M. de Villefort reçut la note suivante: «La personne que l’on appelle M. le comte de Monte-Cristo est connue particulièrement de Lord Wilmore, riche étranger, que l’on voit quelquefois à Paris et qui s’y trouve en ce moment; il est connu également de l’abbé Busoni, prêtre sicilien d’une grande réputation en Orient, où il a fait beaucoup de bonnes œuvres.» (p. 839)

just read an entire chapter in which le procureur du roi monsieur de villefort, who's freaking out because the count of monte-cristo somehow knows about his lovechild who he tried to bury alive in his in-laws' backyard twenty years ago, asks around for info about the count and is told that the people who know the most about him are l'abbé busoni and lord wilmore. you know. two of dantès's other personas. so then the rest of the chapter is just the cops interrogating these two guys (the same guy) to find out what they know about this other guy (also the same guy). and they ask the two guys (who are the same guy) the same questions, but the two guys (two-in-one guy) answer differently, and all of their answers are lies anyway because the guy they're being interrogated about (who again is the same guy) and in fact the two guys being interrogated as well (bogo guys) are all made up by the one real guy who's pretending to be all of them.

Rambling about my Hellsing ship

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So, this is just some sort an explanation why I ship Vanity (my OC/self-insert) with Enrico Maxwell, and how their relationship can even work. I really wanted to write something like this for a while, yet I have been putting it aside till now. But hey, at least I finally did it, right?

Anyways! If you are interested in Vanity or if you want to know more about the lore around her - feel free to ask me! Because there is A LOT stuff, and I feel like it can be pretty confusing sometimes.

Also, this post is kinda based on my headcanons of Enrico and how I see him, and portrait him, okay? So please keep that in mind.

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How did they even get closer to each other?

Well, this will be a little bit harder to explain since it all started with my Hellsing parody I have been publishing on Wattpad in Czech. (One day I would really like to come up with translation, but that will be a real challenge. Especially because many puns are based on the language so the punch lines wouldn't be funny anymore.)

Long story short: The parody (which's humour is - unintentionally - kinda similar to Abridged version of Hellsing) revolves around "Exchange project" (during the year 1997) between Hellsing and Iscariot, where each organisation sends one member to the other organisation for a month. And meanwhile Iscariot sends Anderson so he could sabotage Hellsing/find out some secret information, Integra decides to punish "dear Catholics" by sending them Vanity.

Yup, yup, there is no worse punishment than an annoying, sadomasochistic, horny, and vulgar vampire that has problem with listening to authorities.

You can definitely imagine the disaster that Vanity caused; but she also helped with catching members of some sort of "Italian vampire mafia" and actually saved Enrico's life. (Yeah, yeah, kinda overused trope... Yet I think not many times author used vampire smashing another vampire with a fire poker, and accidentally hitting bishop as well in their stories, right?)

And Maxwell could deny it as much as he wanted but he got interested in this little vampire disaster, not only because of her looks, but also because of her personality. And he slowly fell for her.

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We are the opposites, and yet we're both same

Maybe it's not visible on the first sight but more you look into their backstories, you will realise there have more things in common than you'd thought. We could definitely start with being mentally ill; yet the funny thing is that they can recognise that the other one is fucked up, but aren't able to recognise it on themselves. (And they really don't talk about this so they just think it. - Personally, I find it hilarious.)

Both of them had awful childhood which kinda formed them, yet the difference is that Vanity wasn't mentally alright from the start. (Which kinda helped her to get through all this in one piece, and she just calls her her early years as "shitty era".) - And funnily enough since they both lack emphaty, it's easier for them to talk about this - no empty apologies, no feeling sorry, no blunt sentences... They just talk about this sometimes, letting the words to slowly disappear in the air.

Which gets us to the silence they often share. There is no need for them to talk because no-one of them will ask stupid questions, and none of them will try to bring out the emotions and memories.

Unless Enrico breaks down and reveals a bit about his early years. (I headcanon Enrico with lots of mental issues, don't mind me.) But even then Vanity doesn't ask any more questions and doesn't pity him. She is just here, and Maxwell really appreciates because he wouldn't like to be pitied and addressed as "weak". (And even though Vanity enjoys making fun of him, she would never cross the line, bringing this stuff up.)

Both of them also think about themselves that they are better than everyone and anyone; and they tend to act like that. Which is kinda funny - bishop despising vampires, seeing them as a scum, and vampire who considers people as something fragile and weak...

You can definitely image, how they saw each other as a selfish, prideful jerk, when their worlds "collided". But in quite short time they both realised how similar they are, and how each of them basically built a barricade around themselves to prevent outer world to get closer.

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Just let me to give you the freedom to dream

Yes, I used "The other side" from The Greatest Showman as a title here, let me be.

Everyone can see how Enrico is devoted to Catholic church and how he cares about his reputation here... But is he really such a faithful believer? - Well, not really...

I feel like the Church is the last resort for him. The only place where he got accepted, and where he could build a career, get power, and possibility to show everyone around he is more than a mere bastard. That's why he is kinda scared to step out of his "cage", because he could lose things most precious to him - power and respect.

But Vanity is one of few people who don't see bishop/archbishop when she looks at him. - She actually sees "Enrico", and she really doesn't care about the status or such meaningless things. That's why, when this vampire is around, Maxwell can actually be who he truly is, without any fear of being judged nor abandoned.

And this also applies on NSFW activities which I won't mention now, but let's say that you may expect some post about it later. - Let me just mention, that I see Enrico as someone who would be able to break the promise of celibacy, if he really wanted and if it stayed as a secret...

Even though in this case it's more like an open secret. - And that's another reason why Anderson dislikes Vanity so much, not only she's “a protestant vampire” but she also seduced Maxwell, and (in Anderson's eyes) she forced him into these unholy activities. - Little did he know that dear Enrico was always kinda kinky, and he simply pretended not to be.

♡ HARK —— ! yet another has risen in Purgatory ! the curve of [ her ] face likens them to SOPHIE SKELTON, but don’t be fooled — there is only one JUNE CARTER. upon arrival, they settled in as a freelance musician, and have since aligned to the VIRTUES. it’s written that they’re personable & energetic & independent, but whispered that they’re headstrong & blunt & bossy, so tread lightly. may their heart remain whole. [ jo, she/her, 22, est ]

Hello, friends! My name is Jo and I’m super excited to be here and equally excited to get into June’s character, so I’ve got quite a few pertinent points listed below. As her past is well-known already, I’m mostly going to be doing an abridged version for now, but I might do a more detailed biography on her past later because I just love her that much!

June was born the middle daughter of Maybelle and Ezra Carter in 1929. The family became known for their musical talent, and as a result, she spent most of her adolescence performing Appalachian-style country in multiple groups comprised solely of her sisters and parents.

While she was a decent singer, she was much more well-known for her skills in playing music - namely the guitar and autoharp - and her propensity for comedy. With a sharp wit and smart mouth, the youngest Carter was most definitely the liveliest out of the bunch and became well-known as the heart and soul of the Carter Sisters.

She made it to the Grand Ole Opry by the time she was 21, and this was the environment that she rubbed elbows with the likes of Hank Williams, Elvis Presley, and the one and only Johnny Cash. These friendships proved useful for her, and she toured several times with these artists and more through connections made at the Opry and beyond.

June married once at 21, and while she did get a daughter and multiple popular country songs out of her union with acclaimed singer Carl Smith, the marriage crashed and burned. Considering a good portion of those who listened to her music were devout Christians, the divorce sullied her reputation and left some to label her as a ‘sinner’ for allowing such a thing to happen. She married again, this time to a police officer by the name of Edwin Nix, but she faced the same fate yet again. Understandably, this left her somewhat more cynical and hesitant to put her heart on the ringer again when it came to romantic love.

Try as she did to deny it and keep him at an arm’s length, June developed quite an affection for Johnny through their work together that eventually turned to love. Thanks in part to her failed marriages, his issues with addiction, and her generally stubborn nature, it took years for the two of them to get together and even more past that for her to accept a marriage proposal from him. Their love, as she characterized in Ring of Fire, was just as exciting as it was painful for her, and despite their occasionally tumultuous relationship with each other, he was (and still is) her best friend and the only one who truly held her heart.

Once she finally agreed to marry Johnny in Ontario at nearly 40, she never looked back. The two married, had a child, and continued to make music together until she died in 2003 from complications following surgery.

Now that she’s in Purgatory, things have been simultaneously far easier and much harder for June. Here’s what I’ve got for her as far as that is concerned:

Overall, what you see with June is what you get. While she may be far wiser than she was as a young woman trying to make her name as a star, her love of life, goofy nature, and general humility hasn’t wavered.  Granted, she’s just as fiercely independent as ever, determined to do things on her own as she wants to and often unwilling to sway when she’s set her mind on something. She takes no shit, and while she’s by no means crass or rude, she’s also not one to allow people to walk all over her.

June closed her eyes being pushed back to an operating room and opened them young, rejuvenated, and dead. The fact that she’d passed without getting to say goodbye to her beloved husband was devastating and the four months between her death and his own were excruciatingly lonely. As guilty as she feels to admit it, she was almost glad to know that he’d died if only because it meant that she got to have him with her again.

Johnny’s obviously still the love of her life. She simply doesn’t have eyes for anyone else - due in part to years of  and adores him just as much now as she did in her youth

That doesn’t mean, however, that they don’t have their issues. She gets as frustrated and angry with him as ever, thanks in large part to her take-no-shit attitude and constant worry over the fact that he may be slipping back into bad habits. She bickers often when she feels slighted and shuts him out when she’s at her worse, a classic defense mechanism considering the years of hurt she carries on her shoulders to prevent showing vulnerability.  

Considering her propensity for humanitarian pursuits and generally good nature in life, it’s obvious why she’s aligned with the Virtues. All she wants out of this second chance is the opportunity to live a peaceful, idyllic life and make up for lost time, but that doesn’t seem as easy as she originally thought it’d be.

She tried to find a ‘regular’ job. Really, she did. But music had been her entire life from the tender age of ten to her deathbed, and there’s nothing that really sets her soul aflame like carrying a tune and strumming at that autoharp did. She carries odd jobs, performing at little holes in the wall and offering the occasional lesson or two when the moment strikes, and that’s perfectly okay with her.

Her greatest fear is losing her Johnny, whether that be to the alcohol or drugs or even to the arms of another woman. Early on, she’d hoped for a relatively peaceful second life, but nowadays she’s spent a good amount of her time fretting and fussing at him that she almost feels more like a mother than a wife at times. Considering the time and devotion she spent in life to getting him clean and sticking by him despite his misdeeds, she’s willing to do it all over again if it’s for him even if that means being overbearing at times.

I think that’s it for now, but knowing me, I’ve probably missed something that I’ll have to double-back on later when it comes to mind. That being said, feel free to throw anything my way in terms of plots, as I’m all about interacting with as many people as possible! Again, I’m so excited to be here and even more excited to get started, so bless you all!

you dont know me but he told me about you. were just friends so he tells me some personal stuff and you come up sometimes. One day when he wasnt looking i went thru his phone and found your tumblr at the top of his history. he still checks up on you. i wanted to tell you that he wont let me kiss him, he doesnt like to get turned on and says tht sex is only fun when hes in love. i see that you think he used you but i think you used him. he is so nice i wish he would forget about you instead of me

My involvement with him is a very difficult subject for me, especially right now when I am trying so hard to work on myself. My situation with him accelerated a lot of my mental health issues. I suppose you would have only heard his side, and I’m not even completely sure this message wasn’t sent by him for a few reasons which I’ll list at the end of this. But until then I’m going to look at this as if it were someone who was interested in him, I apologise for the doubt but you will see why.

First, I know that he looks at my Tumblr, that he always has. I would change my url but I really love it too much and it has a lot of sentimental meaning to me and I can not let it go. I’m pretty sure when he found it was one of the several times I broke up with him, because I felt like he was invading my diary. I asked him to stop looking at it, obviously he didn’t listen. I am so sorry that he still looks at it, he really shouldn’t. He never should have. I don’t care if close friends or strangers see it, I am very open about things, ask me anything I will give an honest answer. But, if you go through my “personal” tag, like really go through it, you’ll see all the posts I used to make about it. All the pain and confusion he put me through. You will see how depressed I was. I didn’t like to talk to him about things like that, how I was feeling and all, because all he ever did was fuck me. So I’m surprised you are saying he doesn’t like sex unless there is love, because I only recall one or two times, out of the I couldn’t even count how many, where I felt there was love present. If I was too upset to move, his solution was still to fuck me. And I don’t say have sex with me or make love to me because honestly, it only ever felt like he was getting off, and just simply fucking me. I also find it hard to believe that he wouldn’t even kiss you. There have been girls after me, plenty, one of which crossed the line and really opened my eyes that he was toxic to me and I needed him out of my life for now. I don’t know if I want to address that story but if you would like to hear it please contact me somewhere else, where I wouldn’t have to post it publicly. Just because this girl and I have finally become civil and while she is not in my life anymore, I don’t want it to get back to her that I was telling someone this story. People habe the whole thing twisted, it went around like telephone I feel. But anyway, long story short he always made me feel like I was never enough and I was only good for sex. He denies it, but that’s how I felt. He went to other girls while he was involved with me, I was so young I thought he was mine. Silly me. We never did anything other than sit in his room and fuck. A lot of the dynamic of our relationship did happen because we had to keep it a secret from the start. Again, if you want that story please contact me somewhere we could talk in private. But anyway it was never really a loving relationship, it was overall very painful, very draining. I don’t think I was ever worse than when I was with him. And I’m not saying it was because of him, but the whole situation with him, because there were a shit ton of outside factors. I could give more details and explanation, I apologize but I’m trying to keep this only too him, because I don’t want to bring anyone else into it. I could go on and on about this. It was almost two years of my life. The first thing I thought when I started talking to him was, “he could be bad for me, he could destroy me,” and I was nearly right. At the time I was so self destructive and that was exactly what I wanted, and exactly what I got. I am so so sorry that he is now not affectionate towards you, he was towards girls after me. And he was towards me not too long ago. I shouldn’t have agreed to hang out with him just yet but I did, I didn’t realize how much progress I didn’t actually make at the time. But, maybe he stopped being sexual and affectionate towards others because I finally blocked him on everything and he knows there is no longer a chance. He thinks I don’t care anymore but how can I not, obviously I do, and I wish he would let himself get close to someone else. To treat them the way they deserve so he could get all of that back, afterall I wasn’t enough. (And he doesn’t like the way I show affection anyway.) After everything I know he has also been working on himself so I want him to keep going. I want him to find someone that will help him do that, and not drag him back to the past.

I’m going to stop short but please just contact me so you can hear both sides, I know how he twists the story and puts more blame on me. It was both of us, and it was our surroundings. You really can’t make a judgment until you hear both sides, I never felt more used in my life than when I was with him. And for a year I went around having sex with random guys who I know werent interested in me, only my body. It’s weird sometimes I still felt more love from some of those stranges than I did from him.

Anyway now to address why I don’t completely believe this is someone else, and why I think it may be him.1. If you were just friends, why would try to kiss him?  small detail but still a question 2. He doesn’t like to get turned on, I don’t really understand that so you’re also a friend trying to turn him on, or does he tell you about girls that try to.3. A while ago, before I had him blocked, he was telling me he was losing interest in sex. I don’t remember the reason being the absence of love.4. I think he used me but you think I used him, is something he says, not some conclusion you would draw from hearing about our past. Unless, he now talks of me only from one side. Which is possible.5. What was the point of sending this to me, what would you get out of a response? Or did you just want to hurt and upset me, because that is what this did.6. He hates when girls go through his phone, he has a lot to hide (from my experience and while I was involved with him) but this leads me to the next7. If he found out he would be upset, so why would you message me here, where I would have to post publicly. And if he really does check my blog often, he would obviously see. Did you want him to? Or was this just sent by him?

Which is mainly why I believe this was sent from him, and he wanted to see how I still felt. He always used to guilt me, I believe this may just be another form of that. I think I was the most forgiving and gullible girl he ever got involved with, so when he needs someone, he thinks I will still always be there. In a way I will always be there, just not always like I used to. He was a huge part of my life I will always care and miss him, but there is no room for that right now, while I am working on myself. If there is any bit of truth in this ask, and he is not giving a good friend a chance because of me, then I am terribly sorry. Although, I am currently sceptical of this actually being the case. If this message wasn’t sent by him, please whoever sent it contact me somewhere else any social media or something,  message me again off anon if you have an account. I feel like we need to talk more about this if you have only heard his side, and now my VERY abridged version. If this was him I unblocked you on Snapchat so message me I left too many doors open I am sorry.

And My Heart Is A Hollow Plain (For The Devil To Dance Again)

And the fever began to spread From my heart down to my legs But the room was so quiet oh

A post-TFP Sherlock ficlet. Sherlock/Molly, sort of.

He doesn’t have the slightest idea where he’s going until he’s staring down the walkway to a group of tourists gathered before the entrance to London Aquarium, and his feet lead him to an all too familiar bench as if of their own accord.

What was he thinking? he wonders, and not for the first time. That was his one chance at fixing things between him and Molly, a last ditch attempt at salvaging what was left of their friendship; but obviously he had to go along and blow it – that appeared to be just his thing these days.

If only he could stop spouting off deductions at just the wrong moment, he muses somewhat grimly. (And it doesn’t matter what John said, he will never stop feeling at least partially responsible for Mary’s fate.) This is the life he has chosen for himself, that much is true; but there are still times when he finds himself considering how would it feel to settle for something ordinary for a change.

He would die of boredom within a month, quite possibly. But then again, he wouldn’t get anyone killed either, so on balance he’s not sure which of those options would be more advisable.

Sentiment, he scoffs, though it lacks his usual scorn. He may have spent the better part of his life denying it, but if there is one thing his dearest sister demonstrated quite clearly it’s that however hard you try to lock away your feelings, they will still lie in wait until your defences are low and you’re finally unable to hold back the flood.

Take his brother, for all the world a cold and unfeeling bastard; until you really look at him, and realise how he would literally take a bullet to his chest in order to spare his ungrateful sibling some pain. Mycroft wasn’t lying when he told him that caring was not an advantage; what he failed to observe was that it was something his brother had learnt by means of his personal experience, and such a statement was simply one more instance of him exercising his own peculiar version of kindness.

(Trust Mummy to lash out at her least favourite son for that very reason. As for himself, he had to reluctantly acknowledge that he was just like her in so many ways, especially when it came to dealing with confusing and all-too-intense emotions that were invariably too much for him.)

It would be so much easier if he just could stop caring – about everything, really. Not only his infuriating big brother, whom he spent so much time foolishly trying to push away – the brother who had been the one constant in his life, the safe harbour he could always turn to in times of trouble; there were so many people his life had got entangled with, in one way or the other, and one of them was currently standing in the middle of his recently renewed flat – quite possibly bewildered by his incongruous behaviour, or absolutely furious at him, or maybe both of those things at the same time. What was worse was that he had no excuse this time around, nor some sort of explanation that would make any sense at all.

All he had planned to do was to give her an abridged version of the circumstances which had led to that excruciating phone call, offer her some closure; only, he had somehow forgotten to take her utter unselfishness into account, and his brain had chosen that exact moment to go offline.

She was so kind, always, and she was standing in front of him, alive and breathing and nothing short of a miracle. (And he’d done it before, once, though he had aimed for the cheek that time – and he hadn’t been that desperate to get as close to her as humanly possible, just to remind himself that he hadn’t lost her after all.) That was how it had always been for him – he would either feel too much, or nothing at all, and in the end his only feasible option was to disengage from the situation entirely.

(The Mary in his head is now rolling her eyes in mock annoyance, and yet of all people she’s the one who would understand how his reasons cannot be ruled out as entirely selfish; it’s not dissimilar to walking around with a bomb strapped to your chest, you should know better than to attempt to defuse it in the middle of a crowd.)

A wave of nausea rolls over him as the memories flood back all at once – Semtex and snipers and blood on the pavement, sharks and water and a singsong that haunts his dreams, always. They had chips, he and Eurus, that night; or at least, Faith did, for his sister showed little to no sign of remembering that much. And now he is sitting on the same bench, and he feels like he is falling, again.

“Sherlock?”

For a long moment he doesn’t look up, thinking she’s another figment of his imagination. Then her hand is on his shoulder, and he reaches for it, blindingly, as if in a pathetic attempt to anchor himself. Of course she was going to go after him, that was her nature; she may be no detective, but she’s still no fool, and a part of his brain is genuinely admiring her for successfully deducing his final destination.

She doesn’t ask him if he’s all right; it’s probably written all over his face, quite embarrassingly so, but for the time being he can’t bring himself to care.

“I’m not in love with you,” he blurts out at length. Bit not good, Sherlock, the John in his head chides him, but he is genuinely trying to be kind here, spare her further humiliation and pain.

“I know,” she nods, calmly, and takes a seat beside him. “It’s okay, I don’t mind. We’re still friends – you said so yourself, remember?”

He regards her for a moment, then waves his hand in frustration. “You’re missing the point, Molly. I didn’t know it until I you forced me to say it out loud, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“Sherlock,” she cuts in, sounding considerably more defeated than only a few moments ago. “Could we just – not go through this again? Please?”

There is a gull perched on the parapet that separates them from the river, and he decides he might as well direct his irritation that way. The bird doesn’t return his glare though, merely stares back at him without any real interest, and he thinks this may very well be a sign he’s finally turning mad.

Why does it have to be so difficult, he grumbles to himself. He can deduce nearly everything about any chosen subject; but unfortunately sentiment is not, and never will be, within that number.

“My point is, I’m not attracted to you. I would know if I was, I should think. But I still do – love you, I mean. And not simply as a friend.”

Molly frowns, gazes back at him, confused. “I – don’t understand. What are you trying to tell me?”

He shakes his head, his mind momentarily, unhelpfully blank. “I don’t know. I just – do.”

The gull can’t possibly be judgmental of his unusually subpar eloquence, but for a brief moment it feels as if he deserves nothing less. He glances at her lips, and it’s only for a fraction of a second, but he knows she notices because her breath catches, ever so slightly.

(She doesn’t pull back, even though he gives her plenty of time to do so, for a change. And he’s falling again, burning, but she’s there to catch him – and maybe, just maybe, it will all work out in the end, somehow.)

Being Known

In today’s gospel lesson, amid an atmosphere of hostility, Jesus is asked to state his identity. “If you are the messiah, tell us plainly.” And Jesus responds, “The works that I do in my father’s name testify to me; but you do not believe because you do not belong to my sheep. My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.”

“I know them,” Jesus says. “I know them.”

What would it mean to you to be truly known, truly understood, truly heard? What would be your response to a person capable of giving you such a gift? Would you follow him?

In his book, “On Listening to Another,” Quaker author Douglas Steere describes being known, understood, in this very way.

“Have you ever talked with someone who listened with such utter abandon to what you were trying to tell him that you were yourself made clearer in what you were trying to express by the very quality of his listening? Have you ever found this listening changing what you started out to tell and moving it over into quite a different channel? Perhaps you had meant to complain bitterly against a fate that had pressed you to a state of desperation. You had meant to collect a liter or two of sympathy. But as you talked, and as your friend listened with that perfect understanding love which gave you his complete attention, the true state of things dawned upon you and you no longer needed sympathy or a towel for your tears. Painful as the insight was, you now saw things from another perspective and you stopped talking. You no longer needed to talk, or if you did continue, it was now on another theme and level.”

Have you ever spoken with someone like that? To be with such a person is to be unconditionally accepted for who you are, and to be empowered to explore the very depths of your being. It is to set free your true, authentic, identity.

And Jesus knows us in this deep way.

Following Jesus is dangerous, it’s frightening. We don’t know what we will discover along the way, what will be exposed. Following Jesus requires faith; it requires perseverance.

The religious traditions of the world often succumb to the ways of the world. Consider the Pharisees in today’s gospel lesson. They are hired hands. They exist to profit from the management of the Hebrew people, not to empower them. They are not like Jesus, who actually cares for the sheep. For the Pharisee’s sheep are a commodity to be manipulated for the benefit of Judaism, and they, as its leaders, benefit in turn.

In our own day, religious traditions abound that would have us ignore the works of Jesus and instead simply manage the masses. No need to empower and encourage them to discover their true identities as God’s own children. No need to incite hope within them to develop into beings beyond accepted social constructs. According to these traditions, all these peoples’ dreams will come true for them in the next life. That is when heaven is realized. For now, the masses simply need stay in their own lane.

I’m reminded of the Slave Bible, a heavily redacted version of the Bible, where references to freedom are omitted. There is no book of Exodus in this Bible. No description of God’s chosen people shaking off the shackles of their enslavement in their walk to freedom. This Slave Bible is a blatant attempt to manage a whole race of people through the selective abridgement of scripture.

But we see through all this, don’t we? As followers of Christ, our ears are attuned to that truth which opens us to a clearer, truer, understanding of ourselves. We refuse the limitations the world offers. We refuse the notion of this far, and no further. We are extraordinary beings made in the image of God.

I remember my mom today. It is Mother’s Day, after all. She demonstrated to me through her works just who she was. Born illegitimately in 1925 she was abandoned by her mother and raised by grandparents. As a child she endured sexual abuse at the hands of a relative. The world tortured her with unending reminders of her inadequacy, her lack of value, her worthlessness. Yet, she persevered. She was a faithful follower of our Lord, graced with a faith which overcame the world.

For years she worked a job for which she was not acknowledged.

She in fact, did her job and that of her boss, but was continually denied advancement. She applied again and again for the job she was already doing but for which she was not compensated.

One day, due to her persistence, it happened. She was awarded the job. She did it for one more year and then retired. I loved my mom. She was a model for me of what a faith-filled life looks like.

May we never give in to the limits worldly traditions would impose upon us. May we be ever mindful of how we are known and loved by Our Lord. And may we, through faith, allow God’s unconditional love to open us to our true, authentic selves, with all the wonders awaiting us there. May we be able to say when asked who we are: “The works that we do in Jesus’s name testify to us.” Amen.

—Offered at St. George’s Episcopal Church 5-12-19

The Book Ramblings of March

In place of book reviews, I will be writing these ‘book ramblings’. A lot of the texts I’ve been reading (or plan to read) in recent times are well-known classics, meaning I can’t really write book reviews as I’m used to. I’m reading books that either have already been read by everyone else (and so any attempt to give novel or insightful criticisms would be a tad pointless), or are so convoluted and odd that they defy being analysed as I would do a simpler text. These ramblings are pretty unorganised and hardly anything revolutionary, but I felt the need to write something review-related this year. I’ll upload a rambling compiling all my read books on a monthly basis.

The Princess Bride - William Goldman When I purchased this book immediately after having finished watching the film (which is amazing, as everyone other than me already knew), I was certain I’d be giving it a book review instead of a book rambling. But this book honestly surprised me with its interesting approach to storytelling, so I’m going to ramble about it. That being said, it would be remiss of me to not quickly summarise my opinions on the book by, before getting into the more academic thoughts, saying that this book is really fucking good; amazing characters, amazing story, quality humour, all the rest of it. The book employs a frame narrative of sorts; the book that you hold in your hands is presented as an abridged edition of a pre-existing text by some bloke called Morgenstern, altered to include only the ‘best bits’ by Goldman. The original text was said to be a satirical piece on royalty, and the few comments from the author reveal that this omitted text was often made up of hilarious hyperbole. This story, on account of these omissions, is transformed into a fairy tale, where simplistic plots are expected and accepted; I do find it awe-inspiring that Goldman has managed to essentially get away with only writing what he wanted to write about, and yet his methods of doing so are equally as interesting as the story’s content. I am somewhat torn on what I think on Goldman’s additions to the text, describing his own experiences and memories of his first read-through of the book. On the one hand, it does a great job at centralising the book in Goldman’s fabricated backstory, and it emphasises the way that the book ought to be read, as a delightful childhood memory that you get attached to and enthralled in. (As a quick side note, this book emphasises this perspective a hell of a lot better than the film did). On the other hand, Goldman is essentially interrupting the reading experience every now and then to give away plot points and tell you how you ought to be feeling. This book is oddly more meta (as much as I hate the term) than I was expecting; when I went into the book I assumed that it would be a standalone fantasy fairy tale with a few real world bits thrown in just to give the book’s existence context (an assumption which perhaps stemmed from my observing that, unlike The Neverending Story, the 'real world' and the fiction world in this book didn’t appear to be intrinsically linked, and could probably function well enough on their own). But this book is pretty much defined by Goldman’s ‘own’ experiences with the book, and constantly refers to the real world goings-on regarding the making/editing of this book. This is employed to justify certain edits in the text; for example, there is a scene in which Westley and Buttercup reunite, but the actual scene is not included in the book because Morgenstern supposedly didn’t write it. And so instead of that scene, we are given an address of a publishing company to send a letter to requesting Goldman’s supposed newly-written version of that scene. I find it all good fun, if a tad baffling regarding why it is here (other than centralising the story in Goldman’s version of reality, as said above). It seems like it could be construed as attempting to streamline the story, because obviously in a story about true loves getting repeatedly separated, there will no doubt be a veritable fuck tonne of reunion scenes filled with tears and heartfelt confessions of love, of which it may be wise to skip; however, this explanation for not writing this scene is somewhat juxtaposed by the fact that you spend just as long reading Goldman’s explanation for the absence of the scene as you would have done reading the scene. This ties in to another aspect of this book’s storytelling that I quite like; Goldman’s opposition with Morgenstern. The obvious example of this is the whole existence of this ‘abridged’ book, edited down as a response to the preponderance of dense satire in Morgenstern’s original work, but it continues in other aspects; the book is full of daft parentheses, seemingly to elucidate where and when the book is set but in reality muddying the waters even further, and Goldman frankly admits that he doesn’t know why they are there and that if you don’t like them, you don’t have to read them. Whatever Goldman’s reasoning for putting in these bizarre and constant parentheses, be it an actual literary device or as a whimsical fancy as befitting the genre, I do have respect for him for not only not explaining why he includes them, but flat out denying having any knowledge of said information. The ending toys with two different versions; Morgenstern’s version, in which things start going wrong and everything is left uncertain, and Goldman’s version, where everything is left happily ever after. I can appreciate both endings, and find them very interesting for the purpose of analysis, but I’m going with Goldman’s ending. Call me a reductionist if you must, but I want the happy fairy tale ending, because that’s how I want to think of this book when I’m talking about it casually. There’s even entire extracts from a supposed sequel to this book, but to tell the truth I didn’t even bother to read them, because said snippets are deliberately written to seem like fragments of a lost manuscript, and I want to read this book as a fairy tale, not as a text for literary analysis or criticism. Maybe I should have just given this book a normal book review after all.

The Murders in the Rue Morgue and Other Stories - Edgar Allan Poe I was biased going into this, as I’ve read Poe before and was already a firm believer that he is the master of the short story, but after having read pretty much all of his well-known short fiction collected in this anthology, I can’t say my opinion’s changed all that much. I think it was Huxley who described Poe’s writings as being shitty because it was ‘too poetical - the equivalent of wearing a diamond ring on every finger’, and though this is delightfully eloquent, I consider myself better than Huxley so here’s my take; Poe’s stories are some of my absolute favourite writings, eloquent without being too pretentious and grandiloquent without being too dense (for the most part). Poe is the indisputable master of writing stories that deal with the contrasting themes of the fantastic and the real (I’ve gone on enough about Todorov’s definition of the fantastic for you to know what I’m on about here), and his fantastic stories are absolutely fucking brilliant. There isn’t much to be said about the storytelling other than that it balances its inclusion of the fantastic and the real excellently (so as to allow the reader to make up their own minds as to if the events of the stories are actually supernatural or just the result of madness), it is excellent at building up tension, and the twists are always amazing (if occasionally a tad variable in how predictable they are). My favourite stories, by the way, are ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ and ‘William Wilson', both of which epitomise my aforementioned praise excellently. I also absolutely love Poe’s versatility to apply the fantastic to other settings and to interesting subject materials (even some subjects contemporary to the times Poe was writing); I was expecting an abundance of settings similar to ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’, with gothic mansions and the like, but we get Italian carnivals and the Inquisition and incorporation of themes such as mesmerism, which keep the stories continually fresh and interesting if you were to read them one after the other, as I did. I do believe that Poe’s writing style is best suited to his fantastic stories. This collection sheds light on the fact that Poe has written a fair amount of diverse stuff, despite the fact that he is best known for ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ or ‘William Wilson’, the generic ‘Poe’ stories. ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, for example, is a detective story (admittedly a very fun one), but Poe’s grandiloquent verbosity does not lend itself well to quick snappy deductions and conversations; instead, we get long streams of dialogue from our detective character, followed  by a very fast and somewhat anticlimactic resolution of events that really ought to have been staggered throughout the story a tad. (I am willing to cut the story some slack, since it is among the earliest detective stories and, as mentioned above, it is great fun). There are some of Poe’s stories that tackle the theme of love, like ‘Ligeia’ or ‘Eleanora’, but then the language seems at odds with the tone of the story, as its incessant formality makes the love seem rather disingenuous. Of course I wouldn’t want to devalue how Poe’s work has inspired some other excellent genre pieces - for that they deserve some praise - but, whilst not saying that they are terrible, said stories, with the possible exception of ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue’, are not very memorable when placed alongside Poe’s short stories that are more obviously recognisable as Poe. No one’s favourite Poe story is 'The Golden Bug’. And that’s not just because it’s quite racist.

The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde and The Bottle Imp - Robert Louis Stevenson I probably ought to have read this story aeons ago, considering how prevalent it is in modern media due to its creation of one of the archetypal British literary ‘icons’; because of this aforementioned prevalence, I went into this book with an abundance of preconceptions as to what to expect from this book, and I was surprised by how few of said ideas were actually involved in the book. Most of the things I have to say about this book revolve around how it went against what I would have expected. Everyone knows the character(s) of Jekyll and Hyde, and so I was surprised as to how, for the most part, the narrative was told from the perspective of someone else entirely; it honestly really helps the building of mystery, and if it wasn’t for the fact that a) everyone knows the twist of this story, and b) even if you didn’t know the twist, the fucking blurb spoils it, I would have absolutely been taken by this story’s enigmatic plot - convinced by its posited rationality to justify the weird goings-on, and surprised by the ending twist. This does, however, raise concerns of mine regarding how this novella is structured; obviously the grand reveal that Jekyll and Hyde are the same person needed to wait until the end of the book, but consequently this results in one incredibly lengthy explanatory chapter from Jekyll right at the end to elucidate matters. Considering that a lot of this book’s themes revolve around this final chapter, I wonder if the novella would have been better suited as a narrative entirely told by Jekyll. Arguably the main theme of this novel, the duality of man, is of course told excellently, and unlike other stories which revolve around the theme of ’the double’, the explicit explanation of where this double comes from and how it ties in with Jekyll’s own character makes for, in my opinion, a more compelling read (especially since this explanation revolves around pseudoscience, and I love the whole ‘man playing God’ malarkey that comes with said subject). For a story that is essentially gothic, featuring a character like Hyde who has been depicted as a vile little villain in many different adaptations, I was expecting a tad more penny dreadful-esque gore and violence; instead, the violence that Hyde carries out is often described matter-of-factly and succinctly, which seems at odds with the hysterical eyewitness accounts from which these events are reported from, but certainly makes sense when considering the professional detached perspectives of the narrative voices Utterson and Jekyll, law and medical professionals respectively. However, I am less inclined to believe that this was a deliberate decision in the writing style than I would be with something like A Clockwork Orange, wherein that’s the whole point; I reckon it’s just Stevenson’s own writing style, which is, don’t get me wrong, bloody great. The Penguin English Library edition of this story (i.e. the one that I read) also comes with Stevenson’s short story ‘The Bottle Imp’, which I very much enjoyed for its amazing titular concept and for its somewhat anticlimactic and yet still satisfying ending, but, despite what others have said to me, it’s not as good as Jekyll and Hyde.

Autobiography of a Corpse - Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky The blurb of this book described Krzhizhanovsky’s stories as ‘mind-bending’, and I cynically assumed that this was nothing more than a hyperbolic marketing ploy, like when people call 1984 a ‘masterpiece’ when in reality it’s a bit shit. But by fuck is this book legitimately mind-bending. I bought this thinking it sounded reminiscent of Gogol, who I love, but I also had it recommended to me by a pretentious friend who reads all the Booker Prize nominations just so he can have contentious opinions about them, which should have probably notified me of the Mieville-esque air of self-satisfied pretentiousness that this book has with its very clever and very wanky themes. Though used for roughly the same ends, there is a difference between cryptic writing and abstract  writing, and this book is certainly more of an abstract read. The stories take seemingly mundane or simple concepts from fields of study like philosophy or geography or what have you, and adapts these simple principles into complex ideas to reflect the story’s fantastic elements. In some cases this makes for some absolutely genius writing, with such simple ideas being utilised with such versatility to create some truly fascinating and amazing stuff, but in other cases it comes across really quite annoying, jumping sporadically from subject to subject and taking away from the mystery of the story’s fantastic elements with its constant need to explain said elements (often poorly and with a heavy reliance on tenuous links). This is especially evident in the stories that aren’t so much stories as they are a compilation of unrelated ideas, the main example being the story ‘Seams’. The few stories in the anthology that do not rely on long-winded verbose ramblings about abstract philosophical content (musings on the ‘I’ being an especially prolific example in the collection) were in most cases my favourite, indeed putting to mind Gogol to some extent as I had first hoped when I bought the book. All of the stories from ‘The Runaway Fingers’ to ‘Thirty Pieces of Silver’ are absolutely amazing, because they had a base concept that Krzhizhanovsky excellently built upon; it’s a great sign when an already great concept that I wouldn’t have thought of is then elaborated on in interesting directions that I wouldn’t have thought of. These stories are amazing not just because they aren’t entirely reliant on abstract wankiness, but that certainly helps their case. The eponymous story ‘Autobiography of a Corpse’ has its base concept, and doesn’t really elaborate on said base concept as much as it does add on additional abstract ideas, but arguably this works well enough because said abstract ideas link, in a weird and abstract way, to the original concept. Honestly I can’t keep on attempting to explain this; I’ve written the word ‘abstract’ too many times and it’s starting to lose meaning.

The Picture of Dorian Grey - Oscar Wilde Yet again have I been tricked into reading a novel that I thought would be gothic but instead just has one central vaguely gothic plot device. Indeed, a brief Google search describes this book as a ‘philosophical’ novel, which is certainly not my usual fare, but because I’m a fan of Wilde and needed an actual novel to read instead of another short story collection and am vulnerable to chicanery regarding what constitutes a gothic piece, I picked it up. I didn’t really read this novel as being especially reflective of Wilde’s own sexuality, because whilst there is something of paiderastia to be seen in some of the relationships between the male characters, such relationships hardly persist through the entirety of the book and end up being somewhat forgotten as relationships move past first meetings or characters change their standpoints on certain matters. What I did see in the book was some excellent commentary on the fin de siecle, aestheticism, and of course the theme of appearance versus reality; I’ve realised that I’ll happily read a philosophical novel so long as the philosophies it is spouting are interesting enough to read (although an interesting premise and plot also really helps, which is all well and good because this book possesses that too). I am for the most part a fan of Wilde’s wit. I’ve heard it criticised because a lot of it is just Wilde reversing statements of common wisdom or perverting cliches, and when you realise this, you see it absolutely fucking everywhere. Lord Henry is basically a mouthpiece for every melodramatic stereotypically ‘Wilde' quote you can think of, and I do think that the fact that we even have a preconception of what a stereotypical ‘Wilde’ quote ought to be is part of the problem. Despite Wilde's statement (in this book, even) that ’there is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about’, exactly how prolific and prevalent Wilde’s witticisms are in modern culture, with bags and mugs and little tiny books full of his most well-known wit and all that shit, is part of the reason why it seems so saturated and perhaps even a little bit stale. We know all of his wit, we can see the common trends behind it, and that somewhat diminishes it’s worth. Despite that big fuck-off rant, I still really enjoy Wilde’s wit, and even if you are aware of how he comes up with this shit, it’s still a great joy to read. Hell, even if you’re tired of that, there’s still some great banter from Wilde about aristocratic haughtiness to enjoy, so take your fill of that. There’s a lot to enjoy about this book. I like it a lot.

Stuff I read this month that I couldn’t be arsed to ramble about: Fantastic Tales (edited by Italo Calvino) and John Milton’s Paradise Lost. In it’s fucking entirety. Fuck you Milton.