The Wood Between the Worlds

There are some books, even movies, that you read or watch, and when you do, it feels like coming home. Maybe it's a location, or a book or movie itself. It's always something to cling onto.

This is nothing new, feeling your heart shift in a way you never realized it could until that moment, feeling the ache and pull and absolute longing for that world, feeling the brief echoes of relief throughout your entire body as you immerse yourself again.

I'm going to be unoriginal here, as well as combine books and movies, but my home has always been the Shire in Lord of the Rings. And yes, I've chosen it  – if you even can choose that sort of thing – over Hogwarts. 

But there's another kind of home that comes from fiction. The first kind, the kind I mentioned above, is the kind that you crave because you know that you belong there. You know that being there would make you happier than you could ever be here. 

So the second kind? The second kind is your familiar home. It is your tangible home, because you are living out these metaphors for yourself. They are already the curtains on your windows and the bunched up pillows on your sofa. They are, perhaps, the tired coat you try to shrug your shoulders out of at the end of the day, but can't seem to. Maybe you like these metaphors, this home. Maybe you don't.

For what it's worth, here's my home-not-away-from home:

Uncle Andrew and his study vanished instantly. Then, for a moment, everything became muddled. The next thing Digory knew was that there was a soft green light coming down on him from above, and darkness below. He didn't seem to be standing on anything, or sitting, or lying. Nothing appeared to be touching him. "I believe I'm in water," said Digory. "Or under water." This frightened him for a second, but almost at once he could feel that he was rushing upwards. Then his head suddenly came out into the air and, he found himself scrambling ashore, out on to smooth grassy ground at the edge of a pool.

As he rose to his feet he noticed that he was neither dripping nor panting for breath as anyone would expect after being under water. His clothes were perfectly dry. He was standing by the edge of a small pool - not more than ten feet from side to side in a wood. The trees grew close together and were so leafy that he could get no glimpse of the sky. All the light was green light that came through the leaves: but there must have been a very strong sun overhead, for this green daylight was bright and warm. It was the quietest wood you could possibly imagine. There were no birds, no insects, no animals, and no wind. You could almost feel the trees growing. The pool he had just got out of was not the only pool. There were dozens of others - a pool every few yards as far as his eyes could reach. You could almost feel the trees drinking the water up with their roots. This wood was very much alive. When he tried to describe it afterwards

Digory always said, "It was a rich place: as rich as plumcake."

The strangest thing was that, almost before he had looked about him, Digory had half forgotten how he had come there. At any rate, he was certainly not thinking about Polly, or Uncle Andrew, or even his Mother. He was not in the least frightened, or excited, or curious. If anyone had asked him "Where did you come from?" he would probably have said, "I've always been here." That was what it felt like - as if one had always been in that place and never been bored although nothing had ever happened. As he said long afterwards, "It's not the sort of place where things happen. The trees go on growing, that's all."

 - The Magician's Nephew by C.S. Lewis, chapter three: "The Wood Between the Worlds"

Do you have fictional homes – and not so fictional ones?

Brief Musings on the "Catching Fire" Trailer

I've just finished rewatching the trailer for "The Hunger Games: Catching Fire." And of course, something irks me. This isn't my first time seeing a trailer for this film, but all of a sudden, while I was watching the trailer this time, I was again hit by the feeling that something was off. Here's the trailer, in case you've missed it:

It actually looks pretty great. Lots of interesting designs for the Capitol and wardrobes, as well as a clear feeling of the sense of menace and danger that evolves in the second book. So far, I love how they've depicted the scene with the District 11 man getting shot. Now, I was pleasantly surprised by the first film, and ended up liking it quite a lot. I've rewatched it several times. But I've always had the same issue, which comes up perhaps tenfold in this trailer.

Think about it. In whose point of view are the books told? Katniss's, obviously. She's narrating them in first person. We experience everything with her. 

Now think about it again. In whose point of view is this trailer told? In whose point of view was the first film told? Much of it was Katniss's, sure. But not exclusively. 

Small spoilers ahead, proceed with some caution.

A Friendly PSA: Ichabod Crane and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"

Let's play a game. It's called "One of These Things is Not Like the Others: Ichabod Crane Edition." 

Ready? BEGIN!

I'll give you a minute. It's rather difficult. (But not quite so difficult as getting that Sesame Street song out of your head. I made the mistake of looking it up on YouTube, in the hopes of embedding a video for you. I decided against it. You can thank me later.)

All three of these are pictures of different on-screen portrayals of Ichabod Crane. Ichabod Crane being the subject of Washington Irving's 1820 short story "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow."

The first picture is, of course, of Johnny Depp, in Tim Burton's 1999 rendition of the story, called "Sleepy Hollow." The third picture is from the 1949 Disney rendition, where the story was coupled with The Wind in the Willows to make "The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad." 

And the second one. The second one is the reason for this post. It's from Fox's new TV show, coming out this fall, called... yes, "Sleepy Hollow."

 

Basically, from what I've gathered, Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman have both been resurrected and set loose on the twenty-first century. Ichabod teams up with a sassy lady cop to fight supernatural creatures, particularly the Headless Horseman, whom Ichabod shot and then beheaded during the Revolutionary War. There are witches. Oh, and the Headless Horseman is actually the fourth horseman of the apocalypse, Death.

Firstly, Supernatural did it better. Secondly, ugh. Another cop show? Seriously? Although I'm amused by how America is moving toward creating action heroes out of historical and literary figures. (Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter and Hansel & Gretel: Witch Hunters, I'm looking at you. And as a side note, watching BBC's "Sherlock" and CBS's "Elementary" will basically define the difference between British and American television. But I'm getting off topic.)

Let's get back to the Ichabods. 

The rest of this post contains spoilers, but you are probably familiar enough with the basic story that you don't care. This warning is for those who do.

Film Break: WWI's Presence in "The Awakening," PART TWO

This is part two of my discussion of WWI in the British film "The Awakening." You can find part one here, wherein I examine Tom, Maud, Headmaster Purslow, Victor Parry, McNair, Judd, and the general thematic presence of WWI as a ghost in the background and foreground of the film. There is historical speculation on why McNair has a cough, an examination of a passage from Tennyson's "Morte D'Arthur," and a pertinent quote from Wilfred Owen's "Dulce et Decorum Est." If any of that sounds interesting to you, I'd recommend reading it. There are also pretty screencaps, which I made myself, but which of course I have no actual ownership over.

Because I ran out of room in the last post, I am going to finish my analysis of "The Awakening" by focusing on the characters Robert and Florence. I'm saving our heroine for last, you see. 

THE REST OF THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS, CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK!

Film Break: WWI's Presence in "The Awakening," PART ONE

Remember when I mentioned that some films have a literary quality to them? Well, "The Awakening" is one of them, and I'm going to attempt to put my finger on why that is. (And it's not the cinematography and soundtrack, which are completely gorgeous, by the way.)

I'm not usually a fan of "scary" movies, but I am a sucker for a ghost story, which is what this is. Oh, is it a lovely, lovely ghost story. One that works on both literal and metaphorical levels, especially as regards WWI.

If you haven't watched it, you should. Behold, the lackluster Netflix summary (and Netflix has the film up on Instant Play, conveniently):

A haunted boarding school calls on Florence Cathcart, who disproves hoaxes for a living. But the strange place leads Cathcart to question rationality.

Because this post got insanely long, and is rife with screencaps and quotes, I am breaking it into two parts. This first part covers everyone and everything WWI-related except Robert and Florence.

THE REST OF THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS, CONTINUE AT YOUR OWN RISK!

The Function of Magic in Aimee Bender's "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake"

From Barnes & Noble:

Discovering in childhood a supernatural ability to taste the emotions of others in their cooking, Rose Edelstein grows up to regard food as a curse when it reveals everyone's secret realities.

I finished reading this book yesterday, and loved it. I expected to love it, but the book itself was not what I was expecting, so I'm still pleasantly surprised.

I heard about this book, by description only, about six months ago, in a lower division fiction-writing class – so, a class filled with mostly non-English majors looking to fulfill a General Education requirement. We had split up into groups after reading one of Aimee Bender's short stories, which I can no longer remember. At some point, a girl in my group mentioned that she'd read one of Bender's novels before, but that it was really weird, because it was about a girl who could taste people's emotions through food. So of course, at once, I made a mental note to track down this book. I, the unofficial baker-in-training.

Since I had no idea of the title, it was a happy accident which caused me to stumble over the book in question last week, and I slowly set about reading it. After I had finished reading it, I headed over to the Barnes & Noble website, as per usual, to skim people's reviews. Not shockingly, most of the reviewers didn't get the book. They didn't like the pace and lack of action (it's a character study piece), nor did they understand the magic (it's magical realism).

It's funny, magic. I noticed in a few of my Creative Writing workshop classes that magic, particularly magical realism, is an entirely unfamiliar beast. Fittingly, it is a mythical creature that many people are baffled by. When something isn't cut and dry fiction, but veers into genre, especially anything like fantasy, it's confusing. I find this trend completely fascinating. Creative writers don't lack imagination; they don't even necessarily have contempt for the fantasy genre. It just throws them for a loop. Magical realism is particularly difficult because it walks the line between being normal fiction and being fantasy fiction, especially when magical realism can often be read entirely as metaphor if you feel like it.

(Someone once aptly described the difference between fantasy and magical realism as this: fantasy is how Harry Potter views the wizarding world for the first time. Magical realism is how the other wizards view the wizarding world; they've grown up with it, and so it's normal. Magical realism treats magic as if it is relatively normal. There is little of the traditional fantasy world-building.)

The general reading population has this same confusion over magic. But why? I honestly have no idea. I feel fortunate because I do appreciate a character-driven story (which most creative writers apparently do), as well as magic. Magical realism, in fact, is probably my favorite genre. 

I think I'm starting to veer away from my point, so I'll get back to it. I've been blithering on and on when what I really want to talk about is the magic itself in The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, and why the end didn't make too much sense until I Googled, then pondered, then had one of those epiphany moments. 

THE REMAINDER OF THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS, PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK!

"Not Fourteen": A Random Shakespeare Appreciation Post

Okay. Well. Here's the thing. The more delicate among you may need to avert your eyes for a moment. Are you ready? Here we go: 

I am not really a Shakespeare fan. Cue the hisses of blasphemy. 

Perhaps this is a product of having to read Shakespeare all throughout high school and into college, without much choice in the matter. We were practically given a mallet and told explicitly to beat the plays to death with it – Hamlet, I'm looking at you. Perhaps I just don't really like to read plays. I've been to Ashland. Macbeth was amazing. Have I ever read it? No. Was I supposed to? Probably. Will I ever? We'll see. (Probably not. Ironically, it's difficult to read Shakespeare by yourself instead of with a class, but with a class, it's almost always unbearable. That might be a catch-22, but I didn't finish reading that book, either, so I wouldn't know.)

Even though I don't like Shakespeare all that much, however, I can appreciate him. Some of the things he does are quite clever, especially within the lines themselves. 

This is going to be a lot less effective, because I can't find the original blog post/article/comment/whatever-it-was, which stated things so clearly and wonderfully, but oh well. Basically, I ran across this interpretation of a single phrase in Romeo and Juliet, and it blew my mind. I've posted about it in at least one place before, but no one shared my enthusiasm, which... WHAT? How is this not amazing?

In Act I, Scene III of the play, the Nurse and Lady Capulet are discussing Juliet. 

Nurse: She is not fourteen. How long is it now / To Lammas-tide?

Lady Capulet: A fortnight and odd days.

Nurse: Even or odd, of all days in the year, / Come Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen.

Juliet is "not fourteen." But do you know what is fourteen? Sonnets. Sonnets, Shakespeare's go-to, perfect form, are fourteen lines. Juliet is thirteen, and will die before she can become that perfect sonnet. She will die before she can become fully formed: a woman. 

It's been eight years since I read the play, so this source tells me the play's action takes place over only four days. Juliet can't even reach for the number fourteen by being fourteen days away from that age, because her mother says Juliet is "A fortnight and odd days." A fortnight being, of course, fourteen days (or nights, technically). It's like, by the addition of that "and odd days," Juliet is being explicitly denied her ~sonnet of womanhood yet again. 

To me, this is a bit more textual evidence that my reading of the play isn't completely unfounded. I personally don't believe that Romeo and Juliet is the ultimate love story; I think it's a cautionary tale. I think it's not only a warning to feuding families, but to stupid kids. 

Even if you do think Romeo and Juliet is romantic (which is totally fine, especially since we are basically socialized from birth to think so), you've got to admit, the sonnet connection is pretty neat. Or perhaps I'm just overly excitable.

The Importance of Madge Undersee

In the interest of including a bunch of my literary ramblings, here's an informal essay I wrote of my own volition in September of 2011 about Madge Undersee, an underrated character in the Hunger Games trilogy. It is about 4,500 words long, and CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR ALL THREE BOOKS. It was also written before the film came out, but still holds up, and was originally posted online in ~other places.

When I first heard that The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins was going to be made into a film, of course I was excited. Wary, maybe, but excited in the way that you get when a book you absolutely love is coming to the big screen, because it means you will be able to share your love with other people and experience the book again in a different light.

And of course, I was eager to see who had been cast as whom, and would periodically check the IMDB page for updates on that front. But when the casting became fixed, and all of the characters were filled out, I realized someone was missing: Madge Undersee, the daughter of District Twelve’s mayor and Katniss’s friend. The very girl with whom Katniss’s mockingjay pin originates. A bit of Googling confirmed that Madge was not, in fact, going to be included in the film.

This... did not sit well with me. I have since found an article that more or less describes the new origin of Katniss’s pin – at least, how it stood during a draft stage of the script. The idea is sort of nice, if a little Hollywood... but arguably, not as effective as Madge giving Katniss the pin, both in terms of the plot and Katniss’s character development.

Because the thing is, Madge is important, and not just because of the pin. She is important to Katniss as a character (and as a person), to the reader, and to the overall story. And she's important as an entity unto herself.

Cardamom and Moss: A Pilfering

You, my mythological readers, are perhaps wondering where the title of this blog comes from. It does not, alas, come from my brain, because my brain is not nearly so lovely. (It is squishy, and thieving. Or at the very least, squirrel-like.) Rather, it comes from the brain of Ray Bradbury.

To be perfectly honest, I never expected to like Fahrenheit 451. I somehow managed to escape it being force-fed to me in high school, and it never came up in college until I decided it was high time I actually read it. With some prompting from a vlogbrothers video. I mean, I love dystopian sci-fi, but I always expected it was going to be a little too sci-fi, where all the literary merit is in the metaphor of the plot.

What I didn't expect was for the writing to be absolutely beautiful. Lyrical, rich, and beautiful, but in a tasteful, appropriate way for the subject matter. As one of my former Creative Writing professors might say, Ray Bradbury knows how to write a sentence.

 This is the passage my blog title found itself from:

The shape exploded away. The eyes vanished. The leafpiles flew up in a dry shower.

Montag was alone in the wilderness.

A deer. He smelled the heavy musk-like perfume mingled with blood and the gummed exhalation of the animal's breath, all cardamom and moss and ragweed odour in this huge night where the trees ran at him, ran, pulled away, to the pulse of the heart behind his eyes (137).

To be perfectly honest, I don't remember a lot about what's happening in this scene, since I read the book last year. All I know is that something about those words was so beautiful to me that I haven't been able to delete the book off of my Nook, even though I know I probably won't read it again, or at least for a long while yet. Perhaps it's silly, but something about that trio of words collided with me on a personal level that I don't think I often experience as a reader. Something about the combination of food and nature imagery, I suppose.

An Introduction

I've resisted doing something like this for a long time, largely because I am terrible at keeping up with blogs. I had a food blog (still have, technically), which I haven't updated in two summers, even though I am a better cook now. And – to my detriment – I don't really read blogs. But what I do read is books. Apparently, a lot of books. Since 2008, I've made it my goal to read at least fifty books each year, and since then, I've managed to do so, fluctuating between fifty and one hundred books. (Though let's be honest; it's usually around sixty-five.) I said 'apparently a lot' before because I know of a lot of people who consistently read a hundred or more books a year, and I am humbled by them.

Anyway. When I finish reading a book, I log it in the current year's spreadsheet, occasionally with a little bit of literary-type analysis if I'm feeling so moved. Often, things just descend into capslocky keymashes of rage or joy. They don't always, though. And usually, I've been content to keep my thoughts to myself. Except about three weeks ago, I graduated from college, where I was an English major and a History minor. Turns out, I'm the sort of person who likes to ferret out the deeper meanings of primary sources. Who knew? I had a hard time with school, and often resented much of the work I had to put into it. But now that I've graduated, I find I need some sort of outlet. I need to close read things. Books, mostly, although the beautiful thing about knowing how to close 'read' is that you can apply it to all sorts of mediums, even films. Even people. Everything has symbolism or metaphor, whether intentional or not. Guh. What do you mean, college taught me a skill I will carry with me for the rest of my life? Preposterous!

Anyway again – because this rambling is almost reminiscent of the huge introductory paragraphs I would write in my essays to make sure I would meet the page limit – this is going to be a mostly literature-y blog. With other things like films being discussed as if they were literature. (I love it when other mediums come off as literary.) This blog is going to (hopefully) be much more coherent than this post. It is going to use passive voice, because no one is grading me. Unless you really want to. This is a blog for geeky people, so I respect your intellectual quirks. There will be justified text, because all other text alignments are hideous. I will update on no schedule whatsoever, and there may be layers of cobwebs from grandmother spiders clinging to every surface before I flit back here on a whim. I did a Creative Writing emphasis, so there will probably be weird imagery like that all over the place. I have a particular, though not exclusive, passion for YA Lit.

I don't think I will do book reviews, per se, more like analyses of certain thematic elements. I know when I finish reading a compelling book, I often like to Google how other people have not only reacted to, but interpreted, certain elements. Sometimes I even rely on blog posts to help me understand a particularly difficult metaphor, which often solidifies my understanding of an entire book.

So basically, my goal is to not only help me, but to help you. Perhaps you are weathering the same void into which I am shouting, and we will hear each other's echoes. Or perhaps not. But gentle reader, lift your face into the wind and enjoy it.