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Go down to the netherworld, plant grapes
Somehow this post wound up huge. Thank God for lj-cuts.
1. Today was a rather bad day, but then![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
csecooney found this card of Mary Magdalene. She had never before realized, she said, that the saint was a lycanthrope. So I wrote the litany.
Mater luporum, mater moeniorum, stella montana, ora pro nobis. Virgo arborum, virgo vastitatis, umbra corniculans, ora pro nobis. Regina mutatum, regina siderum, ficus aeterna, ora pro nobis. Domina omnium nocte dieque errantium, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, ora pro nobis.
Mother of wolves, mother of walls, star of the mountains, pray for us. Virgin of trees, virgin of desert, horned moon's shadow, pray for us. Queen of changes, queen of constellations, eternal fig-tree, pray for us. Mistress of all who by night and day wander, now and at the hour of our death, pray for us.
I feel slightly better now.
2. I dreamed last night of secret agents and the same fifteen minutes playing and replaying and almost no one noticing it was not the same universe each time, though the changes were not small: the zither on the wall is now a classical guitar, a stack of books on the dining room table instead of flowers. This feels like the premise of a film I haven't seen yet.
3. Jill Paton Walsh's Farewell, Great King (1972) is one of the more impressive novels I have read lately in terms of slow-dawning character work and evocation of the ancient world. For about a chapter, it is confusing that it's not by Mary Renault.
The narrative is fairly straightforward: it is a first-person account of the life of Themistokles, written on the eve of his suicide and addressed to Artaxerxes I of Persia in explanation of a broken bargain; though he has been given refuge in his exile and made governor of three cities in Asia Minor, the once-victor of Salamis cannot, after all, make war for the Great King on his native Athens. How he came to be faced with this decision is the ostensible substance of the novel. He's more or less chronological about it and he admits he doesn't have a flowery style. It seems, therefore, like the kind of book where the reader will mostly come away with a better grasp of early Athenian democracy and the Persian Wars, the historical figure being there to hang the viewpoint on. What it is, really, is a portrait of an immensely complicated man who knows about half of his own contradictions and would instinctively mislead the reader about the other half and none of it is on the surface of the text in any case.
To be hated by an Alkmeonid, or by a Philaid, is a crown of olive to a man like me. How many times, by now, I've worn that crown! It takes longer to fade than the crown of an athlete, too.
You can take the novel at its word, of course, but it would be a mistake. Themistokles as Paton Walsh writes him is both a casual and a thoughtful manipulator of people; it doesn't make him incapable of friendship or kindness or generosity, but there is always that eye to the main chance, the reflex level on which he assesses every newcomer for their potential usefulness and doesn't even notice anymore.1 Like any statesman, he loves to be adored and followed and looked to in those moments when the wheel of the world hangs waiting for the hand to take hold of it and turn—he has known since the age of twelve that what he likes to do is get things done and get the credit for it—and he has a curious trick, concomitant, of needing to be untrustworthy, as if to make sure that he is never predictable enough to be manipulated himself. He takes bribes, he twists arms, he lies with the fluency of Odysseus and he doesn't mind being known for it. He gets the job done. Periodically, when it won't backfire on him, he screws somebody over. He is absolutely the genius he thinks he is, and yet for all his offhand Olympian ego, the reader notices that he can never quite acknowledge unmixed skill in anyone else, no matter how dear they are to him. Athens is the exception, his doting and his hard-edged ambitious dream. He loves his city. He would give her the sea.
And Athens, being mine, all mine, like a bride with her husband or a boy with his lover, smiling, agreed. We voted for ships.
And throughout it all is Aristeides, called "the Just," the great unrequited love of Themistokles' life and his great rival, who in some ways he is really writing this last letter for.2 They are not entirely opposites, no matter how they're drawn by history, because life is not that schematic, but in Aristeides Themistokles sees all that he is not—pure-blooded Athenian, thoughtlessly incorruptible, as strictly and beautifully principled as a kouros in stone—and whether he envies it or is contemptuous of it or merely wonders how anyone who's spent so much time with ideas can be so stupid sometimes, he's drawn to it and it maddens him. There is a powerful, almost noir-tinged scene late in the novel in which Themistokles swears he'd have gone straight for Aristeides' sake and—in the same breath, with the same passion—that Aristeides owes him for keeping his hands clean, for being the wheeler-dealer, the fixer, the trickster with his silver and his ships, so that Aristeides can truly deserve his nickname. I heard it in my head half in Greek, like much of the novel. μηδὲ σύ, ὦ Δίκαιε. There are not many authors who can pull that off. Also, I think my bar for historical slash is now set very high.
Great King, the shadow of the column of the window silently rotates across the floor; I shall be writing late into the night. And then another grey dawn will come up on a wakeful night; and as for what I wept for, so long ago, I have lived without it, and will die without it still.
There's more, which I will not spoil. You can certainly take it as a refresher course on Herodotos and Plutarch; I will never again forget the playwright Phrynichos. But it is a good novel, whether you know anything about the source material or not, and I will be looking for a copy. Its protagonist was evidently dear to Jill Paton Walsh, all sorts of difficult as he was; I like that it's communicable.3
1. In epitome: "Soon I had a son-in-law too, a man of impeccable honesty, who had fought very bravely at Salamis. He had no money, but I preferred him to the others who offered themselves, saying I'd rather have a man without money than money without a man. I think the girl's kindly treated, and he makes himself useful to me."
2. I said the novel was brilliant about the ancient world: in fifth-century Athens, it's unrequited not because Themistokles is half-metic or Aristeides only goes for women, but because the two men are age-mates. It will never occur to Aristeides to think of Themistokles that way, like a beloved boy or an admiring lover. The one time they ever get near discussing the subject, Aristeides assumes that his friend is crushing on his new eromenos—he's noticed that Themistokles gets tongue-tied and awkward around the two of them, though Themistokles actually thinks the kid is pretty but dumb as a board—gently offers Themistokles the option to court him, and Themistokles leaves in an Attic attitude of fail my life. There are a lot of scandalous things a politician in Athens can make capital of, but turning dizzy with desire when a fellow-archon grasps his wrist isn't one of them.
3. One of her other books I got out from the library when I picked this one up was Children of the Fox (1978), which seems to be three YA novellas about Themistokles: I will be fascinated to see how that works.
4.shweta_narayan has done a link roundup of the thing with the poem and the SFPA. It is not a good poem. In some ways, that's the least of its problems; and in others, everything else is just noise. Both are true. Intersections exist. Hello.
No fifth thing, because I'm going to bed. Tomorrow, Providence.
1. Today was a rather bad day, but then
csecooney found this card of Mary Magdalene. She had never before realized, she said, that the saint was a lycanthrope. So I wrote the litany.
Mater luporum, mater moeniorum, stella montana, ora pro nobis. Virgo arborum, virgo vastitatis, umbra corniculans, ora pro nobis. Regina mutatum, regina siderum, ficus aeterna, ora pro nobis. Domina omnium nocte dieque errantium, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae, ora pro nobis.
Mother of wolves, mother of walls, star of the mountains, pray for us. Virgin of trees, virgin of desert, horned moon's shadow, pray for us. Queen of changes, queen of constellations, eternal fig-tree, pray for us. Mistress of all who by night and day wander, now and at the hour of our death, pray for us.
I feel slightly better now.
2. I dreamed last night of secret agents and the same fifteen minutes playing and replaying and almost no one noticing it was not the same universe each time, though the changes were not small: the zither on the wall is now a classical guitar, a stack of books on the dining room table instead of flowers. This feels like the premise of a film I haven't seen yet.
3. Jill Paton Walsh's Farewell, Great King (1972) is one of the more impressive novels I have read lately in terms of slow-dawning character work and evocation of the ancient world. For about a chapter, it is confusing that it's not by Mary Renault.
The narrative is fairly straightforward: it is a first-person account of the life of Themistokles, written on the eve of his suicide and addressed to Artaxerxes I of Persia in explanation of a broken bargain; though he has been given refuge in his exile and made governor of three cities in Asia Minor, the once-victor of Salamis cannot, after all, make war for the Great King on his native Athens. How he came to be faced with this decision is the ostensible substance of the novel. He's more or less chronological about it and he admits he doesn't have a flowery style. It seems, therefore, like the kind of book where the reader will mostly come away with a better grasp of early Athenian democracy and the Persian Wars, the historical figure being there to hang the viewpoint on. What it is, really, is a portrait of an immensely complicated man who knows about half of his own contradictions and would instinctively mislead the reader about the other half and none of it is on the surface of the text in any case.
To be hated by an Alkmeonid, or by a Philaid, is a crown of olive to a man like me. How many times, by now, I've worn that crown! It takes longer to fade than the crown of an athlete, too.
You can take the novel at its word, of course, but it would be a mistake. Themistokles as Paton Walsh writes him is both a casual and a thoughtful manipulator of people; it doesn't make him incapable of friendship or kindness or generosity, but there is always that eye to the main chance, the reflex level on which he assesses every newcomer for their potential usefulness and doesn't even notice anymore.1 Like any statesman, he loves to be adored and followed and looked to in those moments when the wheel of the world hangs waiting for the hand to take hold of it and turn—he has known since the age of twelve that what he likes to do is get things done and get the credit for it—and he has a curious trick, concomitant, of needing to be untrustworthy, as if to make sure that he is never predictable enough to be manipulated himself. He takes bribes, he twists arms, he lies with the fluency of Odysseus and he doesn't mind being known for it. He gets the job done. Periodically, when it won't backfire on him, he screws somebody over. He is absolutely the genius he thinks he is, and yet for all his offhand Olympian ego, the reader notices that he can never quite acknowledge unmixed skill in anyone else, no matter how dear they are to him. Athens is the exception, his doting and his hard-edged ambitious dream. He loves his city. He would give her the sea.
And Athens, being mine, all mine, like a bride with her husband or a boy with his lover, smiling, agreed. We voted for ships.
And throughout it all is Aristeides, called "the Just," the great unrequited love of Themistokles' life and his great rival, who in some ways he is really writing this last letter for.2 They are not entirely opposites, no matter how they're drawn by history, because life is not that schematic, but in Aristeides Themistokles sees all that he is not—pure-blooded Athenian, thoughtlessly incorruptible, as strictly and beautifully principled as a kouros in stone—and whether he envies it or is contemptuous of it or merely wonders how anyone who's spent so much time with ideas can be so stupid sometimes, he's drawn to it and it maddens him. There is a powerful, almost noir-tinged scene late in the novel in which Themistokles swears he'd have gone straight for Aristeides' sake and—in the same breath, with the same passion—that Aristeides owes him for keeping his hands clean, for being the wheeler-dealer, the fixer, the trickster with his silver and his ships, so that Aristeides can truly deserve his nickname. I heard it in my head half in Greek, like much of the novel. μηδὲ σύ, ὦ Δίκαιε. There are not many authors who can pull that off. Also, I think my bar for historical slash is now set very high.
Great King, the shadow of the column of the window silently rotates across the floor; I shall be writing late into the night. And then another grey dawn will come up on a wakeful night; and as for what I wept for, so long ago, I have lived without it, and will die without it still.
There's more, which I will not spoil. You can certainly take it as a refresher course on Herodotos and Plutarch; I will never again forget the playwright Phrynichos. But it is a good novel, whether you know anything about the source material or not, and I will be looking for a copy. Its protagonist was evidently dear to Jill Paton Walsh, all sorts of difficult as he was; I like that it's communicable.3
1. In epitome: "Soon I had a son-in-law too, a man of impeccable honesty, who had fought very bravely at Salamis. He had no money, but I preferred him to the others who offered themselves, saying I'd rather have a man without money than money without a man. I think the girl's kindly treated, and he makes himself useful to me."
2. I said the novel was brilliant about the ancient world: in fifth-century Athens, it's unrequited not because Themistokles is half-metic or Aristeides only goes for women, but because the two men are age-mates. It will never occur to Aristeides to think of Themistokles that way, like a beloved boy or an admiring lover. The one time they ever get near discussing the subject, Aristeides assumes that his friend is crushing on his new eromenos—he's noticed that Themistokles gets tongue-tied and awkward around the two of them, though Themistokles actually thinks the kid is pretty but dumb as a board—gently offers Themistokles the option to court him, and Themistokles leaves in an Attic attitude of fail my life. There are a lot of scandalous things a politician in Athens can make capital of, but turning dizzy with desire when a fellow-archon grasps his wrist isn't one of them.
3. One of her other books I got out from the library when I picked this one up was Children of the Fox (1978), which seems to be three YA novellas about Themistokles: I will be fascinated to see how that works.
4.
shweta_narayan has done a link roundup of the thing with the poem and the SFPA. It is not a good poem. In some ways, that's the least of its problems; and in others, everything else is just noise. Both are true. Intersections exist. Hello.No fifth thing, because I'm going to bed. Tomorrow, Providence.
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It was amazing how the same dialogue and scene could be fascinating, looped, as you-the-viewer came into recognition only slightly ahead of the characters.
I love your litany!
And I love your second footnote. It makes me understand exactly the sort of unrequited love it is.
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Oh, God, I'm dreaming in Star Trek? Even with the flickernig, unremarked changes? I really don't think I've seen this episode . . .
I love your litany!
Thank you!
And I love your second footnote. It makes me understand exactly the sort of unrequited love it is.
The whole book is that good.
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I found it very easily in the nearest public library; it was sitting there in general fiction between Lapsing (1986), which I read in the stacks, and A Desert in Bohemia (2000), which I took home, and at least one other adult novel that was not Knowledge of Angels. You will have to let me know what you think of it!
You might also be interested in The Emperor's Winding Sheet (1974), which is the novel I read before this one; it may be the only novel, YA or otherwise, I've read about the fall of Constantinople. Shipwrecked, starved, with a smattering of schoolroom Latin and no Greek at all, a boy from Bristol falls out of a bitter orange tree at the feet of Constantine XI Palaeologos and finds himself taken up by the new-made Emperor as a combination talisman/ward/pawn in a suitably Byzantine power play; he is called now Vrethiki, lucky find, and so long as the Emperor lives, he must remain at his side. The reader knows already that this will be much shorter than Vrethiki believes. The whole book is like a mosaic, bright and dark images upheld. And it is not anything like her Athenian fifth century; she writes different times beautifully and individually, in their own voices, which I'm not sure everyone who takes on historical fiction can (though they should) do.
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I think if I got another tattoo, and if lettering looked nice at all to my eye on my hue of skin, I would get that litany put on. It is amazing. I don't know how you could disseminate it to the wider world, but you really reached out and plucked something from the firmament. I give you my lost night of writing gladly, if the muses were busy sending you that.
*sleepz*
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I'm looking forward.
I think if I got another tattoo, and if lettering looked nice at all to my eye on my hue of skin, I would get that litany put on. It is amazing.
Thank you. That's an honor.
I don't know how you could disseminate it to the wider world, but you really reached out and plucked something from the firmament.
I don't know if it's publishable as a poem in its own right; maybe in frame of something else. I'm still glad.
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It should be the epigram of an amazing short story.
It makes me want to write!
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Thank you! I'm glad you found that card.
It makes me want to write!
That's praise!
(Are you going to write the amazing short story?)
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Not yet! But it will go into my Book of Ideas, along with Hairy Mary.
I saw a poster this morning, walking to the train. It looked like a beer ad -- same colors, same kind of text. But instead of saying "Authentic Hops" or whatever, it said, "Authentic Jesus."
And I couldn't help thinking, "Drink up your Jesus Beer, bubba."
Maybe they're from the same story.
Maybe not.
:)
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This reminds me of very real He'Brew : the Chosen Beer. "Drink up your Messiah Stout, already!"
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I saw this, and all I could think was:
Then Hairy Mary had a little baby
Oh oh, its faither's in the Army
Ah haw, glory hallelujah ...
From here: http://www.mysongbook.de/msb/songs/c/codliver.html
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The nickname Hairy Mary is just a good idea waiting to happen separately, I guess.
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I will search for it when I get home.
The rhyme, of course, was obvious. :)
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I've got two versions. Both by Hamish Imlach; one is relatively straight and the other is playing to the back row. Here you go.
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I also got "Cod-Liver Oil and the Orange Juice" stuck in my head last night because of this line. Showering at five in the morning: Lanliq and cider—what a hell of a mixture . . .
brainworm time
Aw haw, it wisnae for the first time
Aw haw, it wisnae for the last time
Cod-liver oil in me or-ange-juice!
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And your dream is awesome! Damn! For me, it reads almost like a dream-commentary on my dream-inspired tale, with its musty old copy of Isle of the Cross in a used bookstore window, and as such is strangely reassuring. And it could well be the premise of a film, the Next Generation episode notwithstanding (which you should see if you haven't -- it's one of the better episodes).
How you manage to consistently create such enriching LiveJournal posts, I do not know -- but you do, thank goodness, and they are a blessing.
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Absolutely. I think that would be a very good use of it.
Thank you!
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And anyone interested can watch the Magdalene-centered service via livestream starting at 10:30 a.m. on Sunday, 21 August 2011. Portions of the service will be archived for later viewing; though I can't guarantee the archive will include your prayer, I will try to arrange it so that it is included.
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Thank you.
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Thank you!
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The image of Mary Magdalene clad snugly in her own hair is iconic in the Middle Ages. Thank you for re-weirding it.
Nine
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This is all I want said about my writing when I die.
That, and "Wow, she made a packet of money!"
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That, and "Wow, she made a packet of money!"
Why the hell didn't I respond to this comment five years ago? Amen.
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"Eternal fig-tree"? I'm puzzled.
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I was thinking more of the Ruminal Fig, but I'll take it.
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Thank you!
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I grew increasingly allergic to Mary Renault's visceral dislike of women. I enjoyed Thrones, Dominations despite its being on the slight side. If you want more waning Byzantium stories, most of Ismíni Kapádai's novels fit the profile: http://www.kastaniotis.com/author/520
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Thank you. If you want to write anything in that direction . . .
If you want more waning Byzantium stories, most of Ismíni Kapádai's novels fit the profile
I've never heard of her before; I'll check her out!
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I'm sorry for the bad day, but the litany is wonderful. Glad you're feeling at least a little better.
I like the idea of St. Mary Magdalene as the patron of lycanthropes and skin-turners. Would you mind if I were to use it, someday?
2.
Interesting dream, and it _would_ make an interesting film. I'm pleased you're dreaming.
3.
Glad you enjoyed the book so.
4.
Jesus, what an ugly and mean-spirited excuse for a poem. Sorry that there's such fail in SFPA.
I'm going to bed. Tomorrow, Providence.
I hope you've slept well and had a safe journey.
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Everyone else seems to be. Go for it!
Glad you enjoyed the book so.
I am really enjoying her as an author, now that I know who she is.
Sorry that there's such fail in SFPA.
It affects me very little in that my involvement in the SFPA at this point is mostly with the Rhyslings, but, yeah. It's not good.
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Thank you! My werewolf and her family might have a devotion to St. Mary Magdalene. If ever I can get back to that story, get her and her newfound loves through that day and night and into their HEA...
Or perhaps I'll use it somewhere else. Who knows?
I am really enjoying her as an author, now that I know who she is.
Excellent. I might have to read it sometime, myself. Not my usual sort of reading, but I much admire the thoughtfulness and close understanding of the setting you've described.
It affects me very little in that my involvement in the SFPA at this point is mostly with the Rhyslings, but, yeah. It's not good.
This sort of fail is painful to see, even if one's got no connection at all to the organisation, I think.