Hey! now! Come hoy now! Whither do you wander?

I re-read The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R Tolkien for, maybe the fifth or sixth time since I discovered Middle-Earth at the age of 14. Later than most, earlier than some, Middle-Earth gradually became an alternate homeland. A source of comfort, an avenue for experimentation and quite simply, an escape from the world.

My long-lasting love for the Lord of the Rings universe isn’t unique – like any particularly engaging fantasy, millions across the globe are equally if not more enthralled by the complex interactions and unfamiliar yet alluring landscapes of Tolkien’s imaginary land peopled by Elves, Men, Dwarves, Dragons and of course, Hobbits.

Lol so, I’m just going to quote some of my favourite lines from the Fellowship of the Ring because anything else I say will sound awfully sentimental and I don’t want to despoil the books with my sappiness.

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“All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king”

(On Aragorn)

“Already she seemed to him, as by men of later days Elves still at times are seen: present and yet remote, a living vision of that which has already been left far behind by the flowing streams of Time”.

(on Galadriel)

“O Lorien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore
And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.
But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?”

(Galadriel’s song)

aah!

Okay, I’m a bad, bad, immature, ridiculous and trivial human being for doing what I did.

Not that it matters, anyway. To me or to anyone else.

In a little while, I’ll start to judge myself. Till then, just the euphoria of doing something so totally NOT in character is a pretty intense feeling.

I just wish I could do worse.

Yes, I’m one of those that’s like to stew and brew and broil over things and people till they end up being overcooked episodes with all dramatic potential at an end.

Hahahahahahaha.

exorcizing ghosts.

I’ve almost exorcized your ghost from my memory. You do not exist, I do not exist as I did then.

But just now, just tonight when the suspicion of emotion that I felt for you might have been felt for someone else crept into my mind, all I could do was recoil.

Memories of the flesh are harder to erase than those of the heart. I still sleep in the same bed.

…and I want to die.

Of shame. For having let you come so close to me.

Of desire. I want that feeling back.

Of emptiness. I’ve felt hollow for months now.

It’s easy enough to train your mind to forget. But what about the rest of you?

GRR.

Finished Empire: How Britain Made the Modern World by Niall Ferguson last night. But no, that’s not the story behind my title.

After three whole days immersed in facts and figures and historical evidence supporting one or other argument defending/condemning the British Empire, as well as tracing its birth, glory days and decline, I decided to give myself a treat and started on a long overdue re-read of April Lady by Heyer. I spent a very happy late night, morning, afternoon and evening reading, laughing and sighing familiarly over both the desirability of living in the Regency era and the disgustingly cynical nature of my postmodern existence.

BUT, just as I was gearing up for the comfortingly inevitable happy ending, with Nell and Lord Cardross reconciling their differences and admitting their respectively gooseish behaviour which acted as the impetus for all preceding events, I made the horrifying discovery that – insert piercing scream here – THE LAST THREE PAGES WERE MISSING!

So now, what do I get? Lord Cardross cut off mid-sentence at the bottom of page 264. There could not possibly be anything less romantic.

I’m irritated! Possible reading options: Burnt Shadows by Shamsie, If on a Winter’s Night by Calvino, Madame Bovary by Flaubert, Vanity Fair by Thackeray or some more historical non-fiction.

I WANT MY HAPPY ENDING!

thanklessly

Finally finished The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James, which I’ve been sitting on for the last week. And what do I get for ploughing through all of that intense characterization and careless wit? A haphazard, slightly unoriginal plot twist (almost an afterthought!) and, yes, that’s right, an OPEN ENDING.

I abhor open endings. Grr.

In the book’s defence – it’s a good example of the transitional period between Victorian and modernist ideas, values, language and style; Isabel Archer is a literary heroine I identified with quite strongly, and finally, it did manage to make me cry.

Think I’ll take a break from fiction for a while.

—

Sometimes, there are things, there are people, there are places that you feel like you understand better than anyone else. The entire world thinks you’re thoroughly stupid for even undertaking to care about any of the above, but you still continue to do so, because even though you’re doing a thankless thing – like defending a genre, tolerating a partial friend and going somewhere you’d rather not go – you just go on doing it. It doesn’t cost you much, but it doesn’t give you anything either. And yet, you continue doing it, smiling at the pointlessness of the act, but smiling all the same.

Maybe someday you’ll regret it.

But future regret is better than present discomfort, arguably.