tempestsarekind: (dido plus books)
The trailer for Ava DuVernay's A Wrinkle in Time film came out yesterday (or at least, I saw it for the first time yesterday):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4U3TeY2wtM

My first, entirely shallow thought was that it needs FAR more Gugu Mbatha-Raw in it. But as I chewed on this shallow thought over the course of the day yesterday, it became a little less shallow - because it touches on the main thing that's not quite sitting right with me about the trailer:

It starts with Chris Pine.

Okay, that's a bit facetious. But it does feel wrong to start with Mr. Murry, and not with Mrs. Murry or Meg. One of the things I really loved about A Wrinkle in Time as a child was how thorny and prickly the beginning of the book is: not just Meg getting in fights at school (although that was Important), but Meg's feeling of not fitting properly into her own skin, in contrast to her beautiful and brilliant mother; her desperate worry about Charles Wallace - and then, the nastiness of the people in their insular little town, who sneer at Mrs. Murry and snicker that her husband must have just run away, who make fun of Meg's beloved baby brother for being different. One of the things I loved about the book is that we don't start with the adventurer, making his scientific discoveries: we start with his family, who don't know what's happened to him, who have to hope and believe that they aren't in the sort of tawdry, shabby story that the snickering neighbors think they're in.

And obviously, this is just the trailer, so who knows what the actual movie will be like, or how it will begin. But it feels a bit as if all of those rough, important edges have been sanded down, and the story has been made smoother and glossier than I'd like. (This extends to the look of the film as well, though I haven't written about it here: I want Mrs. Whatsit to be tramping around in rubber boots and muffled by layers and layers of ill-fitting clothing - utterly unremarkable before becoming utterly magical. I want things to be sort of shabby and ramshackle around the edges. That may be expecting something one is not likely to get from a big Disney film.)
tempestsarekind: (ofelia reading)
(Is the New Yorker's new stance "no one should like reading anything unless it is approved by us"? Didn't they just publish one of these finger-wagging pieces for adults? Did they feel like they weren't scolding enough readers with that last one? Thought they'd cast their net a little wider, did they?)

"What if the strenuous accessibility of 'Percy Jackson’s Greek Gods' proves so alluring to young readers that it seduces them in the opposite direction from that which Gaiman’s words presuppose—away from an engagement with more immediately difficult incarnations of the classics, Greek and otherwise? What if instead of urging them on to more challenging adventures on other, potentially perilous literary shores, it makes young readers hungry only for more of the palatable same?"

"The Percy Jackson Problem," Rebecca Mead
http://www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/percy-jackson-problem

(link via Neil Gaiman's Tumblr.)

Won't somebody please think of the children??? (What if the books are so enjoyable that children can't help themselves? What if they're like drugs?)

…I sometimes wonder if people would be less odd and panicky about this if we didn't live in a culture that was so concerned with precocity and early development. Let's say children don't pick up difficult incarnations of the classics - let's say they don't read them until high school or even, god forbid, college. (I'm assuming for the sake of this argument that reading the classics is a good thing that we would like people to do at some point, but it is not the only way to build a life.) Is that so bad? And let's say - brazen thought, but humor me for a second - that when they do read those classics in high school or college or even (gasp) when they're not in school at all (because I hear tell that people do still develop interests once they graduate), they feel more comfortable with them because they remember some of the stories from reading Rick Riordan's books: where, exactly, is the problem?

I feel like these articles all seem to operate under the impression that if you're not reading it (whatever it is) by the time you're ten, it's all over for you, and you're intellectually stunted forever. But I can never take these handwringing pieces seriously, because my own experience was so different. I was a pretty precocious reader as a child, in some ways: I started reading when I was two, I read well above my grade level, and I had a pretty well-stocked vocabulary. And Rebecca Mead would probably have approved of me, because for some odd reason I was obsessed with Bullfinch's Mythology (I…appropriated my mother's copy without actually thinking about it, to the extent that she found it on one of my bookshelves a couple of years ago and commented, "I used to have this book…"), and my first encounters with a lot of Greek and Roman myths happened in that book (although I have a very strong memory of first reading the story of Pandora's box in Virginia Hamilton's collection In the Beginning). (I didn't really latch on to the D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths - mentioned in Mead's piece - but oh, how I loved their version of East of the Sun and West of the Moon. I wish it would come back into print.)

But I didn't "graduate" to reading "serious" adult fiction when I was a child, or even very much when I was a teen. I was quite happy in the children's section, for a long time. I read and loved Matilda, and thought wistfully about how nice it would be to have been a prodigy, to impress somebody like Miss Honey because I loved Dickens - but I never went out and tried to read any Dickens. Even in high school, I liked most of what we read in school, and I understood it pretty easily - but even after reading and loving Pride and Prejudice and Persuasion for class, I didn't run to seek out any other Austen novels. I was far too busy at the time reading Robin McKinley and Patricia McKillip and Josepha Sherman, and trying to find all the Gillian Bradshaw novels I could get my hands on. I knew Fortinbras as the Murry family's dog in A Wrinkle in Time well before I knew he was a character in Hamlet.

And you know, I think I turned out okay. I read the rest of Austen's novels in college, and fell as ardently in love as anyone could wish. It turns out that I really liked Bleak House, once I got around to reading it. Shakespeare pretty much knocked me over the head and dragged me off to grad school, where I don't seem to have done any worse because I didn't read all the plays when I was twelve. And if I still haven't read Tolstoy or a bunch of other things yet - well, I've still got time. Because I haven't stopped reading, and changing, and learning that things I heard about when I was younger actually come from other sources that I can choose to explore even though I didn't then. (Baby Me would not have been ready for Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, even though she had read a retelling of it. Baby Me was not ready for Twelfth Night, even though she could understand it perfectly well in her seventh-grade English class, because she hit backspace, appalled and embarrassed, at the first joke about venereal disease. Who knows what other riches Baby Me has left for Grownup Me to explore?)

The books that made me love reading - that turned me into the kind of person who could love Austen and Shakespeare as entirely as I do - were unabashedly children's books, populated with Moomins and dragons and children who ran away to hide in museums, and girls who traveled through time. The books that kept me in love with reading were the sorts of genre books that critics often sneer at (books that still have a purchase on my heart). Certainly the books that made me want to be a writer when I was younger, that made me think about how words worked together, were those kinds of books. (I literally started writing about writing because I wanted to figure out how McKillip's Riddlemaster books worked.) My reading abilities didn't atrophy and desiccate just because it took me a little longer to get around to the kinds of books that Rebecca Mead would consider important. So I bet those kids reading the Percy Jackson series are going to be fine.
tempestsarekind: (a sort of fairytale)
Okay, so this is going to be a "stating the obvious about Amy Pond" update, but one of the things I really like about her story, broadly speaking, is how much it's about memory. And no matter how many times the universe gets rewritten or paralleled, Amy keeps those memories, and *fights* for them - because she's Amy, because she's a time traveler, because on her first day she looks at the things she was told not to see, and remembering them saves her *and* the whole planet. She's stubborn enough to remember everyone she loves back into the world. And what we *don't* get, with Amy, is the sense that she's not *allowed* to remember - that knowledge that is learned in the Doctor's world is too dangerous for her to keep. This is what happens with Rose and Donna: if they remember, they will die. All Amy needs to do is make a bit more room in her head for a couple of extra lives.

Which is - again with the obvious - the opposite of how the Silence operate. Madame Kovarian tells River not to even bother remembering, because they've done too good a job of making her forget. I think this gives extra meaning to her blue journal: it's not just about keeping tabs on when and where she meets up with the Doctor, but about writing things down, keeping memories. So much of her life has been taken from her; small wonder that she holds on so fiercely to the memories she goes on to create. (And it's why River-as-archaeologist makes so much thematic sense, because that work is all about recovering what has been forgotten.)

It'll be interesting to see what (if anything) happens with Clara in this regard, because there does seem to be the suggestion of "knowledge = danger" in "Journey to the Centre of the TARDIS," that Clara learns something in the library that she isn't allowed to keep...but the episode ends with the suggestion that memory is still possible if you look, if you feel it - that memory ripples out, even backwards into time, even when you don't know that it has.

...in other TV news, I've spent a lot of time over the last week or so re-watching S1 Joan of Arcadia and weeping. I always felt like this show had a bad reputation with people who had never actually bothered to watch it, but what I was thinking this time was that I wanted more books like this show: not the "girl talks to God" part, but the part where we're looking at a loving family trying to do their best for one another (instead of the estrangement and coldness that fills so many novels), and people rise to the occasion of being the good parts of humanity even though they make mistakes and hurt others, and people are earnest and trying and gloriously messy instead of disaffected and cynical and closed-off. This is the stuff that makes books like The Bean Trees and I Capture the Castle (and yes, Tamsin) my favorites, and one of the reasons that I have a hard time finding historical fiction not written by Gillian Bradshaw (so much of the stuff that isn't about famous people - my kingdom for a Tudor-era book that doesn't involve solving a mystery and is *not* about the Henrician or Elizabethan court! - seems to be of the "life in the past was terrible and nothing ever went well for anyone" school, which is probably why I tend to read YA historical fiction instead).

(I mean, Code Name Verity was easily the best new book I read in 2012, and it's not like it was all rainbows and kittens, but it was about love, you know? Not romance - not that there's anything wrong with romance - or the kind of passion that takes you away from yourself, which is what stands in for love in so much fiction, but the kind of love that lets you and *helps* you be who you are. I feel like my childhood devotion to Madeleine L'Engle is showing through here - "she could stand there and she could love Charles Wallace" is probably the only-recently-realized secret anthem to nearly every story I've tried to write - but that's what I want more of.)
tempestsarekind: (eleven and amy)
Actually, two thoughts.

spoilers for aired episodes and 'Pond Life,' but no spoilers for 7x05 )

In news that is actually not as related as it looks, I stopped in at the bookstore yesterday on my walk home because...of reasons?, and found a lovely 50th Anniversary edition of A Wrinkle in Time in the children's section. I didn't buy it, but I really, really wanted to have someone to buy it *for*. Anyway, I found myself thinking about how much I loved those books, especially A Swiftly Tilting Planet - and suddenly it was like someone had hit me upside the head with realization, and I had to stop myself from exclaiming "Time can be rewritten!" out loud in the store. Of course I love that storytelling move of Moffat's so much, when I read that book so often and loved it so dearly. It's obvious, when you think about it; it's embedded in my narrative DNA.
tempestsarekind: (eleven and amy)
Can you believe I hadn't read A Tale of Time City by Diana Wynne Jones yet? Me either. I thought the ending was rather sudden (I mean the *very* ending, the "what are we to do with Vivian, then?" bit), but I spent a good deal of the book being overcome by conscientious android feelings and wanting there to be time ghosts in, like, every book ever.

(It is entirely too hot for a proper review, but this will do as a placeholder.)

It's funny, how few DWJ books I've actually read. When I was younger, I was an enthusiastic but not a completist reader, which meant that I'd read the same book over and over again, but not necessarily search out other books by that author unless they came to my attention in some way, like being shelved nearby or being listed in the Troll Book Club flyer. (I didn't know, for example, that Penelope Farmer had written other books about the Makepeace girls besides Charlotte Sometimes until I'd graduated from college, when a friend of mine told me.) (And Madeleine L'Engle is the exception to this rule, I think because our school library had a copy of one of the books with endpapers that listed the characters in "Kairos," or "real time" books (the Murrys), versus those in "watch-time" books, like the Austins, and where they intersected. I remember being fascinated by that chart, and photocopying it so I could keep up with all the books I could get.) And the actual first DWJ book I read was Witch Week, without having read any of the other Chrestomanci books; I loved it but forgot who it was by, or even that I'd read it, until much later, after reading the Dalemark books and thinking I should read something else by her... Anyway, what this means is that every year or so, I find the new DWJ book that looks most likely for my current mood, and read that.
tempestsarekind: (ofelia reading)
Instead of doing anything useful today (well, besides a load of laundry), I accidentally read a book. (It was a very short book.) It's a children's book called When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead, which was recommended in this book by the editors of Horn Book:
http://www.hbook.com/familyofreaders/default.asp
(Incidentally, I'm not going to tell you what the lag time was between my learning what a horn book is, and my connecting the implications of that to the name of the magazine, but trust me: it was a stupidly long lag time.)

I'm about to write a lot of spoilery stuff about this book, so if you plan on reading it, look away.

spoilers below )
tempestsarekind: (ofelia reading)
Instead of doing anything useful today (well, besides a load of laundry), I accidentally read a book. (It was a very short book.) It's a children's book called When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead, which was recommended in this book by the editors of Horn Book:
http://www.hbook.com/familyofreaders/default.asp
(Incidentally, I'm not going to tell you what the lag time was between my learning what a horn book is, and my connecting the implications of that to the name of the magazine, but trust me: it was a stupidly long lag time.)

I'm about to write a lot of spoilery stuff about this book, so if you plan on reading it, look away.

spoilers below )
tempestsarekind: (martha at the globe)
Leave me a comment saying "Resistance is Futile."

• I'll respond by asking you five questions so I can satisfy my curiosity
• Update your journal with the answers to the questions
• Include this explanation in the post and offer to ask other people questions


Questions from [livejournal.com profile] thepresidentrix:

questions inside! )
tempestsarekind: (martha at the globe)
Leave me a comment saying "Resistance is Futile."

• I'll respond by asking you five questions so I can satisfy my curiosity
• Update your journal with the answers to the questions
• Include this explanation in the post and offer to ask other people questions


Questions from [livejournal.com profile] thepresidentrix:

questions inside! )
tempestsarekind: (ten is a bookworm)
I wish that someone had introduced me to the term "time-slip" when I was a child. I would have recognized it as a thing then, not just an accidental feature of some of the books I loved and kept coming back to (Jane Yolen's The Devil's Arithmetic, which had a strange hold over me for a book so sad--but it's why I never doubt that children sometimes need that darkness in their books; A Swiftly Tilting Planet, which I read every winter holiday without fail for years; but most especially my beloved Charlotte Sometimes by Penelope Farmer*). I would have known that there were other books I could have searched out.

I'm reading here and there in Shakespeare and Childhood, a recently published collection of essays, and one of them mentions an article all about children's time-slip narratives and how history functions in them. Of course I've gone and found the article, like I don't have a million other things that need doing. I suck at life, you guys.



*I'm not counting King of Shadows, even though it is indirectly the reason for this post, because it didn't exist when I was a child.
tempestsarekind: (ten is a bookworm)
I wish that someone had introduced me to the term "time-slip" when I was a child. I would have recognized it as a thing then, not just an accidental feature of some of the books I loved and kept coming back to (Jane Yolen's The Devil's Arithmetic, which had a strange hold over me for a book so sad--but it's why I never doubt that children sometimes need that darkness in their books; A Swiftly Tilting Planet, which I read every winter holiday without fail for years; but most especially my beloved Charlotte Sometimes by Penelope Farmer*). I would have known that there were other books I could have searched out.

I'm reading here and there in Shakespeare and Childhood, a recently published collection of essays, and one of them mentions an article all about children's time-slip narratives and how history functions in them. Of course I've gone and found the article, like I don't have a million other things that need doing. I suck at life, you guys.



*I'm not counting King of Shadows, even though it is indirectly the reason for this post, because it didn't exist when I was a child.
tempestsarekind: (books and flowers)
I finally read Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro over the last few days. I found it intensely unsettling, though I can't put my finger on precisely why, given that I knew what the book was about going in. (And I find I can't really write about the book without totally giving away the "hook," in case there are people who don't know what it's about. I even had a different title on the post--a reference to an MST3K episode--and I took that off too. I still think it was worth reading, in the same way that I probably liked The Sixth Sense *more* than I would have done if someone I knew hadn't spoiled me for it before I saw it, just because I could see the pieces in action--though I did grow up loving Charles Wallace Murry so I was always going to go for the story of this tortured little boy with a special gift...and now I am seriously just babbling.)

Anyway. There's something very claustrophobic about the novel, and the disconnection between the very simple narration and the power of the conceit adds to that; there's a whole *world* of moving pieces out there, but we only get the tiniest glimpse of them. I didn't feel incredibly wowed by the book as I was reading it, but I felt rather out of step and out of sorts for a while after. (I tried to go grocery shopping and felt like my hands were going through the motions of picking things up without me; it was seriously too much trouble to buy parsley at one point, so I didn't--though this did mean I had to have sourdough French toast for dinner yesterday, so that was nice.)
tempestsarekind: (books and flowers)
I finally read Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro over the last few days. I found it intensely unsettling, though I can't put my finger on precisely why, given that I knew what the book was about going in. (And I find I can't really write about the book without totally giving away the "hook," in case there are people who don't know what it's about. I even had a different title on the post--a reference to an MST3K episode--and I took that off too. I still think it was worth reading, in the same way that I probably liked The Sixth Sense *more* than I would have done if someone I knew hadn't spoiled me for it before I saw it, just because I could see the pieces in action--though I did grow up loving Charles Wallace Murry so I was always going to go for the story of this tortured little boy with a special gift...and now I am seriously just babbling.)

Anyway. There's something very claustrophobic about the novel, and the disconnection between the very simple narration and the power of the conceit adds to that; there's a whole *world* of moving pieces out there, but we only get the tiniest glimpse of them. I didn't feel incredibly wowed by the book as I was reading it, but I felt rather out of step and out of sorts for a while after. (I tried to go grocery shopping and felt like my hands were going through the motions of picking things up without me; it was seriously too much trouble to buy parsley at one point, so I didn't--though this did mean I had to have sourdough French toast for dinner yesterday, so that was nice.)

round two

Jan. 28th, 2009 12:45 pm
tempestsarekind: (ofelia)
[livejournal.com profile] neadods linked to this Guardian article about the Newbery, and Neil, and how his winning means that the Newbery award is no longer in danger of being thought irrelevant (or something less snarky):
"Gaiman's Newbery win is a vote por populism - and for excellence"
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2009/jan/27/neil-gaiman-newbery-medal-controversy

And this article was linked in the "Related" column of the previous article:
"Are the Newbery Medal judges out of touch with their readers?"
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2008/dec/19/newbery-medal-children-elitism
(Oh dear no! Not the dreaded specter of elitism! We can't have our children reading the best books in a category!)

The article that apparently started the hoopla, Anita Silvey's piece in the School Library Journal, is here:
http://www.schoollibraryjournal.com/article/CA6600688.html

And I can't believe I'm still talking about this after having this argument with maybe half the people I know about Harry Potter, but look. I'm thrilled that Neil won the Newbery. I announced it in the computer lab when I found out, to people who don't even read his books, because I was that excited. I really liked The Graveyard Book, and I'm looking forward to rereading it.

But "popular" does not necessarily equal "good." Nor does being popular preclude quality, just to get that out of the way. But the fact that several Newberys in the last few years have not gone on to have big successes in sales does not mean that something was wrong with the judging process. rant rant rant )

round two

Jan. 28th, 2009 12:45 pm
tempestsarekind: (ofelia)
[livejournal.com profile] neadods linked to this Guardian article about the Newbery, and Neil, and how his winning means that the Newbery award is no longer in danger of being thought irrelevant (or something less snarky):
"Gaiman's Newbery win is a vote por populism - and for excellence"
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2009/jan/27/neil-gaiman-newbery-medal-controversy

And this article was linked in the "Related" column of the previous article:
"Are the Newbery Medal judges out of touch with their readers?"
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2008/dec/19/newbery-medal-children-elitism
(Oh dear no! Not the dreaded specter of elitism! We can't have our children reading the best books in a category!)

The article that apparently started the hoopla, Anita Silvey's piece in the School Library Journal, is here:
http://www.schoollibraryjournal.com/article/CA6600688.html

And I can't believe I'm still talking about this after having this argument with maybe half the people I know about Harry Potter, but look. I'm thrilled that Neil won the Newbery. I announced it in the computer lab when I found out, to people who don't even read his books, because I was that excited. I really liked The Graveyard Book, and I'm looking forward to rereading it.

But "popular" does not necessarily equal "good." Nor does being popular preclude quality, just to get that out of the way. But the fact that several Newberys in the last few years have not gone on to have big successes in sales does not mean that something was wrong with the judging process. rant rant rant )
tempestsarekind: (little women)
Link from the neilgaiman.com blog:

http://www.firstthings.com/article.php3?id_article=6403

On the one hand, I'm happy to see some love for Gary Blackwood's The Shakespeare Stealer (which I love, and I'm actually a hard sell on books with Shakespeare in them) and Michael Chabon's Summerland (look, I liked it, and it's about *baseball*, and that should tell you something, given my complete apathy for if not outright dislike of sports).

On the other hand, the author calls Little Women "stale" and suggests that Madeleine L'Engle and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler (one of only two books I can think of, off the top of my head, that I actually wish I'd written) were only given to kids because there was nothing better around. And that A Little Princess is, basically, anathema to the rational mind, and Winnie-the Pooh is goopy.

So it's kind of a toss-up.
tempestsarekind: (little women)
Link from the neilgaiman.com blog:

http://www.firstthings.com/article.php3?id_article=6403

On the one hand, I'm happy to see some love for Gary Blackwood's The Shakespeare Stealer (which I love, and I'm actually a hard sell on books with Shakespeare in them) and Michael Chabon's Summerland (look, I liked it, and it's about *baseball*, and that should tell you something, given my complete apathy for if not outright dislike of sports).

On the other hand, the author calls Little Women "stale" and suggests that Madeleine L'Engle and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler (one of only two books I can think of, off the top of my head, that I actually wish I'd written) were only given to kids because there was nothing better around. And that A Little Princess is, basically, anathema to the rational mind, and Winnie-the Pooh is goopy.

So it's kind of a toss-up.
tempestsarekind: (quite a good arm actually)
A few years back, there was that A Wrinkle in Time miniseries, which I watched with much trepidation (mainly because of Gregory Smith, aka Ephram on my beloved Everwood). Eventually I had to stop watching, since the fact that Calvin didn't have red hair turned out to be the least of its problems. But at one point I found myself looking at the screen in surprise. A penny had just dropped; I'd had an epiphany about a story I was writing.

"Oh my god," I said. "The main character is Charles Wallace."

It's been years, probably, since I've read any of the Time Quartet. It's strange to remember books that were once a part of your daily life, as much like friends as anyone in your real life (or more, if you were prone to having "best friends" who would steal your stuff and hit you), when you haven't read them in so long. But the Murry family might have been my first literary obsession; there were books I reread before them, of course, but they were the first characters I followed from book to book, startled and pleased to see them in an unexpected line or two, happy or nostalgic to see how they'd turned out as their lives went on. A Swiftly Tilting Planet, to the best of my recollection, is the first book I read in connection with a particular time of year, built into holiday rituals (it was my Christmas book). Fortinbras and The Tempest were colored by those books before I knew a thing about folios and bad quartos. And even beyond the conscious memories are the ways in which those characters and books found their way into my dreams and thoughts and sentences (I say "it's an 'it's the weather on top of everything else' kind of day" rather a lot), even the stories that I used to write. I'm always stunned and grateful that little bundles of paper can change my life, but I'm especially grateful today.
tempestsarekind: (quite a good arm actually)
A few years back, there was that A Wrinkle in Time miniseries, which I watched with much trepidation (mainly because of Gregory Smith, aka Ephram on my beloved Everwood). Eventually I had to stop watching, since the fact that Calvin didn't have red hair turned out to be the least of its problems. But at one point I found myself looking at the screen in surprise. A penny had just dropped; I'd had an epiphany about a story I was writing.

"Oh my god," I said. "The main character is Charles Wallace."

It's been years, probably, since I've read any of the Time Quartet. It's strange to remember books that were once a part of your daily life, as much like friends as anyone in your real life (or more, if you were prone to having "best friends" who would steal your stuff and hit you), when you haven't read them in so long. But the Murry family might have been my first literary obsession; there were books I reread before them, of course, but they were the first characters I followed from book to book, startled and pleased to see them in an unexpected line or two, happy or nostalgic to see how they'd turned out as their lives went on. A Swiftly Tilting Planet, to the best of my recollection, is the first book I read in connection with a particular time of year, built into holiday rituals (it was my Christmas book). Fortinbras and The Tempest were colored by those books before I knew a thing about folios and bad quartos. And even beyond the conscious memories are the ways in which those characters and books found their way into my dreams and thoughts and sentences (I say "it's an 'it's the weather on top of everything else' kind of day" rather a lot), even the stories that I used to write. I'm always stunned and grateful that little bundles of paper can change my life, but I'm especially grateful today.
tempestsarekind: (free radicals and tannins)
(Which is what you would say if you had a dog named "First Quarto," I guess. Oh, I'm so tired.) (I totally wanted a dog named Fortinbras, though, because the Murrys in A Wrinkle in Time had one. Fortinbras or Gobo, of all things.)

Blargh.

I'm supposed to teach Hamlet today, which is the last play on the summer school syllabus. And I don't wanna!

weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable )

I wish I could just hand out copies of the Hamlet performance scene in Pamela Dean's Tam Lin and then quietly tiptoe away. Fun for me, anyway, if not for them.

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