#how am i supposed to act all haughty and superior to cover up that i think they're super pretty and i think they should invite me over

[transmechanicus]

Calls you over to my desk, kisses you gently, and then takes detailed notes on your response before grabbing your collar to repeat the experiment~

#my stuff #im reading my papers and taking notes like wow cannot BELIEVE no one is here to see me be a sexy little bookworm #so upset that modern research does not involve the library unless you're insane. how am i supposed to bump into other cute ppl in the stacks #how am i supposed to act all haughty and superior to cover up that i think they're super pretty and i think they should invite me over #wym grad school isn't romantic. well it SHOULD be #also basically everyone in my program is already married or has a long term partner like HELLO #we've got a range of ppl from 22-29 and i swear everyone is either taken or guaranteed not interested like who has the time for a- #new relationship when every day but saturday has you so so busy #like i fuckin BET this experience is easier when you have a guaranteed rent buddy and source of physical affection ooh i fuckin bet #like i read an article last year that you need 10 hugs a day to be Emotionally Fufilled and um well im not meeting quota

[engie-ivy]

So, I have been listening to too many Jane Austen audiobooks lately, and needed to get this off my chest!

Summary:

The time had come for the fortunate heir of the most ancient and noble house of Black to secure himself of an advantageous marriage. A feat which should not be proven difficult for the handsome and becoming young man, were it not for the young Mr. Black to dismiss all his admirers' attentions.

The only person he seemed to find agreeable was the young Mr. Lupin, a boy solely dependent on what was bestowed upon him out of charity by Mrs. Potter, but with no fortune and no prospects of himself.

A matter of the heart

The ball was a tasteless affair. The music was awfully loud, while the band was mediocre at best, and the guests were too numerous. Lord and lady Black highly preferred gatherings with a more selective company. The only thing that was to their taste, was the fact that nothing was to their taste, which enabled them to revel in their own sense of superiority.

And superior did lord and lady Black appear. Lord Orion Black, a large, handsome man with broad shoulders and an impressive beard, wore a classic dark suit made of rich velvet, with his golden pocket watch alone being more valuable than the full attire of any of the other guests. Lady Walburga Black wore a long, dark-red gown, that was deceiving in his simple elegance, as it was hand-made from luxurious fabric and personally fitted to her ladyship. Her long, slender neck was decorated with a tasteful necklace containing a locket engraved with the weapon of the house of Black. While the lady undoubtedly possessed beauty, with her slim figure, pale skin, light eyes and dark hair perfectly crafted in a hairdo suited to the occasion, one could not quite call her lovely. It could be the coldness in her eyes or the conceitedness of her deposition, but she instigated fear as well as admiration.

Her eldest son, and heir to the Black family fortune, was a sight to behold. The young Mr. Sirius Orion Black was the personification of a true gentleman. Handsome beyond believe, with the same pale skin, light eyes and dark hair as his parents, but with a much more cordial demeanour, and also in his manner he expressed nothing but grace and elegance. His attire was equally tasteful, but of a more modern fashion than his father’s, made of a supple fabric, with a light-grey waistcoat in the same colour as his eyes. A silk scarf was tied around his neck, which was a trend among the youths. His slightly rebellious nature showed by the way he had rolled up the sleeves of his blouse to his elbows and left his top button unbuttoned, giving way of the slightest inclination towards impropriety.

His brother, the youngest Mr. Regulus Arcturus Black, was dressed in a classy and simple light-grey suit, with all his buttons neatly buttoned and an ascot around his neck, as he was strongly opposed to any unnecessary deviations from propriety. Where his elder brother wore his hair in a long, elegant braid, the youngest Mr. Black kept his hair short, partly because he had come to find long hair to be a nuisance, partly because no matter how much attention he spent on his hair, he could never get it to equal the effortless elegance of his brother’s. No one could deny that the brothers looked alike, but neither could anyone deny that the youngest Mr. Black could not quite live up to his elder brother, in either charm or appearance. While you might have expected the youngest Mr. Black to have some feelings of bitterness towards his elder brother, he has always held him in the highest regard.

Despite their general dissatisfaction, attending such societal gatherings was of utmost importance for lord and lady Black. Not only did they assume their presence to deeply honour the host and hostess, their eldest son had recently become of an age in which he was expected to further the wealth and esteem of the family by entering into an advantageous marriage. Now, you might have expected that to be a simple feat for the handsome and becoming young heir of one of the most high-ranking families in England, and indeed, young Mr. Black could have made any young lady his object, and she and her family would have been delighted to accept his attentions. No, the problem lay with young Mr. Black himself not showing an interest in any of his admirers.

Regulus had understood when Sirius had rejected the advances of Ms. Alecto Carrow, as, while coming from a respectable family, she possessed neither intelligence nor beauty and propagated an off-putting combination of ignorance and insincerity. But ever since, his brother had been dismissive of the attentions of Ms. Druella Rosier, Ms. Lysandra Yaxley and Ms. Violetta Bulstrode, all of which were agreeable young women with substantial fortune. Regulus was unsure how much longer their parents would continue to tolerate this behaviour. His brother would have to form a proper attachment soon.

“How can Mrs. Prewett allow her daughter to wear a garment like that? It is highly unsuitable, but I suppose befitting of her status.” Lady Black let her eyes wander through the room while sipping her wine, which was, naturally, not to her taste.

“Mother, please,” Sirius spoke. “Must you see fault in everything? There is no pleasing you when you are like this.”

Lady Black simply smiled, though there was no actual joy in her expression. “The truth must be spoken, even when it is displeasing.”

Sirius had to resist the urge to roll his eyes, which would have been a great breach of propriety. “If you will excuse me, mother, father. I shall go and pay my respects to Mrs. Potter.”

The Potters were generally considered to be an old and respectable family, although they were never of great fortune. Their income mostly came from a chain of pharmacies in their family's possession. However, in his younger years, the current head of the family, Mr. Fleamont Potter, invented a hair lotion that gained great popularity among men and women in the entirety of England and even beyond the English border, which quadrupled the family’s fortune. To the Black family, whose income, estates and grounds had been in the family for generations, the vulgarity of this type of profitmaking was highly reprehensible. However, Mr. Potter’s wife, Mrs. Euphemia Potter, with her commitment to charity and unparalleled hospitability, was a favourite in society, and even lady Black could not afford to scorn her.

Mr. and Mrs. Potter had been childless for a long time, and they had already been at a more advanced age when at last their only son and heir, young Mr. James Fleamont Potter, was born. Last spring, when Mrs. Potter wrote to lady Black with an invitation to have young Mr. Black spend a summer at the Potter estate, as their sons were of the same age and it would be a valuable enrichment for them to get acquainted with a fellow youth from the peerage, lady Black was in no position to refuse without causing affront to the Potters.

Lady Black mistakenly assumed Mrs. Potter wanted her son to form a connection with the Black family heir to improve his situation. In truth, Mrs. Potter could read people like no other, and when she first met young Mr. Black, she could see the goodness of heart and openness of mind hidden underneath layers of rules of propriety, societal conduct and cultural impositions. When young Mr. Black first arrived at the Potter estate, young Mr. Potter was rather displeased about having to spend his summer with the haughty, stiff and reserved aristocrat. But over the weeks, young Mr. Black progressed into an engaging young man brimming with energetic eagerness and good nature, brightening up the whole estate. Young Mr. Potter and young Mr. Black both came to find the other quite agreeable, and a warm friendship was formed.

When Regulus followed his brother to pay his obligatory respects to Mrs. Potter, he noticed she was accompanied by her ward, the Lupin boy. The boy’s father, Mr. Lyall Lupin, used to be of minor nobility, with little esteem. He had, however, lost his claim to nobility when he had a child, Remus John Lupin, with a poor, common woman. The family’s misfortune was amplified when the Lupin boy was attacked by a lost and frightened young wolf, when he was barely five years old. The boy survived, but has since been covered in unsightly scars.

Normally, that would be the last ever heard of the Lupin family, were it not for Mrs. Potter. The Lupin boy had worked in the kitchens of the Potter estate to help his parents by contributing to their income, when he caught the attention of Mrs. Potter herself with his keen spirit and pleasant deposition. She had made him her ward, giving him the opportunity to take lessons alongside her son at the estate, a great act of charity considering the boy’s poor situation. In the best of cases, he would even be able to secure himself a position as a tutor at a wealthy family’s estate, a great improvement of his prospects.

It was known that Mr. Potter was not very keen of attending balls, and usually, Mrs. Potter would be accompanied by her eldest son. It was, however, quite astonishing that she would allow her unfortunate ward to accompany her to a gathering such as these. The boy looked hopelessly out of place, anxiously fidgeting with the sleeves of his ill-fitting suit, very unbecoming of a gentleman.

“My dear Sirius!” Mrs. Potter’s face lit up the moment he came to her notice. “What a delight to see you again! Look at you, you are quite the gentleman.”

Sirius smiled at the warmness of her greeting and bowed to her. “Mrs. Potter, I can assure you that the delight is completely on my part.”

“I must convey my apologies that my dear James could not attend this evening. It was a great grievance for him to miss a chance to see you.”

“No apologies necessary. I have gathered from his last correspondence that he will be paying Ms. Evans a visit? Am I to expect a joyful announcement soon?”

Mrs. Potter chuckled. “If I have raised my boy properly, and I am quite convinced that I have, his confession shall not await long. Oh, it will be such a wonderful attachment!”

Regulus had never heard of Ms. Evans, so she could not be from a very high-ranking family. He wondered why Mrs. Potter would perceive such a connection as wonderful.

“Pray, Sirius,” Mrs. Potter continued. “I dare say you remember my ward, the young Mr. Lupin?”

“Of course!” Sirius spoke, with a charming smile, followed by a most gracious bow. “How could I ever forget such an accomplished young man?”

The Lupin boy blushed and casted his eyes downward. “You flatter me, Mr. Black.”

“Upon my word, I am not!” Sirius said. “I merely speak the truth, and if the truth is flattering, well, that is none of my doing.”

“Yes, of course,” Mrs. Potter said. “I believe Mr. Lupin has attended some lessons with yourself and my James over the summer?”

“Indeed, he has,” Sirius replied, his expression displaying fondness at the memory. “And I was put to shame in comparison with the sharpness of his mind!”

The Lupin boy looked up at Sirius through his lashes. “I do not believe anything could ever put you to shame, Mr. Black.”

Regulus had seen enough. Mrs. Potter might have been notoriously good at reading people, but he knew his brother. He stepped forward and gently touched his arm. “My dear brother, pardon my interruption, but I do believe our presence is elsewhere required,” he spoke, and thereby obliging his brother to, for the time being, conclude his conversation with Mrs. Potter and her young ward.

Sirius made another bow. “So I must go, but hopefully I shall be seeing more of you this evening, if I shall be granted such pleasure.” His attention during these parting words was mostly focussed on the Lupin boy.

Regulus gave a short, cordial nod to both Mrs. Potter and her ward, before leading his brother away to a quiet corner.

“Well, brother mine,” Sirius asked. “Would you be so kind as to tell me what the meaning is of this?”

Regulus folded his arms over his chest, not afraid to reprimand his brother for the sake of propriety. “I could ask the same of you, for I do not understand you, brother. Why would you be so inclined as to approach the Lupin boy with such familiarity?”

Sirius simply raised an eyebrow. “For I do not see any reason to not be cordial with him.”

Even though it was clear to Regulus that his brother understood him very well, he had no problem in clarifying. “His acquaintance holds no advantage, neither in means, nor in connections.”

“I do believe, my dear brother, that a person can have merits outside of means and connections. Mr. Lupin is a good man, worthy of my esteem.”

“I do not doubt that he can be quite agreeable, and even that you derive some pleasure from his company, but you must be apprehensive of keeping a certain amount of reserve and constraint in your demeanour towards him, for you must remember his situation is indefinitely inferior to yours.”

“I dare say that I have obtained a great appreciation for Mr. Lupin, and I think highly of his character. Therefore, I cannot perceive him in any way inferior-”

“Regardless of whether you perceive it or not, it is how society will perceive it. Even if you ignore how it will reflect on your person, and by extension on your family, it will do no favours to Mr. Lupin either. He will be seen as to be taking great liberties in his conduct towards a person of much higher ranking, which his place in society by no means warrant, and can only be looked upon as impertinent.”

“The people I hold dear will not be led by such misconceptions.”

“Do you think our parents will not perceive it so?”

Sirius made a dismissive gesture. “I have long since given up on trying to appease our parents.”

Regulus shook his head at his brother’s naivety. “That is not a notion you can afford to uphold, as your income is entirely dependent upon their good will. Perhaps you could act according to your own wishes regarding the choosing of your company once you have secured yourself of an advantageous marriage.”

Now Regulus did not miss the grimace that swiftly passed over his brother’s face. “Allow me to speak freely to you, brother,” he continued in a much calmer tone of voice.

“Such a thing is always allowed between brothers.”

“I have to tell you that I am worried. Worried that your... regard for Mr. Lupin might make you prone to forming an attachment to him.” Regulus held up his hand when it appeared as if Sirius would interrupt him. “As you and I both know how unbecoming such an attachment will be, it hardly needs to be said that it will bring you nothing but sorrow. Therefore, I think it better to prevent such an attachment from being formed, than to break it once it is formed, which you will surely agree with me upon. For your own good, brother, and for the sake of your own happiness, I must urge you to keep your distance from Mr. Lupin.”

Sirius just looked at Regulus with an unreadable expression on his face, before he finally spoke. “You must not worry. I can assure you that any decision I will make, shall be made with great care and consideration of its consequence.”

Regulus was put at ease. He knew his brother to be stubborn once he had set his mind on something, but he also knew him to possess a great deal of common sense. He trusted his brother to act with decency. No, Regulus was not worried.

Perhaps the youngest Mr. Black would have been more worried had he realised that his brother’s affliction had nothing to do with his mind, but everything with his heart.

The ball went on and the Black brothers fulfilled their duties as representatives of the most ancient and noble house of Black as they were taught, with charm and elegance. They were the perfect exemplifications of decorum and propriety, engaging in polite conversation and leading young ladies onto the dance floor with unmatched grace, all the while never showing even the slightest inclination towards imprudence.

No one seemed to notice that none of the conversations sparked their interest, and during each dance their only thought was how they wished for it to be over.

When the evening was getting late, Mrs. Potter approached lord and lady Black to bid them farewell, as she had just instructed a servant to prepare her carriage for her. Talking to lady Black about what a delight it had been to receive Sirius over the summer, she promptly fell into a long discourse of all the pleasant sceneries that surrounded the Potter estate, which were all the more pleasant during the summer months. In a rare moment of silence, lady Black managed to address Regulus, as Sirius was nowhere to be found. “Regulus, please go and inquire whether Mrs. Potter’s carriage has been prepared. I would hate to keep her longer than she ought to.”

Regulus stepped outside, and as he did not immediately spot the carriage belonging to Mrs. Potter, he walked away from the crowd of departing guests towards the side of the building, where he knew the carriages to be parked. However, the sight his eyes landed upon rendered him in shocked astonishment.

The young Mr. Lupin was leaning against the wall of the building, with young Mr. Black standing right in front of him, their bodies a mere inch apart. Sirius held Mr. Lupin’s hand in his, and had it securely placed over his heart. It was, however, not even the intimacy of this gesture that made Regulus feel like an intruder. It was in the way they were looking at each other. Their eyes filled with such vulnerability, such affection, that it ought not to be seen by the rest of the world.

Regulus had been wrong in fearing that his brother would form an attachment to Mr. Lupin, as it was clear that such an attachment had already been formed long ago.

Since this got way longer than expected, keep reading on AO3!

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfiction #wolfstar fic #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders fic #sirius black #remus lupin #remus x sirius #regency #the most ancient and noble house of black #my tumblr writing

[shockwrites]

Hard Knocks

Author’s Note: In which I need to hurry up and write something other than @bigdad123 ‘s kickass AU but oh well

Series: Sonic the Hedgehog (Bigdad AU)

Pairing: Sonic/Amy

Length: 1491 words

Rating: Relatively safe. Mild allusion to an erection euphemism 

“Has anyone ever told you that hammer’s huge?”

“I could say the same thing about your mouth.”

Ever the snarker she was. Amy Rose always did make it clear that she never took any guff; not from him or from any other poor soul who tried to question her leadership. She was confident in her skills and in her command. Sonic admired that about her. For every playful jab he’d give, she would shoot him back with one of her own.

“Last chance to back out, Fearless Leader.” Sonic stretched his limbs, shooting her a cocky grin. “My speed’s not just for show, you know.”

Amy scoffed, twirling her mechanical hammer in one hand. How she swung that giant thing with such ease was beyond him. “What? Afraid I’ll wrestle you to the ground?”

The mental picture was far from unpleasant but Sonic didn’t want to admit to that. Seeing her hardened expression as she pinned him to the training mat. Their sweaty bodies oh-so-dangerously close to each other. Steamy, hot breaths intensifying as their mouths drew closer and closer before finally-

“Are we doing this or what, Blue?”

Amy’s voice snapped him back to reality. “Ladies first.”

He watched as the pink hedgehog held her hammer to a stance. They circled the mat, eyes intensified. Sonic may have boasted superior speed in combat, but he never could match her strength. Few could. Hence when said hammer-wielding girl charged at him, he knew trying to intercept would’ve been a losing battle.

Amy swung and slammed her death maul with a frightening amount of ease. Not once was Sonic able to properly counter her attacks. She was sharp and efficient, with wide swings and strong smashes. His trademark super speed was just barely enough to keep his face from receiving an involuntary nose job.

“Come on, Blue! I know you’re not all talk!”

Sonic smirked. Amy swung at the blue blur once again, instead striking an after image. Sonic found his chance, opting to casually perch himself on the top end of her hammer. He hesitated, now uncomfortably close to Amy’s face. Sonic lost himself for a moment, taking a little bit too much advantage of his positioning. Amy blinked as the hypnotized hedgehog did nothing beyond blankly staring at her adorable face.

She wasn’t as distracted.

Before his mind could properly process his fumble, Sonic was already mere inches away from the ceiling. It only took a few moments of weightlessness for him to realize Amy had catapulted him into the air. He hardly had time to yelp out in surprise before falling flat on his head, his entire worldview now upside down.

Amy turned her head to the hedgehog sprawled across the ground and smirked. Even from the distance between them, Sonic could still see that smug grin of her’s. His eyes couldn’t help but sneak a glance at the Rose girl’s hips, clad in a pair of tight, black shorts. Sonic was tempting fate. Amy never took too kindly to onlookers, yet his brain seemed to deem the threat getting his skull caved in to be an afterthought. The blood rushing to his head suggested that maybe staying in this position is a bad idea.

“Lucky shot.” He sneered, rising from the mat and dusting himself off. Sonic willed his eyes to wander elsewhere, away from Amy’s front. The last thing he needed was a black eye from staring directly at her…assets. While the resistance leader didn’t quite hold the same bust size as other members of their small team, Amy’s petite build was still enough to capture Sonic’s attention.

“Lucky?!” Amy scoffed, insulted. “You practically let yourself get tossed like one of Knuckles’s punching bags!” Her arms crossed, she narrowed her eyes. “You seem off your game today, Blue. Normally, you’re not as distracted when out in the field.”

“I’m not distracted! Just…tired is all.” Sonic averted his face from her, flushed with embarrassment.  “…Rematch?”

Her haughty smirk returned. “Fine. I’m game.” She pinched his cheek like a parent doting on a complaining child. “I won’t even use the hammer.”

Great.

Now she wasn’t even taking him seriously.

--

Sonic had deduced that fist fighting with Amy hadn’t been much better either.

Even without her main weapon, Rose was still quite the fighter. Her punches and kicks were enough to keep Sonic blocking in place. Her face was steeled with determination. She had a bad habit of taking sparring sessions much more seriously than the rest of the team. Concentration was escaping him. Amy was hardly breaking a sweat yet Sonic was having difficulty just trying not to stare directly into her eyes.

Those alluring green eyes…

His brain yelled at him to at least try to look like he was putting up a fight. The last thing Sonic wanted was for her to think was that he was going easy on purpose. Fist locked, caution thrown into the wind, and without so much as a second thought, Sonic threw a punch. A calculated risk he dared to take.

But boy, did he suck at math.

Amy didn’t even need to blink. She grabbed his arm as quickly as he threw it. With a mighty swing, she felled the blue hedgehog onto his back. And with insult to injury, she pinned him, her hands and lower legs restricting his limbs.

Her face was a short distance away from his. Her quills were now hanging next to each side of his face. Amy was speaking, probably gloating about yet another tally mark on her side of the imaginary scoreboard, but Sonic brain was too hopped off of the dopamine rush to truly register what she was saying.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit she’s too close way too close oh fuck ok whatever you do don’t panic

His body froze. He focused on Amy’s lips, his cheeks tinted pink as his thoughts drifted towards pressing his against them. Why did she smell so nice? Almost like strawberries…

He chastised himself for letting his eyes wander. Amy’s petite breasts dangled just above his face. All he’d need to do was just reach up and…

-cover that bulge in his pants.

The pink hedgehog was entirely oblivious to his plight. She was satisfied enough seeing the usually cocky and confident hedgehog now easily subdued beneath her.

“Another one for me.” Amy boasted smugly.

Sonic didn’t respond. What would he even say? Sorry Ames, can’t talk because of the raging hard-on I got from staring at your tits and ass like a creepazoid. Why was she so close? This was driving him crazy. His head and thoughts were muddled, unable to concentrate on anything other than her.

Amy finally took notice of his blushing face. His expression was strained as if he couldn’t formulate a response even if he wanted to. “You all right in the head, Blue? You’ve been acting wei-MMPH?!!”

Sonic was swift, his urges finally hitting their peak. His arms lightly grabbed her shoulders, his face rising to meet hers. He felt her soft, warm lips pressed against his before she could even finish talking. He was sure to catch some heat from her after this, a black eye and a bruised cheek at the very least, he surmised. His eyes shut tight, hoping to keep himself from seeing the flames of pure death and murder that was sure to be smoldering in her eyes.

Amy didn’t exhibit any sort of reaction, merely frozen in place while Sonic’s lips planted gently on hers. That had to be a good sign right? The seconds trudged by like days. Sonic didn’t know what to do, too afraid to even move. Weren’t kisses supposed to be romantic? This just felt like he was delaying his own impending doom.

The very moment Sonic broke the kiss, his heart raced. It was just one simple kiss yet he felt as though he had been running nonstop for a full week straight. He allowed himself to open his eyes, hoping and praying he wasn’t going to lose them seconds later.

In the many years Sonic had known Amy, he had come to learn that the Rose girl had been at her most terrifying when she displayed no emotion. Her eyes would be static and distant, her mouth holding neither a frown nor a smile, and her stare all but adrift in space. He didn’t know what was going on in her head but he had to assume that her true feels must be too intense for her to even express visually.

“Oh geeze.” Sonic sputtered. He panicked, unsure of how to even respond. He spouted out hastened apologies, all while trying to avert his gaze from her piercing eyes. “I-I don’t know why I did that, I’m-I’m so sorry I just-“

Amy surprised him as she put a finger on his rambling mouth, effectively shushing him.

“Shut up. And do that again.”

Beat.

“…Yes ma’am.”

#bigdadverse #sonic the hedgehog #amy rose #sonic au #nsfw-ish #stuff for cool people

[steel-ball-run-me-over]

That Desert Feeling

He lets bitterness drip over all that passes from his mouth, covers every witticism and remark in sarcasm, in a haughty veil of superiority. He wants all of his words to sting.

Yet Hot Pants takes him into her arms on cold nights like these.

~~Howdy @swimmingferret !! I’m your secret Santa for @jjba-secret-santa, and it looks like you’re mine too. I haven’t taken a look at the gift you wrote me yet because I wanted to complete mine for you first, but thank you for taking the time to write me something nice! I hope you enjoy what I wrote you. Have a great new year!~~

It’s been a very long time since Diego has touched another person like this. He was not intimate physically nor emotionally with his now deceased wife; that had been a marriage of money. There was no love, at least on Diego’s part, only pretty words and prettier smiles.

And the beautiful men and women Diego brought to bed from the afterparties of his victories, they had not touched him like this either. Yes, their naked limbs intertwined, and yes, sweaty chest pressed to sweaty chest as hands manipulated personal places, but those touches were carnal, greedy, merely a means to a rarely satisfying end. Afterwards the beautiful faces would either leave, having gotten their fill, or cling to him like leeches in hopes of feeding off his fame. People only put their hands on Diego when they wanted something from him.

This is new.

Diego doesn’t smile nicely for Hot Pants. He sneers with all the teeth in his too-wide mouth. Diego doesn’t lace his words with honey; Hot Pants isn’t a fly he’s trying to seduce with his charms. He lets bitterness drip over all that passes from his mouth, covers every witticism and remark in sarcasm, in a haughty veil of superiority. He wants all of his words to sting.

Yet Hot Pants takes him into her arms on cold nights like these.

Diego is startled the first time it happens because there are only a few reasons people ever put their hands on him, and he didn’t expect Hot Pants to be that kind of person. But nothing more happens than a moment of warmth because the second the embrace begins, it ends, and Hot Pants looks terribly awkward.

“You seem cold,” she mumbles and retreats to her side of the campfire. Diego frowns because this is all very unlike HP. He is cold. Is it noticeable? His body so often trembles during the frigid desert night that after a certain point he becomes unware of it. It’s peculiar to him that Hot Pants’s response would be to hug him. It’s strange, but as he shivers close to the fire he concludes that it really wasn’t all that unpleasant.

The next cold evening he finds himself in Hot Pants’s arms. She lets Diego curl against her with his face in the crook of her neck. She doesn’t ask for anything in exchange for her warmth. She doesn’t demand a price for the gentle touches she leaves up and down Diego’s spine. He breathes deeply. She smells like horses, desert sand and desert sun. Her chest rises and falls. He’s never felt more at peace.

----

“You’re all that I have.” Diego doesn’t know why he says that, but it’s very cold. They’ve been travelling all day, and his body aches. He’s overcome with the vastness and cruelty of the desert. Hot Pants is quiet; perhaps she’s asleep. He continues talking.

“I have money, and it’s not enough money. I have fame, and it’s not enough fame. I race after honor and accolades. I sell myself to the Devil, turn myself into a monster. I want and want and want.” He releases a shaking breath. “I’m empty.” From the extended corner of his mouth, Diego tastes his tears. “I’m empty, and I love you.”

---

It’s been a very long time since Hot Pants has allowed another person to get this close. She finds it much easier to push people away than to let them in, but when she sees Diego shiver, her arms are already around him.

The first time she does this, he flinches like her touch pains him. She immediately lets go and pretends not to feel foolish for acting so brashly. She was only trying to keep the sniveling lizard from freezing to death. There would never be any other reason to hug him.

It isn’t until the next frigid evening Diego scuttles up to her.

“I was not pushing you away,” he says, and because Diego refuses to ever say what he wants in plain terms, Hot Pants is forced to come to her own conclusion through the reasoning of who Diego Brando is. She opens her arms, and his small frame relaxes against her chest like that’s where it has always belonged.

“I’m empty,” Diego sobs one night, “and I love you.”

Hot Pants doesn’t know what to say, so she feels it best to say nothing at all. The vast sky over their heads cradles a full moon and a billion bright stars. She finds comfort staring at them as she listens.

“I don’t know if this even is love I feel for you,” he sniffs. “It feels good to be near you, but is that because I enjoy warm bodies and pretty faces? There are countless numbers of those out there. Maybe I’ve only become this fond of you because we’re all alone, and your tits are pressed against me.” He forces his hollow voice to make an arrogant laugh. “Of course, I don’t love you. I could replace you with any girl in the world.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Diego’s breath hitches. Hot Pants can feel his heart beat quicken. She rubs gentle circles in the small of his back to calm him down.

“I knew you were awake.”

“I’m sure you did.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t thrown me off you yet.” Hot Pants shrugs. “Why would I be upset if I know you’re lying to make yourself feel better? You do it all the time.” Diego makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Hot Pants searches for the right words to say. “If it makes you feel any differently I... feel similarly about you. Love.” The word is foreign on her tongue. “I love you. You don’t have to be afraid of unrequited feelings.”

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” Diego snaps. He buries his face deeper into the junction of Hot Pants’s neck and shoulder. His tears soak into her jacket.

“Hey. Look at me.” She uses that tone of voice that Diego is compelled to obey. He lifts his head. Stray strands of hair stick to his cheeks from the wetness of his tears. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, mouth twisted in a grotesque imitation of a smile.

“How could you possibly love me?”

“The same way you manage to love me.” Diego is taken off guard. His brow furrows.

“How could I not?”

“I’m not very interesting.” “Bullocks! I’ve never had more engaging banter with anyone in my life.”

“And I’m ugly,” she continues, lips softly curled. “I’m too tall. My jaw is square and my chest is flat as a board.” Diego is perceptive to her humor.

“Petite, voluptuous women are overrated,” he declares, “and I fancy your handsome jaw.” He presses his lips to her chin, and she chuckles. “I’m mean.”

“So am I.”

“I’m a murderer.” Her voice cracks. This happens sometimes. If Hot Pants is going to let Diego so close, why not let him see her emotions bare like this? It’s embarrassing, yes, but if it’s Diego it’s not as bad.

“So am I,” he says softly. He kisses at the tears spilling down her face. Her expression is hard, unreadable to most, but Diego knows the details of the pain behind it, just like Hot Pants can understand the meaning of all he doesn’t say.

“If you can love me with all the marks on my soul, I can love you with all of yours,” she rasps after she calms down a moment. He doesn’t like all the talk of souls or marks against them. He doesn’t like to think about those things, but he’ll listen to Hot Pants speak of them. “That is the beauty of love: even the unholy can find it.”

“Yes,” he murmurs, “I suppose it is.”

He closes his eyes, repositions himself comfortably on her chest. He’ll fall asleep like that. Hot Pants doesn’t mind. It feels good, for some reason, having someone so close. “Sleep well.” She kisses the top of his head.

Diego almost smiles. The way warmth spreads throughout his chest, he doesn’t feel so empty inside.

#canonverse #dinopants #diego x hot pants #jjba #fanfiction #diego brando #hot pants #jojo's bizarre adventure

[lifeonashelf]

CLASH, THE

As anyone who self-identifies as a “serious” music fan  is indubitably aware (goddammit, this essay is already pretentious and I haven’t even finished the first sentence), there are certain bands which other self-identified “serious” music fans have long-ago designated as “important” artists that all “serious” music fans are supposed to love. There isn’t any set-in-stone mandate for this, no handy reference guide which lists all of these acts for the benefit of those seeking to become “serious” music fans—actually, there very well might be, but I don’t feel like looking it up and I wouldn’t want to read such a pompous list anyway. The artists in this elite pantheon are mostly identified through accumulated cognizance, via extensive reading of material scribed by writers who self-identify as “serious” music fans and/or extensive conversations with people who self-identify as the same. Unfortunately, uncovering those exalted names is an often-insufferable process, since most self-identifying “serious” music fans are themselves often-insufferable. And doing so is also an exercise in sheer inanity, since requiring someone else to tell you whether or not a band is good defeats the entire fucking purpose of being a music fan.

I am “not” a “serious” music fan. Yes, I have written over 200,000 words about that specific subject for this project, and my every waking moment is spent either listening to records or wishing I was listening to records instead of doing whatever it is I’m doing instead of listening to records. Yet there are two notable discrepancies in my psyche which disqualify me from thriving among the insufferable: 1) My favorite album of all time is by fucking Queensryche, so I harbor absolutely zero delusions about possessing any sophisticated expertise in this field; and 2) I honestly couldn’t give a shit whether or not anybody else likes the bands I like.

That second distinction is rather important for our purposes here, since one notable attribute of “serious” music fans is a deportment of haughtiness towards people who aren’t “serious” music fans, which is usually accompanied by a reflexive disdain for anyone who does not subscribe to the putative preeminence of the “important” bands on the afore-mentioned possibly-nonexistent list. This isn’t something the aficionados I’m speaking of will necessarily acknowledge—to be fair, most of them probably aren’t even aware they’re dicks—but rest assured, if you ever tell a “serious” music fan that you think Radiohead has been awful for the entirety of this century, they will indeed think less of you.

On the contrary, I don’t think less of people who don’t exalt Operation: Mindcrime as highly as I do, nor would I bother expending energy trying to convince anyone they should share my ardor for the second-best-selling album by a band most people barely remember even existed. If you love Operation: Mindcrime, that’s totally cool—we can certainly geek out on how Chris DeGarmo’s precise shredding throughout “Speak” reveals him to be the most underrated guitar player of all time, and we can rhapsodize about how the interlocked suite of “Breaking the Silence”/ “I Don’t Believe In Love”/ “Waiting for 22”/ ”My Empty Room” and “Eyes of a Stranger” is the most exhilarating 18-minutes of music ever recorded (and it’s entirely possible I will ask you to marry me at the conclusion of our discussion). However, if you don’t love Operation: Mindcrime, that’s totally cool, too—maybe you simply prefer the band’s subsequent record, Empire, and I certainly won’t begrudge your attempt to make a case for its superiority based on the incontrovertible strength of “Silent Lucidity”, “Jet City Woman”, and “Another Rainy Night (Without You)”, because all of those tracks are also fucking marvelous. Or maybe you think Queensryche totally sucked and you’d rather chat about Animal Collective instead—seriously, that’s also perfectly acceptable (although our conversation will have to be fairly brief since I’ve still never heard that band and don’t really care that I’ve never heard them).

Needless to say, Queensryche probably isn’t on the shortlist of many music fans, serious or otherwise. They aren’t even on mine—despite the apex they reached with Operation: Mindcrime, the records they made before that are merely decent and I think pretty much everything they released after Empire is terrible. “Serious” music fans wouldn’t even mention such frivolous and undistinguished fare in passing. Though they will eagerly plunk down $200 for a Bob Dylan box set featuring 14 discs laden with endless alternate versions of the songs from Slow Train Coming, and they will subsequently embark on a thorough scholarly analysis of each increasingly redundant track until they reach a decisive verdict that Take 6 of “Man Gave Names to All the Animals” is slightly superior to the version that was used on the album, after which they will inevitably engage in spirited discussions about their findings with other “serious” music fans, who are liable to counter that Take 4 with the alternate bridge lyrics is the true superlative rendering of that number. Such things are deeply significant to “serious” music fans, which is one of the many reasons they’re insufferable. And if you were to inform these ardent votaries that you think the vast majority of Dylan’s recorded output is boring as shit and you’d much rather listen to anything in the Queensryche catalog than anything Bobby D released after 1975, they would readily conclude that you know absolutely nothing about music.

And perhaps I don’t. Because despite what every “serious” music fan has to say about the matter, Queensryche is infinitely more important to me than Bob Dylan. Operation: Mindcrime was the album that led me to pick up a guitar for the first time. Operation: Mindcrime was the album that led me to start writing songs and begin exploring my creative talents in earnest. Which means that, ultimately, Queensryche is the reason I’m sitting here at my laptop thirty years later, typing an essay about The Clash that has yet to actually say anything about The Clash. In a tangible and legitimate sense, Queensryche changed the course of my entire life. Out in the “serious” world, Dylan may be a Pulitzer Prize-winning lyricist and the most acclaimed musician of the 20th Century. But in my world, he’s just a dude who made three albums in my collection that I never listen to. So, clearly, importance is a subjective characterization.

Here’s where that applies to the topic at hand: The Clash are one of those lionized bands whose work everyone who professes to love music is supposed to love. They are undoubtedly “important.” Their records are “seminal.” I am acutely aware of this. Yet this awareness only reinforces my recognition that I must not be a “serious” music fan, because I don’t fucking care.

My valuation of The Clash tallies out to a half-dozen-or-so kickass tunes, twenty-or-so pretty good tunes, and “Rock the Casbah”, which is one of the most comprehensively annoying songs ever excreted—a ratio that doesn’t chart them anywhere on my personal best-list. A recent documentary about the group was outfitted with the ludicrously hyperbolic title The Only Band That Matters, a designation which suggests I have evidently squandered my entire life by seeking out the literal thousands of bands that matter a lot more to me than The Clash does. As with Dylan, The Clash only factors into my musical paradigm by virtue of other artists they influenced—in other words, I like most of the bands who like The Clash a lot more than I like the band they like. Since they’re “important,” this roster is extensive and encompasses a wide range of artists responsible for some of my favorite records ever. Nonetheless, even limiting my scope strictly to the track listing of Burning London—a 1999 tribute CD which features 12 Clash tunes covered by a decidedly anemic assortment of 12 bands who are not The Clash—I still enjoy listening to half of those bands more than I enjoy listening to the Clash. Which is, I think, a good indication of how little their music matters to me, since the only bands on Burning London I actually do prefer The Clash to include bottom-scraping pedestrians like The Urge, Indigo Girls, and goddamn No Doubt, whose very existence aggravates me so much that hearing their music makes me physically nauseous.

Afghan Whigs supplied a track to Burning London, and I love Greg Dulli’s work with parts of my soul that Joe Strummer’s songs have never strummed anywhere near. 311 also has a cut on there, and my fondness for them is far more long-standing and sincere than the casual appreciation I have accumulated for The Clash. So does Third Eye Blind, whose self-titled debut I’ve spun WAY more times than I’ve played my copy of The Clash, by a factor of at least 20. Even the presence of a more peripheral outfit like Cracker serves to remind me that I think “Low” rocks harder than “I’m So Bored with the U.S.A.” Sure, I like the Clash more than I like The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, but if I’m being honest, I probably prefer fellow Burning London contributors Silverchair to both of them, and Silverchair is kind of lousy by any standard.

So, does this confession reveal that I know fuck-all about music? Or does it perhaps reveal that the connections each of us forge to the artform we’re exploring here are so exclusive and individualized that any sort of flighty designation of what bands “matter” completely undermines the sacred and inimitable power of music? I propose the latter—mostly because I have to make this piece about something, and I don’t feel like writing about how awesome The Clash is because I don’t think they’re nearly as awesome as I’m apparently supposed to.

I have a friend named Celine (save it—she’s heard all the jokes) who would probably tell you that Fall Out Boy changed her life. She’s not a “serious” music fan—if she’s ever listened to The Clash at all, it likely occurred by happenstance while she was watching Stranger Things—but she is one of the most committed music fans I’ve ever met. She goes to a lot of shows, she buys hoodies from peripheral squads like Sleeping With Sirens, and she could probably sing you multiple Panic At The Disco records from start to finish. The kind of love she has for the bands that are important to her is of the purest and most zealous grade—a passionate embrace that pulls their music out of the background of her life and into the foreground of her heart, a fandom based not on what’s hip this minute but on what moves her always. Precisely the kind of love that music is fucking meant to inspire, as far as I’m concerned. And, frankly, I don’t think it matters if the band who opened that door for her is Fall Out Boy, because the open door itself is far more important that any capricious critical assessment of how “important” their work is.

The Clash have been sanctified as one of punk’s most imperative progenitors, but that doesn’t mean I feel obligated to love them simply because I love punk rock. The Clash had absolutely nothing to do with my submersion into the genre—a girl named Alison who used to play NOFX cassettes in her car when she gave me rides home from Bonita High School had a greater influence on that corollary than Mick Jones did. Alison had several tapes in the caddy she kept in her center console—Pennywise, Guttermouth, and the like—and we listened to all those, too. But it was NOFX’s masterwork Punk in Drublic that stole my heart, cuts like “Linoleum” and “Lori Meyers” and “Dying Degree” that energized my eardrums and unveiled a whole new biosphere of sonic possibilities. Punk in Drublic is the record that made me a fan of punk rock, which sort of makes NOFX the most important punk rock band of all time to me. And neither the lasting impact of that introduction nor the multitude of memories which augment my experience every time I listen to Punk in Drublic are tempered by the feeble insistence of self-appointed music scholars that The Clash and Sex Pistols represent proper punk essentiality, because in my universe The Clash is predominantly meh and the Sex Pistols are predominantly shit-awful.

But perhaps the problem here isn’t me. Maybe it’s just time to reassess the derisible notion that there have only been a handful of significant bands formed since the 1970’s. And maybe it’s also time to reassess how such designations are tabulated, and how often we revisit those tabulations. Because The Clash haven’t done anything especially noteworthy in my lifetime, and I’ve been around for 40 fucking years now. The last “important” record they made—1982’s Combat Rock—came out when I was 4. And despite the group’s repute as one of the wellsprings from which all things punk were born, the most enduring tracks off Combat Rock are the bare bones Kinks-esque rocker “Should I Stay Or Should I Go” (which, granted, is an unimpeachably rad song) and the utterly dreadful “Rock the Casbah”, which—near as my ears can tell—didn’t influence any of the songs in the NOFX catalog, but definitely influenced a lot of the songs in the decidedly un-punk Fine Young Cannibals catalog. The band was remarkable in their own epoch because of their anti-aristocracy philosophy and their then-novel fusing of punk and reggae, yet the lasting effects of those oft-cited dogmatic components are negligible today. Sure, The Clash lit a protest rock fuse that later motivated Rage Against The Machine to make some of the coolest music of the ‘90s, but they also accidentally invented Slightly Stoopid, so those two contributions probably cancel each other out. And, yes, they embraced vital social causes and pledged undying support to anti-Nazi groups, but the Dead Kennedys managed to issue a condemnation more blistering than The Clash’s entire combined catalog in just sixty-four seconds when they recorded “Nazi Punks Fuck Off”.

The fact that “Casbah” remains the band’s most lasting and highest-charting hit suggests that a whole lot of The Clash’s non-“serious” fans don’t ultimately give a shit about any of the reasons their “serious” aficionados have deemed them indispensable. Which sort of speaks to the point I’ve been making here. Cougars who scurry to the dance floor to shake their asses with their Solo cups held high whenever “Rock the Casbah” comes on at the club are just as welcome to the track as the Art & Activism professors who play it for an auditorium full of bored freshmen to preface their lectures on Iranian despots banning Western music. The song serves extremely different functions for both extremes of its audience, which is ultimately a point in its favor. The reason the omnipresence of “Casbah” irritates me, besides the song itself being irritating, is because its tedious one-riff groove showcases none of the band’s stronger attributes and the general goofiness of the presentation makes the whole affair resonate as nothing more than a frivolous novelty number—adopting “Rock the Casbah” as the anthem that defines The Clash is a lot like picking “Batdance” as the best Prince song.  

All of this reads like I hate The Clash, which is definitely not the case (although, I am listening to Combat Rock from start to finish for the first time in ages right now, and most of the record is actually pretty terrible). What I do hate is the sort of stuffy snobbery which has come to predominate cultural discourse on any music that intellectuals have chosen to elevate into the category of high art, whether the subject is revolution-minded ‘70s proto-punk or contemporary socially-conscious hip-hop (which has become the genre du jour of all modern pop music critics striving to prove how woke they are). And maybe my aversion doesn’t apply exclusively to the deification of bands; maybe it stems from my tenure in grad school, where I was continually reminded by English professors that authors like Stephen King and Elmore Leonard—i.e. writers whose work people without PhDs enjoy reading—somehow belong in a lesser tier than the likes of William Faulkner and James Joyce, who are deemed superior by the literary elite simply because they have been elected into canonization by that same literary elite. Maybe I’ve grown to believe that making distinctions between so-called “high” and “low” art is inherently an act of arrogance, because no matter how much activity a piece of prose or music may inspire in the minds of the cognoscente, it is the impact art has on our hearts and souls that should govern how its importance is measured. Some of us find the same rich tapestry of storytelling in back issues of Amazing Spider-Man as “serious” readers find in The Dubliners. And some of us find the same door-opening revelations in Operation: Mindcrime as “serious” music fans find in London Calling. Highbrow culture’s continued insistence that there is somehow a marked disparity between the two is false and exclusionary—and both of those sins are egregious because all art is most powerful when it serves a mirror that reflects truths within ourselves, and that kind of existential revelation is wide open to anybody who cares enough to seek it out. Any band whose music accomplishes a feat that outstanding doesn’t need to have a graduate thesis or a documentary devoted to them to be important.

If The Clash changed your life, I’m very happy for you. But Fall Out Boy changed Celine’s life, and Queensryche changed mine, and The Clash never did shit for either one of us. So, while I’m sure someone gave themselves a huge boner when they came up with the title The Only Band That Matters, an allegation like that only serves to deepen the divide between the insufferable and us lower-echelon fans who cultivate our love of music based on what it makes us feel instead of whether smart people think it matters or not. Because when you strip away politics and history and erudite mammon, there’s only one way to gauge the eminence of any band: fucking put on one of their records and see if it kicks your ass.

The Clash’s albums offer me sporadic moments of excitement, but they do not kick my ass. So if that means I’m not a “serious” music fan, I guess I’ll just have to learn to live with that. And I’ll take the $200 I’m not spending on some otiose Bob Dylan box set and buy 14 discs I’ll actually listen to instead. I may never find out whether Take 11 of “God Gave Names to All the Animals” is superior to Take 8, but I do know every word Geoff Tate wails on “Breaking the Silence”—and, goddammit, that should count for something.

 March 11, 2019

[beneaththetangles]

BtT Light Novel Club Extra Chapter: Infinite Dendrogram Anime Adaptation Thoughts

Anime adaptations of an established work, whether light novel, manga, visual novel, video game, or whatever else, are a tricky business. The medium of anime is almost always vastly different from what they are adapting from, and what works well in the original medium might translate poorly to animation. The job is only made harder by the strict episode limits these adaptations are usually given; most are only allowed around 13 episodes to make their mark, having to hope against hope for a second season or more.

With that in mind, Jeskai Angel, TWWK, and I take a look at the currently-airing anime adaptation of Infinite Dendrogram, which we covered the first two volumes of and will be discussing the third volume on February 21st. This post will look specifically at how the first volume had been adapted, a.k.a. the first four episodes of the anime.

-----

Episode 1

Jeskai: Well, how about that Infinite Dendrogram episode 1? I am pleased. I felt like it was a solid opening that explained the world while holding back from excessive exposition. It introduced some major characters and especially established Ray’s compassionate, conscientious disposition that leads his constantly playing hero. And it managed to hint at the series’s broader questions about reality, personhood, and the nature of this so-called game. It seemed like a very faithful adaptation of the opening events of vol. 1, and I think the series has a lot of promise.

Frank (stardf29): Yeah, so far the anime adaptation is pretty good. Obviously, a lot of assorted world info was left out so this first episode could cover the content it needed to, but for the most part, nothing super-important was left out; the only thing that probably should have been explained was how Vengeance is Mine worked. Story-wise, as you mentioned, many of the story’s major points have already gotten some establishment, so things are good on that point. Visuals aren’t anything stand-out but they look fine, so I don’t have any complaints there. I will say, I was not quite expecting Shu or Nemesis to sound quite like they did, but I do like their voice acting. Shu is appropriately over-the-top, while Nemesis has that haughtiness to her, and while I wasn’t quite expecting their exact vocal styles, they definitely work. Alas, I guess having to sub this episode quickly means the subs don’t get the top-tier bear puns the light novel translation did, and we have to stick with “grizz”. Ah well.

Jeskai: Yeah, I was taken aback by Nemesis’s voice at first, but I think it will work out. I felt that Nemesis’s character as a whole got a little bit shortchanged (including but not limited to explaining Vengeance Is Mine) in this episode, but I assume there will be more chances to develop her in the future. And regarding the subtitles’ inadequate handling of the puns, I guess you’ll just have to…grin and bear it.

Twwk: You guys said it all kuma kuma. Very enjoyable and it captured much of the spirit of the light novel right from the start kuma kuma. The one drawback for me is the animation—not great, but good enough. My hope is that the series generates buzz and gets viewers, and that we’ll get future seasons with stronger animation.

Episode 2

Twwk: Just watched episode two of Infinite Dendrogram—was it hinted at that Ray’s brother is famous in the first light novel volume? I don’t remember that part.

Jeskai: Yeah, it was pretty indirect, but the hints were there. Shu accidentally making his avatar the same as his IRL appearance is mentioned to be a problem, and while the reason isn’t stated, the clear implication is that Shu is somehow famous / important / popular and would be recognized without his goofy animal costumes. Dendro episode 2 thoughts: a slower paced episode with a good bit of world-building and introductions to some more major characters. Good, but nothing amazing aside from Nemesis; she’s hilarious. Also why haven’t they explained Nemesis’s abilities yet? Ray used them more this ep. but it still hasn’t been stated (for the benefit of those who haven’t read the novel) how they work.

Frank: As for why Nemesis’s abilities haven’t been explained yet: there’s actually a series of short side “episodes” that explain various expositional stuff, and apparently the mechanics of Nemesis’s abilities were in one of those episodes. Unfortunately, as of this moment those episodes aren’t being officially translated… Ray did mention briefly the mechanics of Vengeance is Mine indirectly when he was about to face off against Figaro, but yeah, I do think it’d be better for these things to be explained better in the main anime.

Remember when video games came with instruction manuals that explained important stuff?

Episode 3

Jeskai: We meet lots of new characters, some of whom won’t actually be important for quite some time, but whose future roles are foreshadowed here. Marie was great; she came off as a even more sketchy / suspicious to me than she did in the LN, but I’m not sure if that’s actually because of how the character was portrayed by the anime or simply because now I already know her secret.

Twwk: This episode was such an info dump…I think to it’s detriment. What works on paper doesn’t necessarily do the same on the screen, and I think this episode demonstrates that. It was messy and without flow. I don’t even know our party of four (if I’m a viewer without knowledge from the light novels), so I don’t want to get inundated by all this info and new characters. A lot of character development is just ahead…but gosh, if I didn’t know what was coming, I know that I’d have dropped this series by this point.

Frank: I definitely like how Marie is portrayed, too, and yeah, it probably is influenced by what I know about her now. That said, it’s unfortunate they never explained Babi’s G-rated “seduction”; that was one of the best jokes in the novel. Though I suppose that is one of the lesser concerns about this adaptation…

Episode 4

Jeskai: This series continues to be underwhelming and disappointing. The adaptation superficially captures the major story beats, but without any of what makes the LNs so great. It sacrifices character development to speed through a series of plot points. This episode in particular seemed way too…shounen-y. Like, Ray was saying and doing stuff that felt like a generic shounen protagonist, even though I never got that vibe from him when reading the books.

I discovered the Log Horizon anime was on Crunchyroll and watched it recently. It really forms an amazing contrast to Infinite Dendrogram’s anime adaptation. The premises are similar — a strangely realistic game world (Dendro) vs. a game world become real (LH), so there are a lot of game mechanics involved with how the world operates. In both, the “players” can’t permanently die. In both, the so-called “NPCs” are acting surprisingly human. In both, there are issues with PK-ing. In both, an early crisis involves needing to rescue children. Et cetera. It’s not like one is plagiarizing the other, but there are enough points of resemblance to make them easy to compare.

I loved Dendro from vol. 1 onwards; the light novels are fantastic. When I read the first LH volume, I reported feeling a bit ambivalent about it; it wasn’t terrible, but it didn’t interest me enough to order the next volume, either. I’m glad I checked out the LH anime adaptation, though, because it seems to me like one of those special cases where the anime surpasses the quality of the LN (That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime springs to mind as another instance). Compared to both vol. 1 of the LH LN and to Dendro’s anime, the LH anime does a much better job of presenting humor, developing the characters in a way that I can care about them, and explaining the game mechanics the world runs on without totally derailing the plot for exposition dumps. Oh, and the visuals and music in the LH anime are superior to those in Dendro’s anime. It feels like Log Horizon is the anime adaptation that Dendro deserved to receive.

Frank: It seems to me that the Dendro anime is very much an “advertisement” anime: one made mainly to promote the sales of the original light novel, rather than for the art of the adaptation itself. The adaptation is definitely more focused on the action scenes and stuff designed to appeal to general anime viewers. So yeah, while it’s not the worst adaptation I’ve seen, it definitely feels lacking. This was particularly clear with the end of ep. 4, where they barely spent any time at all with the aftermath of the Gardranda battle and the dead tians, which I felt was a major part of the story in the novels. (They also completely glossed over the “job” Rook had to get Marilyn. What a travesty.) Also, from the title of the next episode, looks like ep. 5 will cover up to just past halfway of vol. 2. That’s… quite a lot of ground to cover, so yeah, definitely not expecting that episode to be anything.

Twwk: I made it through episode four, but that’s it. I’ve dropped the show.

Jeskai: Same here. Watched episode 5, but I’m just not enjoying this show. It’s an outright bad adaptation.

Frank: I’m still watching, because I apparently like to have something mediocre but familiar to watch every anime season. And if I want quality Dendro, I’ll just read the novels. Speaking of which…

=====

So the anime adaptation of Infinite Dendrogram might not have lived up to expectations, but thankfully the original light novels are still great. So meet back with us on the 21st as we dive into Volume 3!

#Anime #Light Novels #Infinite Dendrogram #First Impressions #BtT Light Novel Club #Articles #Author: TWWK #Author: stardf29 #Author: JeskaiAngel

[donnerpartyofone]

don’t bother!

if i could change one thing about myself, worrying about what other people think would be pretty high on my list. i need to clarify that i don’t worry about what other people think OF ME, or at least, not in a way that preoccupies me or makes me feel compelled to try to trick people into liking me, or prove myself to an audience. the thing i worry about is just literally What People Think, how they came to conclusions that i think are absurd, and why they insist upon these conclusions. like long-time readers are certainly aware of (if not exhausted by) the fact that when i get rude or crazy anonymous asks, i don’t worry about the content of what they say (you’re ugly! you’re stupid! i assume that you like certain politicians, so here’s a bunch of pulpy apocrypha about how they’re the antichrist!), but i do worry about why they’re saying them. like does someone who tells me i’m busted really think that i’ll be sad when i find out that some bored faceless teenager doesn’t want to have sex with me? do nazi trolls really think that, by loading up my ask box with insulting fact-free vitriol about my naive pro-immigrant ideas, they will cause me to change my politics and my life and thereafter work toward building what they think is a safer, stronger country? i don’t really care about WHAT any of these types of assholes say, but i have to concede that i start spinning out on how anyone could possibly think that their specific behaviors are anything other than completely pointless and a poor reflection on themselves and people like them. sometimes i’ll post a reply addressing the anon with “literally what did you expect to happen when you asked me this. this is not a rhetorical question, i genuinely want you to describe to me what you thought the consequences would be, i won’t even fight with you.” they never respond. and of course, i know intellectually that there are no imagined consequences, there’s just a juvenile urge to shout at strangers, any strangers, for any reason, out of boredom and a felt lack of efficacy in real life. but my dumbass brain can’t be stopped from its calculations, from trying to imagine a sound motivation that would make ME shout at a stranger for no reason, what gain could possibly be had even if it’s only at the end of a one in a million chance.

anyway, acting insulting and superior is one thing, but i have this same baffled reaction to strangers who reach out to me to try to get me to agree with some feeling that they personally have, that i’ve already come out against for my own independent reasons. these kinds of reactions are, perhaps oddly, usually rooted in much less important issues than body image or politics or other such things that activate trolls. when someone i’ve never even heard of comes to me for personal validation, it’s usually because i’ve preemptively and for my own entertainment hated on their favorite band or show or movie. i usually carry out said hating with great attention to detail, explaining precisely how i evaluated, say, a movie’s script, and its imagery, and its direction, and its apparent message, and etc; while one might not agree with my assessment, there’s usually no room left to wonder how and why i came to my conclusion. yet, i still get these desperate characters on my virtual doorstep begging me to take it back in this “please like me” tone.

this is why i’m usually affronted into apoplexy when i launch one of these critical diatribes and i still get some clingy weirdo replying on my post about “yay, i love this movie!” when i first started writing about movies on tumblr, i got a stream of anonymous responses from an unhinged-sounding individual who, instead of engaging me in a logical argument like “A’s performance was bad, but can’t one say that this movie isn’t principally about the human factor” or “it’s true that the script didn’t make any sense, but i felt this was more of a style piece”...instead of anything so conversational, the guy would just pop his own reviews into my asks, like “this (m. night shyamalan movie you just slammed) was awesome! the story and the actors were so good. me and my wife loved it!” (you? your wife?? am i supposed to know you guys???) when i refused to answer any of his messages with more than a “i guess some anonymous stranger enjoyed one of the movies (that i just vivisected out of existence)”, he changed gears and slung a bunch of mud at me about what a nasty cunt i am for refusing to acknowledge and consider his opinions, and if i’m on the internet then i should be forced to expect that i’m going to have to hear from dissenting voices and everything. i think that’s one thing people don’t get, actually: no i’m not. i definitely shouldn’t be SURPRISED when people pick fights with me about public statements, but i’m in no way obligated to give a shit. saying things in a publicly-accessible fashion does not automatically transform my monologues into dialogs, and having a blog does not make me a civil servant. 

it’s pretty obvious that anyone who is inclined to send these kinds of messages is suffering from some crippling insecurity the likes of which i can only imagine. when i’m talking about something i like, and some grinch butts in that they HATE my precious subject of adoration, i feel hurt and annoyed, sure. but i can’t imagine what my life would be like if, every time my dash showed me a post from someone saying something shitty about my favorite X, i felt so personally attacked that i needed to raise my voice and get this perfect stranger to recant their for-their-own-pleasure statements. if i needed to “make peace” with every single nobody who, somewhere in the universe, didn’t like my thing, i mean, i’d have to quit my job, i’d never have time to sleep again. and what’s more, i can’t imagine what i’d gain if i were really able to get this weird form of apology from someone i don’t even know or have to know; a feeling of safety perhaps, like there’s no one left lurking around any future dark corner to meaninglessly disagree with the minutiae of my life? a feeling of being approved-of, even by people who i don’t know even know enough to approve of myself? what IS this shit? recently on another blog i posted something mean about an absolute broad-side-of-a-barn turkey, and some nervous little so-and-so had to reply to the tune of “i actually liked this movie. i mean this is a good review, but like, i liked this movie.” obviously at least part of this was well-meaning, and this unknown individual has no impact on my life, but my stupid omnivorous hyperactive brain CAN’T STOP trying to cook up viable reasons that another human being would address me this way, without even a dialectic response to the actual accusations i levied, just their little FEELINGS, like LITERALLY WHAT WAS SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN HERE SIR.

i have no idea why i’m like this. i guess there’s just some tyrannical fascist deep within me, pulling the strings so i leap to life every time i think someone is ABSOLUTELY WRONG and/or DOES NOT HAVE A REASON TO SPEAK. you’d think that now i’d have a moment of lucidity where i realize that this is EXACTLY WHAT PEOPLE ARE THINKING when they troll me, or anybody, but unfortunately trolling is covered by my NO REASON TO SPEAK prohibition, so i can’t find a peaceful conclusion this way. the “REASON” part is definitely the most important issue for me, as i can’t even stay at rest when i know for sure someone is wrong. the trigger for all this mindless ire: i posted a music video directed by funnyman eric wareheim, and noted that i found one actor so moving that i was able to ignore the aggressive scatalogical sports-are-gay joke that comprised the entire rest of the video, which is surely supposed to be funny. someone unknown to me replied, “i don’t think it is supposed to be funny, or else the actor didn’t get the memo.” i had a gut feeling that this person simply wanted to take an opportunity to say “didn’t get the memo”, as it gave them some personal sensation of articulate haughtiness...but i also stupidly really let it bother me that they were unable to acknowledge the excessively ludicrous water sports gag that permeates the video as “funny”, even while the video is directed by an established comedian. this is a case where i know for a fact that i’m right, and i have no reason to care about the person replying, and yet my idiotic mind keeps going, WHY WOULD YOU THINK THIS, HOW COULD YOU THINK THIS, I’M ALREADY SURE YOU’RE WRONG BUT I WANT YOU TO DESCRIBE YOUR MENTAL PROCESSES TO ME IN EXCRUCIATING DETAIL UNTIL YOU EITHER ADMIT THAT YOU’RE WRONG, OR MAKE ME UNDERSTAND THE MECHANISM OF YOUR LOGIC ON SUCH A PROFOUND LEVEL THAT I NEVER WONDER ABOUT IT EVER AGAIN.

the only things i can really say for myself here are that a) i definitely consider it a personal defect that i have these ruminations, and b) i at least don’t allow myself to lash out at actual people who behave this way, since i have at least the modicum of intelligence and decency necessary to understand that such an argument wouldn’t get me the slightest satisfaction. just the mental grind is a big problem for me though, and i definitely need to come up with some sort of coping mechanism so i can reroute all this energy into stuff that actually matters--even if the “stuff that matters” is just the delicious experience of, however intermittently, having nothing to worry about.

[readbookywooks]

The Second Visit to Smerdyakov

BY that time Smerdyakov had been discharged from the hospital. Ivan knew his new lodging, the dilapidated little wooden house, divided in two by a passage, on one side of which lived Marya Kondratyevna and her mother, and on the other, Smerdyakov. No one knew on what terms he lived with them, whether as a friend or as a lodger. It was supposed afterwards that he had come to stay with them as Marya Kondratyevna's betrothed, and was living there for a time without paying for board or lodging. Both mother and daughter had the greatest respect for him and looked upon him as greatly superior to themselves. Ivan knocked, and, on the door being opened, went straight into the passage. By Marya Kondratyevna's directions he went straight to the better room on the left, occupied by Smerdyakov. There was a tiled stove in the room and it was extremely hot. The walls were gay with blue paper, which was a good deal used however, and in the cracks under it cockroaches swarmed in amazing numbers, so that there was a continual rustling from them. The furniture was very scanty: two benches against each wall and two chairs by the table. The table of plain wood was covered with a cloth with pink patterns on it. There was a pot of geranium on each of the two little windows. In the corner there was a case of ikons. On the table stood a little copper samovar with many dents in it, and a tray with two cups. But Smerdyakov had finished tea and the samovar was out. He was sitting at the table on a bench. He was looking at an exercise-book and slowly writing with a pen. There was a bottle of ink by him and a flat iron candlestick, but with a composite candle. Ivan saw at once from Smerdyakov's face that he had completely recovered from his illness. His face was fresher, fuller, his hair stood up jauntily in front, and was plastered down at the sides. He was sitting in a parti-coloured, wadded dressing-gown, rather dirty and frayed, however. He had spectacles on his nose, which Ivan had never seen him wearing before. This trifling circumstance suddenly redoubled Ivan's anger: "A creature like that and wearing spectacles!" Smerdyakov slowly raised his head and looked intently at his visitor through his spectacles; then he slowly took them off and rose from the bench, but by no means respectfully, almost lazily, doing the least possible required by common civility. All this struck Ivan instantly; he took it all in and noted it at once - most of all the look in Smerdyakov's eyes, positively malicious, churlish and haughty. "What do you want to intrude for?" it seemed to say; "we settled everything then; why have you come again?" Ivan could scarcely control himself. "It's hot here," he said, still standing, and unbuttoned his overcoat. "Take off your coat," Smerdyakov conceded. Ivan took off his coat and threw it on a bench with trembling hands. He took a chair, moved it quickly to the table and sat down. Smerdyakov managed to sit down on his bench before him. "To begin with, are we alone?" Ivan asked sternly and impulsively. "Can they overhear us in there?" "No one can hear anything. You've seen for yourself: there's a passage." "Listen, my good fellow; what was that you babbled, as I was leaving the hospital, that if I said nothing about your faculty of shamming fits, you wouldn't tell the investigating lawyer all our conversation at the gate? What do you mean by all? What could you mean by it? Were you threatening me? Have I entered into some sort of compact with you? Do you suppose I am afraid of you?" Ivan said this in a perfect fury, giving him to understand with obvious intention that he scorned any subterfuge or indirectness and meant to show his cards. Smerdyakov's eyes gleamed resentfully, his left eye winked, and he at once gave his answer, with his habitual composure and deliberation. "You want to have everything above-board; very well, you shall have it," he seemed to say. "This is what I meant then, and this is why I said that, that you, knowing beforehand of this murder of your own parent, left him to his fate, and that people mightn't after that conclude any evil about your feelings and perhaps of something else, too - that's what I promised not to tell the authorities." Though Smerdyakov spoke without haste and obviously controlling himself, yet there was something in his voice, determined and emphatic, resentful and insolently defiant. He stared impudently at Ivan. A mist passed before Ivan's eyes for the first moment. "How? What? Are you out of your mind?" "I'm perfectly in possession of all my faculties." "Do you suppose I knew of the murder?" Ivan cried at last, and he brought his fist violently on the table. "What do you mean by 'something else, too'? Speak, scoundrel!" Smerdyakov was silent and still scanned Ivan with the same insolent stare. "Speak, you stinking rogue, what is that 'something else, too'?" "The 'something else' I meant was that you probably, too, were very desirous of your parent's death." Ivan jumped up and struck him with all his might on the shoulder, so that he fell back against the wall. In an instant his face was bathed in tears. Saying, "It's a shame, sir, to strike a sick man," he dried his eyes with a very dirty blue check handkerchief and sank into quiet weeping. A minute passed. "That's enough! Leave off," Ivan said peremptorily, sitting down again. "Don't put me out of all patience." Smerdyakov took the rag from his eyes. Every line of his puckered face reflected the insult he had just received. "So you thought then, you scoundrel, that together with Dmitri I meant to kill my father?" "I didn't know what thoughts were in your mind then," said Smerdyakov resentfully; "and so I stopped you then at the gate to sound you on that very point." "To sound what, what?" "Why, that very circumstance, whether you wanted your father to be murdered or not." What infuriated Ivan more than anything was the aggressive, insolent tone to which Smerdyakov persistently adhered. "It was you murdered him?" he cried suddenly. Smerdyakov smiled contemptuously. "You know of yourself, for a fact, that it wasn't I murdered him. And I should have thought that there was no need for a sensible man to speak of it again." "But why, why had you such a suspicion about me at the time?" "As you know already, it was simply from fear. For I was in such a position, shaking with fear, that I suspected everyone. I resolved to sound you, too, for I thought if you wanted the same as your brother, then the business was as good as settled and I should be crushed like a fly, too." "Look here, you didn't say that a fortnight ago." "I meant the same when I talked to you in the hospital, only I thought you'd understand without wasting words, and that being such a sensible man you wouldn't care to talk of it openly." "What next! Come answer, answer, I insist: what was it... what could I have done to put such a degrading suspicion into your mean soul?" "As for the murder, you couldn't have done that and didn't want to, but as for wanting someone else to do it, that was just what you did want." "And how coolly, how coolly he speakst But why should I have wanted it; what grounds had I for wanting it?" "What grounds had you? What about the inheritance?" said Smerdyakov sarcastically, and, as it were, vindictively. "Why, after your parent's death there was at least forty thousand to come to each of you, and very likely more, but if Fyodor Pavlovitch got married then to that lady, Agrafena Alexandrovna, she would have had all his capital made over to her directly after the wedding, for she's plenty of sense, so that your parent would not have left you two roubles between the three of you. And were they far from a wedding, either? Not a hair's-breadth: that lady had only to lift her little finger and he would have run after her to church, with his tongue out." Ivan restrained himself with painful effort. "Very good," he commented at last. "You see, I haven't jumped up, I haven't knocked you down, I haven't killed you. Speak on. So, according to you, I had fixed on Dmitri to do it; I was reckoning on him?" "How could you help reckoning on him? If he killed him, then he would lose all the rights of a nobleman, his rank and property, and would go off to exile; so his share of the inheritance would come to you and your brother Alexey Fyodorovitch in equal parts; so you'd each have not forty, but sixty thousand each. There's not a doubt you did reckon on Dmitri Fyodorovitch." "What I put up with from you! Listen, scoundrel, if I had reckoned on anyone then, it would have been on you, not on Dmitri, and I swear I did expect some wickedness from you... at the time.... I remember my impression! "I thought, too, for a minute, at the time, that you were reckoning on me as well," said Smerdyakov, with a sarcastic grin. "So that it was just by that more than anything you showed me what was in your mind. For if you had a foreboding about me and yet went away, you as good as said to me, 'You can murder my parent, I won't hinder you!"' "You scoundrel! So that's how you understood it!" "It was all that going to Tchermashnya. Why! You were meaning to go to Moscow and refused all your father's entreaties to go to Tchermashnya - and simply at a foolish word from me you consented at once! What reason had you to consent to Tchermashnya? Since you went to Tchermashnya with no reason, simply at my word, it shows that you must have expected something from me." No, I swear I didn't!" shouted Ivan, grinding his teeth. "You didn't? Then you ought, as your father's son, to have had me taken to the lock-up and thrashed at once for my words then... or at least, to have given me a punch in the face on the spot, but you were not a bit angry, if you please, and at once in a friendly way acted on my foolish word and went away, which was utterly absurd, for you ought to have stayed to save your parent's life. How could I help drawing my conclusions?" Ivan sat scowling, both his fists convulsively pressed on his knees. "Yes, I am sorry I didn't punch you in the face," he said with a bitter smile. "I couldn't have taken you to the lock-up just then. Who would have believed me and what charge could I bring against you? But the punch in the face... oh, I'm sorry I didn't think of it. Though blows are forbidden, I should have pounded your ugly face to a jelly." Smerdyakov looked at him almost with relish. "In the ordinary occasions of life," he said in the same complacent and sententious tone in which he had taunted Grigory and argued with him about religion at Fyodor Pavlovitch's table, "in the ordinary occasions of life, blows on the face are forbidden nowadays by law, and people have given them up, but in exceptional occasions of life people still fly to blows, not only among us but all over the world, be it even the fullest republic of France, just as in the time of Adam and Eve, and they never will leave off, but you, even in an exceptional case, did not dare." "What are you learning French words for?" Ivan nodded towards the exercise-book lying on the table. "Why shouldn't I learn them so as to improve my education, supposing that I may myself chance to go some day to those happy parts of Europe?" "Listen, monster." Ivan's eyes flashed and he trembled all over. "I am not afraid of your accusations; you can say what you like about me, and if I don't beat you to death, it's simply because I suspect you of that crime and I'll drag you to justice. I'll unmask you." "To my thinking, you'd better keep quiet, for what can you accuse me of, considering my absolute innocence? And who would believe you? Only if you begin, I shall tell everything, too, for I must defend myself." "Do you think I am afraid of you now?" "If the court doesn't believe all I've said to you just now, the public will, and you will be ashamed." "That's as much as to say, 'It's always worth while speaking to a sensible man,' eh?" snarled Ivan. "You hit the mark, indeed. And you'd better be sensible." Ivan got up, shaking all over with indignation, put on his coat, and without replying further to Smerdyakov, without even looking at him, walked quickly out of the cottage. The cool evening air refreshed him. There was a bright moon in the sky. A nightmare of ideas and sensations filled his soul. "Shall I go at once and give information against Smerdyakov? But what information can I give? He is not guilty, anyway. On the contrary, he'll accuse me. And in fact, why did I set off for Tchermashnya then? What for? What for?" Ivan asked himself. "Yes, of course, I was expecting something and he is right... " And he remembered for the hundredth time how, on the last night in his father's house, he had listened on the stairs. But he remembered it now with such anguish that he stood still on the spot as though he had been stabbed. "Yes, I expected it then, that's true! I wanted the murder, I did want the murder! Did I want the murder? Did I want it? I must kill Smerdyakov! If I don't dare kill Smerdyakov now, life is not worth living!" Ivan did not go home, but went straight to Katerina Ivanovna and alarmed her by his appearance. He was like a madman. He repeated all his conversation with Smerdyakov, every syllable of it. He couldn't be calmed, however much she tried to soothe him: he kept walking about the room, speaking strangely, disconnectedly. At last he sat down, put his elbows on the table, leaned his head on his hands and pronounced this strange sentence: "If it's not Dmitri, but Smerdyakov who's the murderer, I share his guilt, for I put him up to it. Whether I did, I don't know yet. But if he is the murderer, and not Dmitri, then, of course, I am the murderer, too." When Katerina Ivanovna heard that, she got up from her seat without a word, went to her writing-table, opened a box standing on it, took out a sheet of paper and laid it before Ivan. This was the document of which Ivan spoke to Alyosha later on as a "conclusive proof" that Dmitri had killed his father. It was the letter written by Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna when he was drunk, on the very evening he met Alyosha at the crossroads on the way to the monastery, after the scene at Katerina Ivanovna's, when Grushenka had insulted her. Then, parting from Alyosha, Mitya had rushed to Grushenka. I don't know whether he saw her, but in the evening he was at the Metropolis, where he got thoroughly drunk. Then he asked for pen and paper and wrote a document of weighty consequences to himself. It was a wordy, disconnected, frantic letter, a drunken letter, in fact. It was like the talk of a drunken man, who, on his return home, begins with extraordinary heat telling his wife or one of his household how he has just been insulted, what a rascal had just insulted him, what a fine fellow he is on the other hand, and how he will pay that scoundrel out; and all that at great length, with great excitement and incoherence, with drunken tears and blows on the table. The letter was written on a dirty piece of ordinary paper of the cheapest kind. It had been provided by the tavern and there were figures scrawled on the back of it. There was evidently not space enough for his drunken verbosity and Mitya not only filled the margins but had written the last line right across the rest. The letter ran as follows: FATAL KATYA: To-morrow I will get the money and repay your three thousand and farewell, woman of great wrath, but farewell, too, my love! Let us make an end! To-morrow I shall try and get it from everyone, and if I can't borrow it, I give you my word of honour I shall go to my father and break his skull and take the money from under the pillow, if only Ivan has gone. It I have to go to Siberia for it, I'll give you back your three thousand. And farewell. I bow down to the ground before you, for I've been a scoundrel to you. Forgive me! No, better not forgive me, you'll be happier and so shall I! Better Siberia than your love, for I love another woman and you got to know her too well to-day, so how can you forgive? I will murder the man who's robbed me! I'll leave you all and go to the East so as to see no one again. Not her either, for you are not my only tormentress; she is too. Farewel! P.S. - I write my curse, but I adore you! I hear it in my heart. One string is left, and it vibrates. Better tear my heart in two! I shall kill myself, but first of all that cur. I shall tear three thousand from him and fling it to you. Though I've been a scoundrel to you, I am not a thief! You can expect three thousand. The cur keeps it under his mattress, in pink ribbon. I am not a thief, but I'll murder my thief. Katya, don't look disdainful. Dmitri is not a thief! but a murderer! He has murdered his father and ruined himself to hold his ground, rather than endure your pride. And he doesn't love you. P.P.S. - I kiss your feet, farewel! P.P.P.S. - Katya, pray to God that someone'll give me the money. Then I shall not be steeped in gore, and if no one does - I shall! Kill me! Your slave and enemy, D. KARAMAZOV When Ivan read this "document" he was convinced. So then it was his brother, not Smerdyakov. And if not Smerdyakov, then not he, Ivan. This letter at once assumed in his eyes the aspect of a logical proof. There could be no longer the slightest doubt of Mitya's guilt. The suspicion never occurred to Ivan, by the way, that Mitya might have committed the murder in conjunction with Smerdyakov, and, indeed, such a theory did not fit in with the facts. Ivan was completely reassured. The next morning he only thought of Smerdyakov and his gibes with contempt. A few days later he positively wondered how he could have been so horribly distressed at his suspicions. He resolved to dismiss him with contempt and forget him. So passed a month. He made no further inquiry about Smerdyakov, but twice he happened to hear that he was very ill and out of his mind. "He'll end in madness," the young doctor Varvinsky observed about him, and Ivan remembered this. During the last week of that month Ivan himself began to feel very ill. He went to consult the Moscow doctor who had been sent for by Katerina Ivanovna just before the trial. And just at that time his relations with Katerina Ivanovna became acutely strained. They were like two enemies in love with one another. Katerina Ivanovna's "returns" to Mitya, that is, her brief but violent revulsions of feeling in his favour, drove Ivan to perfect frenzy. Strange to say, until that last scene described above, when Alyosha came from Mitya to Katerina Ivanovna, Ivan had never once, during that month, heard her express a doubt of Mitya's guilt, in spite of those "returns" that were so hateful to him. It is remarkable, too, that while he felt that he hated Mitya more and more every day, he realised that it was not on account of Katya's "returns" that he hated him, but just because he was the murderer of his father. He was conscious of this and fully recognised it to himself Nevertheless, he went to see Mitya ten days before the trial and proposed to him a plan of escape - a plan he had obviously thought over a long time. He was partly impelled to do this by a sore place still left in his heart from a phrase of Smerdyakov's, that it was to his, Ivan's, advantage that his brother should be convicted, as that would increase his inheritance and Alyosha's from forty to sixty thousand roubles. He determined to sacrifice thirty thousand on arranging Mitya's escape. On his return from seeing him, he was very mournful and dispirited; he suddenly began to feel that he was anxious for Mitya's escape, not only to heal that sore place by sacrificing thirty thousand, but for another reason. "Is it because I am as much a murderer at heart?" he asked himself. Something very deep down seemed burning and rankling in his soul. His pride above all suffered cruelly all that month. But of that later.... When, after his conversation with Alyosha, Ivan suddenly decided with his hand on the bell of his lodging to go to Smerdyakov, he obeyed a sudden and peculiar impulse of indignation. He suddenly remembered how Katerina Ivanovna had only just cried out to him in Alyosha's presence: "It was you, you, persuaded me of his" (that is, Mitya's) "guilt!" Ivan was thunderstruck when he recalled it. He had never once tried to persuade her that Mitya was the murderer; on the contrary, he had suspected himself in her presence, that time when he came back from Smerdyakov. It was she, she, who had produced that "document" and proved his brother's guilt. And now she suddenly exclaimed: "I've been at Smerdyakov's myself!" When had she been there? Ivan had known nothing of it. So she was not at all so sure of Mitya's guilt! And what could Smerdyakov have told her? What, what, had he said to her? His heart burned with violent anger. He could not understand how he could, half an hour before, have let those words pass and not have cried out at the moment. He let go of the bell and rushed off to Smerdyakov. "I shall kill him, perhaps, this time," he thought on the way.

#BrothersKaramazov