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If feathered, how I'd fly
I have been off the wider internet for almost five days, so if anything of particular interest happened this last week that would not upset me to know about, please link.
I am in Somerville. I have a political commitment in just about an hour. I am very tired, but mostly what I need to do is make eye contact and take notes and I believe I can manage that.
I have been alternating the afternoon between catching up on work and re-reading children's books, like Ursula Vernon's Castle Hangnail (2015) and Eleanor Cameron's Mr. Bass's Planetoid (1958). The latter has the worst illustrations of all the Mushroom Planet books, but is otherwise my favorite of the series and has been as far back as I can remember. I realized some time ago that I associate Cameron with Diane Duane not just because I read The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet (1954) around the same time as So You Want to Be a Wizard (1983) but because they both write beautifully about science and space and time, making the laws of physics as weird and powerful as mythology. So one of my favorite passages from Planetoid has always been this quick tutorial in atomic theory, against a backdrop of cosmic rays and dapper mad science:
"But what a funny way to say it," put in Chuck. "How could the world unravel?"
David stared at the table. For it was turning, in this instant, into a mass of dancing particles, as though insects hummed in a net. Those particles were atoms, tiny blurs of energy that were knit together into the wood of the table; there it was (David blinked), hard to the touch, yet really a collection of infinitely small spinning worlds of furious activity. Think of that! Everything—salt, sugar, vinegar, milk, metal, glass, wood or flesh—everything you could see or smell or touch was made of atoms, blurs of energy knit together into whatever you were seeing or smelling or touching.
And Mr. Brumblydge's Brumblitron—if it went out of control—might unknit all this; energy would be released all over the place, and the world would light up like a nova, or new star, and then disappear completely.
Or this lesson in meteorites through the lens of dapper mad scientist Prewytt Brumblydge himself, encountering a chunk of the mysterious element he's named after himself (he names all his discoveries and inventions after himself) in Tyco Bass' basement, where he sort of has a right to be:
In a second his pain was forgotten. "Ah," he breathed in delight, and reached out to touch the lumpy little thing, slightly smaller than the one he had found, dark iron-colored, and with one side cut and polished smooth until it shone. But not grayish-silver as do most cut and polished meteorites. No, this strange metal gleamed a warm, coppery gold with a hint of green in it, the same as his own piece of Brumblium. And traced across its face were those mysterious hieroglyphics which are the visible memories of every meteor's early life in the molten heart of an ancient planet—a planet that cooled slowly for millions of years and then exploded in some catastrophic collision that sent its debris drifting forever about our solar system.
But she can shift registers effortlessly from science fiction to science fantasy, as here in a tense moment on a speck of an island in the Outer Hebrides with Prewytt who does not yet know what it means that he could read without a second thought the absolutely non-human scratches and sigils of Tyco's Random Jottings:
When David and Chuck came to the chasm and stared over, they could not believe what they saw. For little Mr. Brumblydge was climbing rapidly straight down the rocky wall toward that place where his precious paper was caught by some twig or twisted vine. Where he found crevices to put his feet or ledges to cling to with his fingers, they could not see. It was as though he were not human, but some elf or troll with the magic gift of clinging to nothing. Not human! Not human! But then he wasn't, was he? came into David's head. No, he was a spore person.
Oh, but born into the world of humans with the breath of this world in his blood. For now suddenly he must have missed his step—for his hands flew out, his white face turned upward, glimmering in the darkness, he gave a brief, sharp cry—and then backwards he went—and was seen no more.
That line about the breath of this world has always haunted me, which I suppose is apparent. I worry sometimes that I am just a collection of childhood references and once you recognize all of them, there's no reason to talk to me.
It is probably not true. And even if it is, I should give this cat on my lap one last pet and go try to make this world I live in a better place, without blowing it up if I can.
I am in Somerville. I have a political commitment in just about an hour. I am very tired, but mostly what I need to do is make eye contact and take notes and I believe I can manage that.
I have been alternating the afternoon between catching up on work and re-reading children's books, like Ursula Vernon's Castle Hangnail (2015) and Eleanor Cameron's Mr. Bass's Planetoid (1958). The latter has the worst illustrations of all the Mushroom Planet books, but is otherwise my favorite of the series and has been as far back as I can remember. I realized some time ago that I associate Cameron with Diane Duane not just because I read The Wonderful Flight to the Mushroom Planet (1954) around the same time as So You Want to Be a Wizard (1983) but because they both write beautifully about science and space and time, making the laws of physics as weird and powerful as mythology. So one of my favorite passages from Planetoid has always been this quick tutorial in atomic theory, against a backdrop of cosmic rays and dapper mad science:
"But what a funny way to say it," put in Chuck. "How could the world unravel?"
David stared at the table. For it was turning, in this instant, into a mass of dancing particles, as though insects hummed in a net. Those particles were atoms, tiny blurs of energy that were knit together into the wood of the table; there it was (David blinked), hard to the touch, yet really a collection of infinitely small spinning worlds of furious activity. Think of that! Everything—salt, sugar, vinegar, milk, metal, glass, wood or flesh—everything you could see or smell or touch was made of atoms, blurs of energy knit together into whatever you were seeing or smelling or touching.
And Mr. Brumblydge's Brumblitron—if it went out of control—might unknit all this; energy would be released all over the place, and the world would light up like a nova, or new star, and then disappear completely.
Or this lesson in meteorites through the lens of dapper mad scientist Prewytt Brumblydge himself, encountering a chunk of the mysterious element he's named after himself (he names all his discoveries and inventions after himself) in Tyco Bass' basement, where he sort of has a right to be:
In a second his pain was forgotten. "Ah," he breathed in delight, and reached out to touch the lumpy little thing, slightly smaller than the one he had found, dark iron-colored, and with one side cut and polished smooth until it shone. But not grayish-silver as do most cut and polished meteorites. No, this strange metal gleamed a warm, coppery gold with a hint of green in it, the same as his own piece of Brumblium. And traced across its face were those mysterious hieroglyphics which are the visible memories of every meteor's early life in the molten heart of an ancient planet—a planet that cooled slowly for millions of years and then exploded in some catastrophic collision that sent its debris drifting forever about our solar system.
But she can shift registers effortlessly from science fiction to science fantasy, as here in a tense moment on a speck of an island in the Outer Hebrides with Prewytt who does not yet know what it means that he could read without a second thought the absolutely non-human scratches and sigils of Tyco's Random Jottings:
When David and Chuck came to the chasm and stared over, they could not believe what they saw. For little Mr. Brumblydge was climbing rapidly straight down the rocky wall toward that place where his precious paper was caught by some twig or twisted vine. Where he found crevices to put his feet or ledges to cling to with his fingers, they could not see. It was as though he were not human, but some elf or troll with the magic gift of clinging to nothing. Not human! Not human! But then he wasn't, was he? came into David's head. No, he was a spore person.
Oh, but born into the world of humans with the breath of this world in his blood. For now suddenly he must have missed his step—for his hands flew out, his white face turned upward, glimmering in the darkness, he gave a brief, sharp cry—and then backwards he went—and was seen no more.
That line about the breath of this world has always haunted me, which I suppose is apparent. I worry sometimes that I am just a collection of childhood references and once you recognize all of them, there's no reason to talk to me.
It is probably not true. And even if it is, I should give this cat on my lap one last pet and go try to make this world I live in a better place, without blowing it up if I can.
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On the contrary: just think of the new vistas of conversation that would open up once you and someone else knew one another's referents completely--it would be a new beginning.
Thank you for your good work for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I (and I'm sure many others) am very grateful for your dedication.
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It is. I love how she writes. I want to re-read the Julia Redfern books, which I also grew up reading but never owned; they are later than the Mushroom Planet, about a girl who writes.
On the contrary: just think of the new vistas of conversation that would open up once you and someone else knew one another's referents completely--it would be a new beginning.
I wonder if that is how telepathy is supposed to work. I certainly think it would help.
Thank you for your good work for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I (and I'm sure many others) am very grateful for your dedication.
You're welcome. I would actively like Bob Massie as Governor of Massachusetts. I think he would be an improvement on (a) the incumbent (b) an artichoke (c) the other guys. Figuring out how to be part of making this happen is interesting.
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That sounds like they hold up for the adult reader, which makes me very happy. I have not read any of them since middle or early high school at the latest. There are others of her books I don't even think I've read—The Terrible Churnadryne (1959), A Spell Is Cast (1964). At this distance, all I can remember about The Court of the Stone Children (1973) is that I read and liked it and I have it half mixed up in my head with other timeslip children's novels. [edit] And I remember that she flamed Roald Dahl for his original conception of the Oompa-Loompas and at the time was seen as the humorless lady reviewer who didn't understand the genius of a real writer for children, and now of course looks like she was on to something.
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Later, however, Cameron agreed to write an afterword to an edition of Charlotte Sometimes, so she must have thought there was something in Farmer all the same.
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How interesting: one of the elements of Cameron's prose that attracts me is exactly that blurred poetry, like Prewytt climbing and falling between worlds. Now I want to re-read her and see how she handles similes.
Later, however, Cameron agreed to write an afterword to an edition of Charlotte Sometimes, so she must have thought there was something in Farmer all the same.
I'm glad to hear it.
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Thank you.
I will remember it's not just discrete pieces.
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Thank you.
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I do still occasionally get frustrated by not knowing which of the things I know are “common knowledge” and which aren’t. Those “Ten Things You Never Knew About This Topic, Assuming You Never Read Up On It At All” clickbair articles don’t help.
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I like that very much. It sounds like it could have been said by either Oscar Wilde or Ludwig Wittgenstein.
I do still occasionally get frustrated by not knowing which of the things I know are “common knowledge” and which aren’t. Those “Ten Things You Never Knew About This Topic, Assuming You Never Read Up On It At All” clickbair articles don’t help.
I can never answer those quizzes which involve guessing what other people don't know about you or what you know that other people don't.
Clickbait is very confrontational. And it makes a lot of assumptions about the reader. Those are two of the things I don't like about it.
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Wow, thanks! Clearly I need to charge more for my ghostwriting services (nudges Oscar).
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Oh, nice. I did not know that line of Tennyson's. What's it from?
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You're a worthy cause!
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Cool!
"Salt, sugar, vinegar, milk, metal, glass, wood or flesh" is Cameron's litany, and has always stuck with me.
I can't remember how old I was when I learned about atoms. I suspect very young, since this book didn't teach me. I can see now that the plot-driving fear of Prewytt accidentally unraveling the world with a chain reaction from his "B-rays" is as classic an atomic age anxiety as you can get.
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Awesome! There are five books in the series, published between 1954 and 1967; she wrote them for her son, who is the original David. The first is a miniature planetary romance and may suffer from some of the problems of that genre, but it also rings some nice changes on the tropes and it got me to eat hard-boiled eggs for the rest of my life. I almost never remember anything about Stowaway to the Mushroom Planet (1956) except for Mr. Bass' cousin's opera cape and the hole in space and I should probably try it again as an adult. I love Mr. Bass's Planetoid, full stop. It taught me the English lyrics I always remember first to "Men of Harlech." I don't actually like A Mystery for Mr. Bass (1960) very much because retcons a lot of previously established material, including the climax of Planetoid that means so much to me, but in hindsight it's a necessary bridge to Time and Mr. Bass (1967), which is a full-blown Arthurian fantasy and batshit of its type; naturally, its central setting is Wales. (Does anyone know how Wales ended up at the heart of the children's fantasy boom of the '60's and '70's? Should I blame Lloyd Alexander? Was it just an Arthurian thing?) As with so many series written explicitly for boys, there are almost no female characters to speak of here, but you can go on to read A House Made of Windows (1971) and the other books about Julia Redfern if you like Cameron's style and want a more rounded universe. As far as I can tell, I read this series for the first time when I was seven or so and I imprinted.