landingtree: (Default)
While reading through the biography of T.H. White, which is full of bits of his correspondence, I was staying with some of the people I most regularly correspond with. When Dreamwidth sent me an email about the Livejournal diaspora, it attracted my letter-writing mind, and I thought, "Mm, I could actually use this website I have been reading snatches from for years."

Also, I had just written my first book review in a long time, for a student magazine, and I came to Dreamwidth for its book reviews -- so here is that one.

On Terra Ignota

And there are large spoilers in my other thoughts )
landingtree: (Default)
Rereading the draft of one of my stories for the first time in many months, I notice that I named a character Thessaly. Back then the word was loose in my head; presumably I had once heard it as a place name, but it had none of that meaning in it. Since then I have taken three Classics papers, and Thessaly, even though I could tell you very little about it, is a region to me.

This is a pattern. Interesting to see it still going on. Back in high school, being taught the origins of World War Two, I absentmindedly wrote someone called Doctor Reichstagg, later realised what I'd done, and a long time later had the heart to turn him into Doctor Rhadamanth, whose name's source is at least obscure. (Perhaps if I looked further into the Greek Rhadamanthus I would feel unable to use that name either -- or, with luck, discover some unexpected appropriate resonance). Likewise, if ever I go back to the Whimsical Fanatic Psychics In Space story, Agamemnon shall have to be someone else -- I chose it for the syllables and have now read The Iliad.

I find that going back and changing a character's name is similar to changing a character's gender. Often it is easy to do. Fairly often it is difficult, though not necessarily for a reason I can identify -- the link having grown strong in my head. Or a particular name or gender may be especially relevant -- gender more often than name, although given how many of my stories take place in worlds started from scratch, gender assumptions can bend around the characters instead of vice versa. (It is often on about page four that I have thought, "This wise old beardy-wizard could just as well not be male, you know", and I have at least partly moved that thought back into the moment of first composition, though, reading this in a few years, it will be interesting to discover in what ways I have not done so).


Apr. 17th, 2017 08:59 pm
landingtree: (Default)
I have been out walking through the stage of twilight which makes my feet seem to glow pale against the dark road. Staying at my mother's house in the country the dark is so much darker, the stars are so much clearer, and the only remaining traces of the cyclone which did damage on the East coast of New Zealand a few days ago have been beautiful, variously towering clouds, seemingly adjacent yet lit differently by the sun.

I just finished Sylvia Townsend Warner's biography of T.H. White, which has put at least a comma in my run of enthusiastic reading about him. The minute I finished England Have My Bones (picked up on a whim after two years spent on my shelf after being chanced on at a bookshop's closing-down sale) I bought The Goshawk (because kindle one-click purchasing is a wonderous peril), and shortly after finishing The Goshawk my grandfather handed me the copy of H is for Hawk which has been circling around the family. The university library provided the biography next. But taking The Once and Future King off my mother's shelf now, I find that I need more distance before the shadows cast by the many impressions of White I've gathered become faint enough to show up the page clearly, instead of outright obscuring it. The correct thing to do would be to go off and read more Sylvia Townsend Warner instead – some of her sentences make me read them over twice for sheer pleasure, and there's so much of her left! – but none of it in the house. What then? Perhaps Winnie the Pooh. T. H. White despised A. A. Milne.

White is a person I might have liked to meet and would have liked to know. For better and worse he seldom failed to command a social setting, though he was often alone. He had an immense capacity for happiness, and was often miserable. He learned things as an antidote. A red setter was the love of his life. I can envy him his energy because I am safely connected to so much that he lacked. England Have My Bones is a book of physical activity – even when not compressed between two covers, the life it shows was one filled with doing. (It resurrected several hobbies of mine from the dead depths of my to-do list).

The explanations of White's psychology and motives in H is for Hawk, where the roles of student and teacher, victim and torturer, bird and austringer, merge with sharp logic, are beautiful, and I have a mild instinctive distrust for them, the distrust that Samuel Vimes would show Sherlock Holmes: how do you know the cigars were not cigars?

But they so well may not have been. Even meeting him couldn't have helped me here. I'm glad I read The Goshawk, a plain partial telling, before H is for Hawk added another keen eye's depths to that story.

The books' overlap changes them. I felt a tailing-off in Warner's biography as White left Ireland, because the other stories left him: the books I know him for practically finished, the animals I know him for dead, the richly-textured country of England Have My Bones receding behind him. Because I had read that book, I kept expecting him to go back. He didn't. Someday I may read all these books again, with each informing each.

As I drowned a wasp today, I thought of White shooting birds. The jar I held the wasp inside slipped from my hand and lay transparent on the bottom of the pool; the wasp climbed out of the mouth and spun upward through the clear water. It was beautiful. Should I have crushed it, instead? Perhaps it found something to hang on to. It probably drowned, and our bees are probably that much safer.

As we go about the touchy invitation of the newly-adopted ginger cats into the territory of the decade-resident tabby, I think of White's falcons.

As the biography approached its end I thought, “Please let the last things he did have been happy. That would pay for all.” And some of all was paid for.
landingtree: (Default)
We have climbed for miles, and still we climb. On and on. The mountain doesn’t want to stop. It refuses to stop. When it stops it will have to let us go.

In the sky before us, like a smile, there is landingtree, and that is all the hope we need.

This was what I wrote. I no longer remember the dream I was writing about, except that it contained a city, some of which was upside down.

This, just now, is not a functional journal. I keep my memories on paper, which works better than my head. This is so as to have a face. Hello, I am the person who just added a haiku about onions to your thread, no, I am not a ghost... I haven't more than the faintest idea what landingtree is. I plan to find out someday, though.


landingtree: (Default)

May 2017

 1 2 3456


RSS Atom

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Oct. 19th, 2017 09:34 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios