The Garden in August

Masses of these started blooming last week:

DSCN0212

Self did a wee bit of watering:

DSCN0214

Summer’s almost gone.

Stay tuned.

Mary Yellan, Jem Merlyn: JAMAICA INN, Ch. 9

He whistled as he approached her and flung a small package at her feet. “A Happy Christmas to you,” he said. “I had a silver piece in my pocket yesterday and it burnt a hole. There’s a new handkerchief for your head.”

She had meant to be curt and silent on meeting him, but his introduction made it difficult for her. “That’s very kind of you,” she said. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your money all the same.”

“That doesn’t worry me, I’m used to it,” he told her, and he looked her up and down in the cool offensive way of his, and whistled a tuneless song.

Jamaica Inn continues dee-lish.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Limits

via Limits

This poem.

This poem.

Helps.

Stay tuned.

Sentence of the Day: Jamaica Inn, Ch. 5

Mary Yellan at dinner with her uncle, Joss Merlyn:

  • And she answered “Yes” and “No” in reply to her uncle, and drank down her tea, watching him over the brim of her cup, her eyes travelling from his great plate of steaming stew to his long, powerful fingers, hideous in their strength and grace.

This Scene: Jamaica Inn, Ch. 2

Her aunt, who had not uttered a word since her husband entered the room, was frying bacon over the fire. No one spoke. Mary was aware of Joss Merlyn watching her across the table, and behind her she could hear her aunt fumbling with ineffectual fingers at the hot handle of the frying pan.

Some Thoughts:

  • The frying of the bacon in the middle of the night is a very interesting touch.
  • Joss Merlyn is an utter pig and Mary has certainly landed herself in a pickle, stuck with him and his cowed wife in an inn of uncertain repute in the middle of a nightmarishly stark and unfamiliar landscape.

So far, the novel reads like one of those dark fairy tales where a damsel in distress has to endure trial by fire before she encounters a) a prince; b) a fairy godmother; c) an inheritance.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

The End of Rebecca

Self has been pondering Rebecca since she finished reading it, late last night.

She spent almost two full days in pajamas, that’s how deeply vested she became in the narrative and the array of characters: the landscape, the house, the manners, the hopelessly fish-out-of-water narrator, the malevolent first wife, the mysterious (and rather odious) Maxim de Winter, the loyal and absolutely upstanding agent/lawyer Frank Crawley (who ended up being self’s favorite character), the well-meaning but annoying Beatrice, the servants Frith and Robert, Tabb the shipbuilder, of course the gray Mrs. Danvers, the newbie maid Clarice, even the dog Jasper for heaven’s sake!

Self was rather under-whelmed by Mrs. Danvers at the end.

There were many hints of wild orgies at the beach cottage. And poor Maxim turned out to be such a doormat! At least, as far as Rebecca was concerned. So different from the man who makes an impetuous proposal to the narrator in Monte Carlo!

After finishing, self went back and read the first two chapters. Thinking, reflecting, and feeling like the story can’t end here, it must go on.

But alas! It does end.

Self began Jamaica Inn.

Stay tuned.

Before I Was Your Slave, Now I Am Your Master: REBECCA, Ch. 21

SPOILER ALERT!

Having discovered that her husband is a murderer, the narrator is exhilarated because at last she has proof positive that he is not still in love with Rebecca!

Well-armoured with that knowledge, she goes calmly snipping roses in the rose-garden.

Then comes the moment of truth: the climactic confrontation with Mrs. Danvers.

It’s over that day’s menu.

The narrator finds it unsatisfactory, so she draws a pencil slash across the whole thing and sends it back to the kitchen. Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Danvers materializes to ask why the menu has been sent back.

“I don’t understand,” (Mrs. Danver says)

I looked at her, a rose in my hand.

“Those cutlets and that salmon were sent in yesterday,” I said. “I saw them on the side-board. I should prefer something hot today. If they won’t eat the cold (leftovers) in the kitchen, you had better throw the stuff away. So much waste goes on in this house anyway that a little more won’t make any difference.”

She stared at me. She did not say anything. I put the rose in the vase with the others.

Excellent shade, Narrator. Methinks you are moving from being Alice in Wonderland to becoming Joan of Arc.

Stay tuned.

Well, I Never, Mr. de Winter! Rebecca, Ch. 6

“What are you going to have?” he said.

“I’ve had mine already,” I told him, “and I can only stay four minutes anyway.”

“Bring me coffee, a boiled egg, toast, marmalade, and a tangerine,” he said to the waiter. And he took an emery board out of his pocket and began filing his nails.

lol

lol

lol

First Love: Rebecca, Ch. 5

  • Not for me the languor and the subtlety I had read about in books. The challenge and the chase. The sword-play, the swift glance, the stimulating smile. The art of provocation was unknown to me, and I would sit with his map upon my lap, the wind blowing my dull, lanky hair, happy in his silence, yet eager for his words.

And that, dear blog readers, is how you write about first love in first person. Slow clap!

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

Ch. 4.2, Rebecca

Before lunch with Mr. de Winter vs. After lunch with Mr. de Winter: The maitre’d exhibits a 180-degree change in attitude and all the hotel staff bow to the narrator deferentially.

The result?

“I found the change depressing; it made me despise myself.”

lol forever.

Stay tuned, dear blog readers. Stay tuned.

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