 in a few days’ time. We had a lovely day, fabulous people
all around, and the weather decided to play nice, so we could sit outside for
lunch – which, in keeping with the Danish tradition, lasted about four hours. Both the lunch and the nice weather.
And, with wonderful people came wonderful presents; I
got, among other things, a stack of books – and now I know how the amazon
WishList works: very useful, that. When someone buys something from the list,
it disappears, so you run no risk of doubles. This may be common knowledge, and
my resident IT supporter, a.k.a. Andreas, said something like ‘well of course
it does that’ – but I didn’t know before, and neither did the aunts &
uncles who had done the shopping. You learn something new every day :o)
Anyway, the books are all about literature, writing,
and language: On Writing by Stephen
King, The Writer’s Journey by
Christopher Vogler, The 38 Most Common
Fiction Writing Mistakes (And How to Avoid Them) by Jack M. Bickham, Grimm Tales by Philip Pullman, and The Infinity of Lists by Umberto Eco. So
my kids will have to look after themselves for the next week or two.
As an extra, I got a copy of the Danish Language
Society yearbook 2012, in which my friend George has an article on the meaning
of the word marriage.
I also got a skein of – wait for it ... mink yarn: the Mimi from Lotus Yarns, a light fingering weight at 300 meters to 50 grams. I’ve read about mink yarn on Ravelry,
but not until now seen it in person; it is sooo soft and lovely. I have a
sneaking suspicion that it costs a fortune – but I’m not asking. I’ll be
looking for just the right pattern; a scarf or a cowl, maybe. Oh, and did I
mention it’s purple? My people know me well.
The
Knitting
has all this week been about finishing the shawl for
my mum in time for the birthday party. And I made it: the knitting was done by Thursday
evening, then I soaked it over night and blocked on Friday. All ready for
wrapping Saturday morning. Phew.
I am quite happy with it, if I may say so myself; so
now I ‘only’ have to finish writing up the pattern. That part of the process is
what feels like work: I enjoy the thinking out and the knitting (even, to some
extent, the re-knitting to make it better), I don’t at all mind writing
patterns and drawing charts – but writing out the rows in text is killing me.
But there you have it: I could, of course, choose to not
do it; but I know that there are those knitters who have trouble with charts,
so, as a public service, I’m doing both. Luckily, it’s a fairly simple pattern:
all faggoting in geometric sections, so lots of straight lines and netting.
The
Books
I’ve been messing with my own head this week, listening
to and reading three books set each in its own alternate present world: The Time Traveler’s Wife, The Eyre Affair, and Rivers of London.
The
Time Traveler’s Wife by
Audrey Niffenegger is fairly well-known: Henry travels in time, without any control
of when he goes, or to which time and place. Claire grows up from the age of 6 with
visits from the adult Henry; so when they finally meet in real time, when she
is 20 and he is 28, she is delighted, while he has no idea who she is.
At first, I was somewhat crept out by Lolita associations: it seemed to me
that this man in his 30’ and 40’s was grooming the little girl to be his future
wife. The author, of course, is aware of this problem: Henry is aware of it,
Claire several times points out that he couldn’t help it, that he didn’t
choose, that she looked forward to every one of his next visits, &c. Humbert
Humbert himself is explicitly mentioned a couple of times, as well.
However, as the story unfolds, I find myself drawn
into it; and now that I am nearing the end, I want to know how it comes about – which makes the telling of it a
success.
After Jane Eyre
on CraftLit, the Ravelry group are having a read-along of Jasper Fforde’s The Eyre Affair. I’ve had this book on
my shelf for a while; at some point in my CraftLit catch-up Heather mentioned and
praised Shades of Grey – and when I
finally realised, after much wondering, that this had nothing to do with Fifty Shades of Grey (d’uh), I looked up
Fforde and his work and decided that it was worth giving it a go. I saved it
for after Jane Eyre, though – and I
am glad I did.
Reviewers on Goodreads have wildly differing opinions:
some enjoy it as much as I do, while others find it too much, too silly, too –
everything. Our heroine is Thursday Next, a LiteraTec with the London police in
a somewhat different 1985 than the one we remember; she fought in the ongoing Crimean
War, has a pet dodo, and deals with the lucrative literary crime while warding
off door-to-door Baconians trying to elicit sympathy for their armed struggle against
Marlovians – because the underlying question, propping up in conversations through
the book is who really wrote the
works of Shakespeare? We get an unabashedly evil super villain, time travel,
vampires & werewolves, a machine that can take you inside a poem – and characters
with silly names. Great fun.
In another take on London, Peter Grant is a regular
police constable – until he tries to interview a ghost about a murder. Soon, he
finds himself the apprentice of the last magician in the police force and
trying to – while solving the murder – work out the dispute between Mama Thames,
who is Nigerian, for some reason, and Father Thames, who lives in a caravan
camp highly reminiscent of the dwelling place of the
a-constable-is-not-supposed-to-call-them-pikeys in the film Snatch. All the
while avoiding being killed by the mysterious murdering force, or seduced by a
sexy young brook named Beverley: a river in Southwest London and one of the
daughters of Mama Thames.
The narrator of this Ben Aaronovitch novel, Kobna
Holdbrook-Smith, tends to sound like he’s slightly out of breath, which fits in
with the narrative most of the time. There really is a lot going on in Peter
Grant’s new life as a magic constable. Some readers prefer this series to the
Dresden Files by Jim Butcher; I can’t tell yet, but I certainly do enjoy the
London of it.
So, having mentioned Shakespeare, let’s move on to
Amled (feel free to place this on your Worst Segues Ever list).
Last week, we saw Amled escape The Test of the Sexy Girl
– while getting the girl. So, the stakes have to be raised; and we know what is
coming: the interview with the mother, while a spy hides to listen.
SAXO: The Deeds
of the Danes (Gesta Danorum)
Book 3, chapter 6
12 In
this manner the young man outsmarted all of them. No-one could find the key to
his hidden intentions, and now one of Fenge’s friends who was conceited rather
than cunning, declared that all these well-known tricks were not at all
adequate to reveal such convoluted and crafty a wit. He had far too strong a
will to fall for these easy trials, and against his complicated playacting it
was therefore no use to employ facile temptations. He had now, he said, thought
the matter over more deeply and found an intricate procedure that was not
difficult to follow and would be extremely efficient in finding out what they
wanted to know. Fenge had to take himself out of the way, claiming urgent
business, and in the meantime Amled was to be shut in alone with his mother in
her bedchamber, where, in advance, without the knowledge of either of them, a
man would be placed who from a dark corner would listen carefully to what they
had to say to each other. For if the son had the full use of his faculties he
would not hesitate to speak openly to his mother, and not be afraid to confide
in his parent. This man very eagerly proposed to himself take on the role of
spy, so that it should not appear that he was only capable of thinking up
plans, but not carrying them out. Fenge was delighted with the idea and
immediately pretended to go on a long journey.
13 The
man who had suggested the plan now snuck into the room where Amled was to be
shut in with his mother, and hid under the bedstraw. But Amled knew well how to
avoid a trap. He was afraid that the walls should have ears and so, as usual,
at first threw himself into his accustomed silliness: he crowed loudly like a
cock, flapped his arms like wings and jumped up into the bedstraw where he
hopped around to feel if anything was underneath it. And when he found a lump
under his feet, he stabbed at it with his sword and struck the man down there,
after which he dragged him from his hiding place and killed him. The body he cut
to pieces which he boiled and threw down through the open latrine for the pigs
to eat, and thus he let the wretched limbs of the man end up in the shit and filth.
14 As
soon as he had thus evaded the trap, he returned to the room. And when his
mother now started crying and moaning over her weak-minded son, right to his
face, he exclaimed: ‘Vile woman! Do you think this kind of put-on whining can
hide a serious crime? You yourself have behaved like a wanton whore by agreeing
to a hideous and impure marriage. You open your shameless loins to your husband’s
murderer, and with lustful fawning your make yourself pleasing to the man who
murdered the father of your son. This is how mares behave: they join the
stallion who defeat their mate. Only animals behave like this, mating
indiscriminately, but you have done exactly the same thing: see, you have
forgotten your first husband! And when I play the fool, it has a good reason,
for I have not a moment’s doubt that a man who has killed his brother can move
just as ruthlessly and cruelly upon his remaining relatives. For this reason it
is more sensible to seem stupid than clever, for I can save my life by
pretending to be completely mad. Deep inside me is always the longing for
revenge for the murder of my father, but I want an opportunity, I wait for the
right moment. All in its own time! When one is faced with a man so capricious
and brutal, it takes more than usual inventiveness. No, there is no reason for
you to bemoan my madness – you ought more to mourn your own shame. Your own
sick mind should you weep for, not that of others! As for the rest, you had
better keep quiet about it!’
With these stinging reproaches he forced his mother
back to a more chaste life, and to see that the old love was worth more than
the temptations of the moment.
15 When
Fenge returned home, he could not find his spy anywhere: he looked long and
hard, but no-one thought to have seen him anywhere. For the fun of it, they
also asked Amled if he had seen anything of the man, and he replied that he had
fallen into the can, and when he came out below, he was buried in shit, and the
pigs had eaten him up. That reply did indeed convey the pure truth, but those
who heard it only laughed, as it sounded completely silly.
16 Fenge
was still convinced that his stepson was cheating him, and would rather have
the suspicious person removed, but he dared not really do it for fear of what
Amled’s grandfather Rørik and his own wife would say. He therefore decided to
let the British king kill him, so that he himself could pretend to be innocent
while another did the work. In his desire to hide his own brutality he thus
preferred to draw a friend through the mud rather than bear the shame himself.
Upon departing, Amled secretly instructed his mother
to adorn the throne room with woven blankets featuring knots, and when a year
had passed, to have a wake for him as if he were dead. He promised, then, to
return home at that time.
With him travelled two of Fenge’s courtiers bearing a
letter to the British king, etched into a piece of wood. That was the most
common writing material in the old days. In the letter, the king was instructed
to kill the young man thus sent to him. While the two of them slept, Amled
searched their luggage and found the letter. When he had read it all, he made
sure to scrape away all that was etched upon it and replace it with new letters
to change the contents, so that the death sentence was not over himself, but over
the escorts. And he did not stop at freeing himself from the death sentence and
place the danger on the others; he even added, still using Fenge’s name, an
application to the British king to give to the sensible young man who was thus
sent to him, his daughter in marriage.
...
§12: Well, our proto-Polonius does not deny himself –
he is verbose rather than wise, always eager to eavesdrop.
And after Ehren’s well-placed Freud bashing concerning
the supposed – and utterly ludicrous – Oedipal connotations in Hamlet, it was fun to note where the
interview between Amled and Gerud is to take place: in her bedchamber. This, of
course, has no sexual or Oedipal connotations, either: while a lady in
Shakespeare’s day could be expected to have an office as well as a sleeping
chamber, this was unheard and unthought of in the 7th or 8th
century. The only place where a woman, even the mistress of the household, could
be alone or have a conversation in private, was in her bedchamber. Nothing more
to it.
§16: In this version of the story, we do follow Amled
to England, where he plans to stay for a year – this, of course, is not so easy
to pull off in a play, which is probably why Shakespeare gives us the pirate
story. The two companions, proto-Rosencrantz and proto-Guildenstern, are in
place, though.
And there we leave the story for now – next week, we
shall see what happens in England ...
I hope you have a lovely week, I hope we don’t get
blown away by the gale-force winds around here – and I’ll be back.
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