Between Men: Wilkie Collins’s Armadale

https://plaidadder.tumblr.com/post/788751687385006080

Between Men: Wilkie Collins’s Armadale

I appear to be on a Wilkie Collins tear this summer. With The Woman in White and The Moonstone well behind me and having finished The Dead Secret earlier this summer and found it interesting but uneven, I decdied to give Armadale a try. I have just finished it, and I can say that this is the most insane plot I have yet encountered in a Wilkie Collins novel–and that’s saying something. But I tore through it anyway, partly because the point of the plot is really just to find out the answer to the novel’s two central questions. The first, and the one that will be most heavily emphasized by the many entities out there trying to sell you summaries of this novel, is: does Fate exist? In other words, is there an external force out there that really determines our destinies, or is all the evidence that we think we see of Fate at work in the world actually the result of a human desire to believe in such a force? The second, and the one that I personally found more compelling, is: can the devotion of two young men to each other survive against all odds, despite all the material, social, psychological, sexual, and possibly metaphysical forces seeking to destroy it?

I will try to avoid major spoilers in the discussion behind this cut tag, but it will be impossible to avoid some spoilers. The short story is that I’m telling everyone to read this novel. It is unlike anything else you will have ever read; it features one of the most deservedly notorious villainesses in all of Victorian fiction; and it also has a lot to offer the reader who is neurodivergent, anxious, or both–or the reader whose loved ones fit any of those categories.

So, when I say this plot is insane…

This novel is obsessed with doubles, thematically and structurally. Most Victorian authors contented themselves with maybe one pair of dopplegangers. Please don’t be put off when I tell you that there are five characters in this novel named Allan Armadale. It’s OK because for most of the novel, three of them are dead.

Here’s how Collins gets us to five Allan Armadales:

The first Allan Armadale–not the first one we encounter, but the ancestor, the ur-Armadale–is a hugely wealthy plantation owner in the West Indies. He has, as is still fairly common, named his oldest son after himself. I will call him Allan Armadale Junior.
Alas, Allan Armadale Junior is a feckless ne'er-do-well wastrel type who disappears into a maelstrom of scandal and depravity. Allan Armadale senior, having booted Junior out of the estate, decides he wants to leave his fortune to a relative also living in the West Indies. The only condition is that this relative has to take the name Allan Armadale. So he does, bringing the total number of Allan Armadales to 3. I will call him New Allan Armadale.
Soon after he inherits, New Allan Armadale makes the acquaintance of a guy going by the name of Fergus. Fergus has a bad rep but New Allan Armadale doesn’t care; he becomes besties with Fergus. At one point, New Allan Armadale confides to Fergus that he’s been invited by the rich Mr. Blanchard, also a distant relation, to visit him at Madeira and (assuming they hit it off) marry Mr. Blanchard’s beautiful daughter. Fergus then poisons New Allan Armadale, sails to Madeira himself while NAA is recovering, presents himself to Mr. Blanchard as New Allan Armadale, and seduces the beautiful Blanchard daughter. With the help of a young lady’s maid named Lydia Gwilt (as they used to say in the Hannibal fandom: it fucken rhymes) they forge enough letters and other documents to convince Mr. Blanchard that “Fergus” is in fact New Allan Armadale, and they get married. The irony (first of many) here is–of course!–that “Fergus” is actually Allan Armadale Junior, come to steal all the stuff of the man who supplanted him in the first place. So when New Allan Armadale shows up and is told that Miss Blanchard has already been married to Allan Armadale…well she is in fact married to AN Allan Armadale, just not THE Allan Armadale, i.e. the one her father wanted her to marry.
Allan Armadale Junior and his ‘stolen’ bride run away. The disappointed New Allan Armadale marries a biracial woman who loves him but about who he cares very little. Each of them has a son. Each of the sons is named Allan Armadale. This brings us to our full complement of five Allan Armadales.

As I said, three of them are dead for most of the novel. That’s because, after Allan Armadale senior dies and all these post-inheritance shenanigans take place, New Allan Armadale hunts Allan Armadale Junior down and kills him. The novel begins with New Allan Armadale, now a dying man, dictating his confession of the murder, in hopes of protecting his son from whatever karma might be coming for him. Convinced that the Armadale name is doomed and that the two Armadale sons are, like their fathers, destined to Destroy Each Other, New Allan Armadale’s dying letter to his son closes with a dire and doom-laden warning to NEVER UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES COME INTO CONTACT WITH THE OTHER ALLAN ARMADALE.

That’s the prologue. Guess what happens after the time jump.

That’s right! Just about the time he’s becoming a Young Grown-Up, Allan Armadale Junior’s son (let’s call him Allan Armadale III) befriends a lost, hungry, sick and distressed boy about his own age who’s going by the handle of Ozias Midwinter. His mother doesn’t like this; but Allan and Ozias are soon so devoted to each other that nothing can separate them–except maybe Ozias’s knowledge that his own father, who is of course New Allan Armadale, murdered Allan Armadale III’s father and then gave him that WARNING FROM FATE. For the rest of the novel, “Ozias Midwinter”–his real name is of course Allan Armadale but he doesn’t use it–struggles with his fear that he is fated to bring destruction to the man he loves, viz., Alan Armadale III.

OK. By the way. You all know I see slash people. But there is a very heartfelt conversation early on between “Ozias Midwinter” and the clergyman who is standing in loco parentis for the orphaned Allan Armadale III in which “Ozias Midwinter” straight up says, verbatim, “I love him.” And the clergyman is like, I know, and good for you. Will each of them fall in love with a woman (or maybe more than one) before this novel is over? Sure. All the same, Midwinter’s love for his namesake is not just friendship or fellowship or comradely love. For him, Allan Armadale III is The One. As for Allan Armadale III–well, he feels the same, only his personality is really different.

See, Alan Armadale III isn’t worried at all about whether he and Midwinter are Fated To Destroy Each Other, for two reasons. One: because his mother told him nothing about her scandalous past, Allan Armadale III doesn’t know what his father did to “Ozias Midwinter’s” father OR that “Ozias Midwinter’s” father murdered his own father. Two: Allan Armadale III is one of the happiest upper class twits ever to grace the pages of a Victorian novel. Allan Armadale III trusts people immediately, assumes that everyone around him is as transparent as he is, fails to pick up on subtext in any form, takes everything said to him at face value, never appreciates the importance of observing social rituals, falls in love with every beautiful woman he sees, and just in general fails when it comes to any kind of self-preservation.

And this is where the neurodivergence thing comes in. I am in general very reluctant to apply modern psychological terminology to pre-Freud fictional characters. Nevertheless, it is undeniable that Allan Armadale III sports a collection of traits that in our age would be more than enough to earn him an ADHD diagnosis. Having failed to interest Allan Armadale III in most of the standard subjects, the clergyman in charge of his schooling eventually decides that the only thing for it is to let Allan Armadale work at the one thing he’s interested in, which is building and sailing boats. The fact that Allan Armadale III can’t narrate anything without going off on tangents, is continually distracted, and is notoriously terrible at explanations, is emphasized throughout the novel and sometimes becomes important to the plot. (He’s great at writing letters, though–because he does it impulsively, without thinking at all about the possible consequences of what he’s saying.) All of this is endlessly charming to Midwinter, and it also endears him to the readers–which is important, because this novel really depends on the readers desperately wanting Allan Armadale III to be OK.

So whereas most sensation fiction relies for audience engagement on escalating endangerment of the heroine, this one relies on the escalating endangerment of the hero. Things seem to be going well until Lydia Gwilt, the maid who helped Allan Armadale III’s mother elope with Miss Blanchard, comes back into the picture. What starts off as a simple enough plot to lure a rich man into marrying her goes off the rails in all kinds of directions until Allan Armadale III becomes the target of an insanely elaborate conspiracy. Gwilt’s devious and diabolical intelligence, combined with her Magical Redhead Hotness, make her a truly Machiavellian manipulator; and it is often really funny to see her wasting her talents on the world’s most easily manipulated man. What keeps it from getting completely ludicrous is Midwinter’s ever-deepening devotion to his magnificent idiot, and his haunting fear that by trying to protect his beloved he is only bringing him closer to his fated destruction. As I have told my family, it’s like this is a novel where ADHD and depression fall in love, and we have to root for both of them.

I’m gonna stop here because anything else I tell you is going to ruin something. But I’m surprised that it took me this long to read this novel, and you should not let it go for as long as I have! Read Armadale, you will not regret it.

https://plaidadder.tumblr.com/post/788751687385006080

RIP, Coal

Last feline from Parliament Hill cat colony dies

Entry tags:

New Murderbot Short Story

The new Murderbot short story is up at Reactor Magazine:

Rapport: Friendship, Solidarity, Communion, Empathy

https://reactormag.com/rapport-martha-wells/

Edited by Lee Harris, art by Jaime Jones.

And Murderbot was renewed for a second season!

https://deadline.com/2025/07/murderbot-renewed-season-2-apple-tv-1236453764/

“We’re so grateful for the response that Murderbot has received, and delighted that we’re getting to go back to Martha Wells’ world to work with Alexander, Apple, CBS Studios and the rest of the team,” Chris and Paul Weitz, said in a statement Thursday.

Entry tags:

Things happening this week

For the first time in forever I have been making The Famous Aubergine Dip (the vegan version with Vegan Worcestershire Sauce, I discovered the bottle I had was use by ages ahead, yay). This required me acquiring aubergines from The Local Shops. There is now, on the corner where there used to be an estate agent (and various other things before that) a flower shop that also sells fruit and vegetables, and they had Really Beautiful, 'I'm ready for my close-up Mr deMille', Aubergines, it was almost a pity to chop them up and saute them.

A little while ago I mentioned being solicited to Give A Paper to a society to which I have spoken (and published in the journal of) heretofore. Blow me down, they have come back suggesting the topic I suggested - thrown together in a great hurry before dashing off to conference last week - is Of Such Significance pretty please could I give the keynote???

Have been asked to be on the advisory board for a funded research project.

A dance in the old dame yet, I guess.

Entry tags:

Starling House by Alix E. Harrow

Desperate to pay her brother Jasper's way out of Muhlenberg County, Opal accepts a job at an infamously cursed mansion.

Starling House by Alix E. Harrow

(no subject)

Happy birthday,

azara1,

hawkwing_lb and

mmestrange!

Connexions (25)

Brought up in Town Society from their earliest years

O, Verena – Verena, Countess of Imbremere, wife of Augustus, Earl of Imbremere that was the heir to the Marquess of Offgrange – had loved the Ukraine and the wide estates of her real father Count Rozovsky. She had not even minded the long winter and the deep snows &C, had quite relished 'em! Sleighrides through the forests &C –

And had not been idle, for while dear Gussie had been following in his father’s footsteps by studying upon the botany of those parts, she had begun learning the local tongue, and talking to the maidservants &C. While doing this, had come across the folktales of those parts, that she put herself to gathering, and also some of the songs. Finding her doing this, her father had sent for ancients from the villages thereabouts, and now she fancied she had quite enough to put together in a pretty volume when they returned to Town.

But much as they had enjoyed their time there and the more than generous hospitality, as it came towards spring, Rozovsky had groaned and declared that he supposed he should be making his way to St Petersburg – where one of his sons was in the Imperial Page Corps –

Gussie had sighed and said, had been thinking himself that they should be on their return to England. Sure his father was by no means old and in the halest of health, but news took a deal of a while to reach 'em where they were.

So they had all come to an entirely amicable agreement that the party should break up, and that Gussie and Verena were ever welcome, and Gussie extended a mutual invitation to come visit Dambert Chase was Rosovsky ever in England.

They decided to travel back southwards, by way of the Mediterranean – let us, Gussie remarked, make this a really extensive honeymoon voyage – have we not been quite exhorted to call at Lady Bexbury’s villa at Naples? – that indeed seemed a very pleasing prospect.

And here they were, so much sunlight, thought Verena, as she sat upon the terrace of the Villa Bexburi, looking over its magnificent vista of the Bay of Naples.

Had not quite anticipated to encounter the company they found there: here was Emma Reveley, that was, had married that most romantic figure, Bernardo di Serrante, half of antient Neapolitan aristocracy and half of Boston Quaker breeding, that one had heard had fought with Garibaldi in ’48, but now turned to the arts of peace and studied with the agrarian reformer, Marcello Traversini. Nardo was, she supposed, some connexion of her own? for was the son of Reynaldo di Serrante that was her elder sister Cara's father.

La, Signore Traversini was not the vision one conjured up when thinking agrarian reformer! Not in the least like pudgy little Artie Demington, more like unto some classical figure in the paintings one saw when one went call on various local inhabitants to whom one had introductions! A demigod of grapes and olives one might fancy as he walked among his vines and groves.

Along with Nardo, that was very fine-looking himself! Not that she inclined to any fellow but darling Gussie, but one must admit that the men hereabout were very pleasing to the eyes. Even Mr White, that ran the printing-press that produced a journal and pamphlets on agrarian matters, and was English – one might even detect a slight Cockney note in his speech – was quite a handsome chap for his years.

Sure did she dabble in watercolours like Emmy she would find that a great inspiration to her brush! but there was Mrs di Serrante, conscientiously painting away at depictions of scenery, and ruins, and mayhap a quaint olive-tree or so. Well, mayhap in private she prevailed upon her husband to present as a sleeping satyr or such….

Verena, that was lying in a long chair on the terrace, a novel drooping from her hand, looked over to where Emmy di Serrante was leaning upon the wall with her sketchbook and colour-box, intent upon a seascape.

It was really somewhat vexing! Verena had been wont to consider the Reveley sisters as a pair of dowdy provincials that had been quite thrust into Town Society upon the death of the late Lord Raxdell – Verena, like possibly every other young woman in her set, had passed through a girlish passion for that dashing Viscount, so handsome, such a prime sportsman, a most noted whip, and while she had recovered, still felt a pang at his untimely demise. Their mother had been no use at all to 'em –

So unlike dear Mama! Mama that knew not merely all about dress and how to be in the crack o’style, but all the little tricks of manner that gave one a deal of assurance when going into Society. And indeed, my darlings, you will need that, alas, I fear.

(Because of the whispers that Cara – Adeline – Verena Zellen is not Sir Hartley’s daughter. Even if, in all matters of affection, they were.)

So darling Mama had conveyed 'em knowledge of Society and its conventions that had served 'em all well, and Cara and Adeline had married well, and Verena herself had made this quite spectacular and enviable match, to Gussie, that she had liked since childhood and come to love.

But the Reveley girls – so awkward – but then they were took up by Lady Bexbury, one supposed as it were as a bequest from Lord Raxdell – had long been give out that there were feelings 'twixt 'em of great affection – and had he not left her the famed pink diamonds? – though there had also been vulgar speculations concerning his feelings for Lady Ferraby –

That had conveyed 'em somewhat more of polish – and the elder of the two, Miss Harriet, received a most eligible offer from the Honble Brumpage Parry-Lloyd, heir to Lord Abertyldd, not perhaps the most thrilling of suitors but an excellent match.

Still, they might have improved considerable, but Verena had still been wont to consider 'em unsophisticated creatures compared to the Zellen sisters that had been brought up in Town Society from their earliest years. One was kind, of course, there was no need to be spiteful and cattish like that set that used to gather round Lady Trembourne before her disgrace, but in the way one was to visiting relatives or neighbours from Cornwall.

Yet, here was Emmy not in the least awkward – fluent in Italian, including the particular tongue of this region – on the easiest of terms with Signor Traversini and Mr White – and widely received in the very various social circles hereabouts.

Had, Verena discovered, the entrée to the local nobility by way of her husband – and also to the Americans that came here for assorted reasons – of course to English Society – also, one discovered, to a deal of savants through introductions from Signora Umberti, whose late husband had been an esteemed professor before fleeing into exile, and had been by way of a governess to the Reveley sisters.

And took this all with entire easiness and one could only say, aplomb.

Was, it appeared, in quite a constant whirl of routs, balls, excursions to sites of interest, invitations to come view this or that one’s villa or gardens, &C&C. One supposed she had to find some diversion while her husband went about with Signor Traversini or others learning about grapes and making wine with the intention of in due course setting up to do the like on American shores. Or going to meetings of agrarian reform societies.

Both couples were attending this ridotto at some palazzo: indeed, very fine, but such a mob of company, thought Verena, that found her head aching a little at the noise. Feeling a little chagrin at observing Emmy di Serrante quite the sparkling butterfly, flitting from group to group, demonstrating a little discreet flattering flirtatiousness to this or that older fellow. Nardo, Verena observed, was smoking on a terrace with a group of younger chaps – perchance former comrades?

Gussie took her hand and said, had a notion that there was dancing a little further on, and they were about to go there, for they danced together exceedingly well and it was quite of their greatest pleasures, when came bustling up to 'em some lady she had met in the English set with Emmy – fancied her husband was here for his health? – begging to make known to Lord and Lady Imbremere her American friends.

This was undoubtedly what Mama would consider encroaching presumption, but one could hardly go so far as to deliver a cut, so they conceded to have the Rutledges, from Virginia, introduced to 'em, that made exceeding effusive –

Had not Emmy said somewhat about 'em, and that for citizens of a democratic nation they were greatly dazzled by tinsel show?

One gleaned that impression!

Upon finding that Gussie was an earl and a botanist, Mr Rutledge launched into the tale of his father’s friend, that had also been a botanist, and had gone plant-hunting in the Virginia forests with an English earl some considerable while ago. And alas, the fellow was attacked and killed by a bear, did not know the ways of things with the wild animals in those parts –

Gussie said drily that that must have been his grandfather – his mother’s father – that died before he was born.

This put a considerable chill on the conversation.

The following morning Verena found herself feeling considerable qualmish – somewhat she had consumed perchance – and said she would lie in a little when Gussie rose. A little later, feeling no better, she got up to seek her smelling-salts. Her maid had not seen them, very tiresome.

She would go ask Emmy did she have such thing as a smelling-bottle about her.

There was Emmy, sitting out on the terrace, carefully shaded from the sun, writing at a lap-desk. Shielding her own eyes from the glare of light, Verena went over to make her request.

Why, certainly, cried Emmy, I will go fetch it immediate, as she closed the lid of the lap-desk, not before Verena had observed that she had been writing in what looked like cypher – had come across Gillie Beaufoyle about the like. Gillie, challenged about this, had shrugged and revealed that he had been desired to make use of his sojourn in the Ukraine by his superiors –

But Emmy, about secret communications?

Entry tags:

reading

It's Wednesday! And I've been reading!

Actually I've been doing a ton of reading while I shake off the last of this influenza, which is mostly now lingering chest crud and zero stamina.

While nothing has blown me away, and I've abandoned some other "not for me" books, I did make a virtuous start on The Cull. Beginning with C.S. Lewis's Out of the Silent Planet, first published in 1938.

My copy, the 1965 paperback edition printed in the US, has a cover that actually sort of fits the book, unlike a lot of SF covers of the time depicting generic space skies and cigar rocket ships, with or without a scantily clad lady joined by guys in glass helmets and bulky space suits.

No woman on the cover here, which would have been false advertising as the only woman on stage during the entire novel is a distraught country housewife in the first few pages. (And no, I do not think that this is a sign that Lewis despised women, so much as that he had spent all his childhood and early manhood among males, so his default characters are going to be "he" among "hims". But that's a discussion for another book.)

I've had Lewis's space trilogy since high school (1968). This one I read I think twice, once that year, and then again when the Mythopoeic Society had branches and our West LA discussion group covered the three books.

Teen-me trudged through the first reading looking for story elements that would interest me, and though a line here and there was promising, I found it overall tedious, missing the humor entirely. On that second reading during my college years I saw the humor, and found more to appreciate in Lewis's thematic argument, but that was a lukewarm enough response that I never reread it during the ensuing fifty years.

Now in old age it's time to cull a massive print library that neither of my kids wants to inherit. What to keep and what to donate? I reread this book finally, and found myself largely charmed. The structure is strongly reminiscent of the fin de siecle SF of Wells, Verne, etc--inheritors of the immensely popular "travelogue" of the 1600-1700s--which means it moves rather slowly, full of the description of discovery (and anticipatory terror) as its protagonist, a scholar named Ransom, stumbles into a situation that gets him kidnapped by a figure from his boarding school days, Weston, and Weston's companion, a man named Devine.

As was common in the all-male world of British men of Lewis's social strata, the men all go by last names--I don't think Weston or Devine are ever given a first name, and there are at most two mentions of Ransom's first name, Elwin, which I suspect was only added as a nod to JRRT. Apparently this book owes its origin to a bet made between Lewis and Tolkien, which I think worth mentioning because of the (I think totally wrong) assumptions that Lewis was anti-science. The bet, and the dedication to Lewis's brother, make it plain that they read and enjoyed science fiction--had as boys.

I suppose it's possible to eagerly read SF and still be anti-science, but I don't think that's the case here; accusations that Lewis hates scientific progress seem to go hand-in-hand with scorn for Lewis's Christianity. But I see the scientific knowledge of mid-thirties all over this book. In fact, I don't recollect reading in other contemporary SF (admittedly I haven't read a lot of it) the idea that once you're out of Earth's gravity well, notions of up and down become entirely arbitrary. Though Lewis seems not to understand freefall, he does represent the changes in gravity and in light and heat--it seems to me that the science, though full of errors that are now common knowledge, was as up-to-date as he could make it. That also shows in the meticulous worldbuilding--and to some extent in the fun he had building his Martian language.

What he argues against when the three men are at last brought before the god-like Oyarsa, is a certain attitude toward Progress as understood then, and also up through my entire childhood: that it didn't matter what you did to other beings or to the environment, as long as it was in the name of Progress or Humanity. We get little throwaways right from the start that Lewis's stance clear, such as when Devine and Weston squabble about having a guard dog to protect their secret space ship, but Devine points out that Weston had had one but experimented on it.

Lewis hated vivisection. He knew it was torture for the poor helpless beasts in the hands of the vivisectionists, who believed animals had no feelings, etc etc. He also hated the byproducts of mass industrialization, as he makes plain in vivid images. Lewis also makes reference to splitting the atom and its possible results; I think it worthwhile to note that during the thirties no one knew what the result would be--but there was a lot of rhetoric hammering that we need bigger and better bombs, and splitting the atom would give us that. All in the name of Humanity. Individual lives have no meaning, and can be sacrificed with impunity as long as it's in the name of "saving Humanity."

As his theme develops, it's made very clear that moral dilemmas trouble Ransom--he's aware that humans contain the capability for brilliant innovation and for vast cruelty. He also holds up for scruntiny the idea that the (white) man is the pinnacle of intelligence in the cosmos. The scene when Weston talks excruciating pidgin in his determination to subordinate the Martians and their culture to the level of "tribal witch doctors" is equally hilarious and cringey.

In short, it took over fifty years for me to appreciate this book within the context of its time. I don't feel any impulse to eagerly reread it, but I might some day. At any rate, it stays on the shelf.

Points for honesty in this job description....

"Why work here?"

"Weekly pay!"

Yup, that's why I would like to apply for any and all jobs!

(On a side note, A has been sending me a lot of job links today. I'm a bit inundated, but I somehow don't think that "Great, please don't send them to me, just fill them out with my resume for me" is going to go over very well.)

***************

( Read more... )

Fix This Sign

https://xkcd.com/3113/

We're building on our earlier success getting web developers to pay to change the backslashes in our displayed payment URL to forward slashes.

https://xkcd.com/3113/

Entry tags:

bundle of holding

Bundle of Holding: Pyramid 2

The latter half of Pyramid's ten-year run, the issues published from November 2013 to December 2018, sixty-two issues in all.

Bundle of Holding: Pyramid 2

Entry tags:

Not Much of Anything, Alas

The library finally coughed up KD Edward's Tarot Sequence triology (Last Sun, The Hanged Man, and the Hourglass Throne.) I picked these up because Edwards is going to be one of our GoH's at Gaylaxicon. Have I read much of Last Sun yet? No, not really. I'm finding it a little difficult to get into. I'm hoping that will change? I'm giving this book a bit longer than I would normally because I want to give a GoH more than a fair shake, you know? Someone on ConCom loves his work! So, I guess we'll see if I ever warm to it.

Obviously, it's okay if I don't. But, I'm generally bummed that it's not dragged me in because I'm having some reading ennui. Do you ever get this? I have a ton of options of things to read, but nothing is looking appealing and nothing that I'm currently reading is grabbing me. I've also got Waubgeshig Rice's Moon of the Crusted Snow on audiobook and I can't seem to get past 10%. And I've heard good things about this book!

So, here's the other stuff I have in my Libby folder right now. Help me pick something?

When the English Fall by David Williams
The Future is Yours by Dan Frey
Meet Me in Another Life by Catriona Silvey
How High We Go in the Dark by Sequoia Nagamatsu
Arch-Conspirator by Veronica Roth
The Archive Undying by Emma Mieko Candon
Feed Them Silence by Lee Mandelo

Anything look good to you? I noticed that Martha Wells recommended the worldbuilding in The Archive Undying to the New York Times in their "Let Us Help You Pick Your Next Book: Science Fiction" article. So maybe that's worth a go?

What are you reading?

Entry tags:

Wednesday is back on schedule

What I read

Finished Murder in the Trembling Lands and okay, you have a mystery based on something that happened during some very confusing battle events back in the past, and this is all taking place during the upheavals of carnival in New Orleans decades later, and people lying, giving their versions of past events based on gossip, rumour, speculation etc etc, and possibly this was not really one to be reading in fits and starts.

Zen Cho, Behind Frenemy Lines (2025). This was really good: it does what I consider a desideratum particularly in contemporary-set romance, it has a good deal of hinterland going on around the central couple and their travails. And is Zen Cho going to give us a political thriller anytime, hmmmm?

Natasha Brown, Universality (2025), which I picked up recently as a Kobo deal. I was fairly meh about this - kind of a 'The Way We Live Now' work, about class and the media and establishing narratives and the compromises people make, I found it clunky (after the preceding!) if short, though was a bit startled by the coincidental appearance of the mouse research I mentioned earlier this week being cited by an old uni friend of one of the characters, now veering alt-right.

On the go

Also a Kobo deal, Taffy Brodesser-Akner, Long Island Compromise (2024): in my days of reading fat family sagas set in T'North, this would have been the 'to clogs again' section of the narrative.... it's sort of vaguely compelling in its depressing way.

Up next

Have got various things which were Kobo deals lined up, not sure how far any of them appeal. Also new Literary Review, which has my letter in it. The new Sally Smith mystery not out for another week, boo.

Got a callback

Asked where I lived, was concerned that the answer is "Staten Island". FFS, it's not Siberia!

I need to start telling people I'm moving in with a friend in Tribeca. Just straight up lie.

Lapis Earth

Posted by Nicola Griffith

https://nicolagriffith.com/2025/07/09/lapis-earth/

http://nicolagriffith.com/?p=86628

My absolute unit of a Grand Master award arrived!

Lucite rectangle, about 14" high and 4" square, in which are embedded several different semi-precious stones, including a squash-ball sized sphere of lapis lazuli — *My Damon Knight Memorial Grand Master Award arrived yesterday…*

I kept trying to get a decent picture of it to show the lovely colours of all the different stones.¹ I tried dim light, bright light, sunlight… All the things. None of them conveyed its true glory—and sheer size. It’s well over 30 cm tall, maybe 11 cm square, and its weight is not trivial (though only about half what it might be if it were made of glass).

Then I lugged it into my office and stuck it on my desk while I decide what to do with it. Serendipitously I put it in front of a padded mailer (which I’m about to sent out to the winning bid on one of my Locus pledges) and that made everything look much nicer.

Lucite block with semi-precious stones in it in front of a padded mailer — *Well, that’s better*

So then I futzed about a bit more and finally got a picture of the lapis sphere. It’s huge—at least squash-ball size—and in front of the buff envelope it looked its proper colour. Also remarkably like our planet turning serenely in space.

So here you go: my Damon Knight Memorial planet, Lapis Earth.

A polished sphere of lapis lazuli with cream and light brown inclusions that make it look like the planet earth spinning in front of a buff-coloured padded envelope — *Lapis Earth floating serenely in lucite*

See The glory of a grand gong for an annotated image of what’s what. ︎

https://nicolagriffith.com/2025/07/09/lapis-earth/

http://nicolagriffith.com/?p=86628

Entry tags:

Five Books About Aliens Who Are Fed Up With Humans

Yelling "Get off my lawn!" on an interplanetary scale...

Five Books About Aliens Who Are Fed Up With Humans

Entry tags:

Kowloon Generic Romance, volume 1 by Jun Mayuzuki (Translated by Amanda Haley)

In a city with over a million people per square kilometre, real estate firms will never lack for clients. Good news for the employees of the Wong Loi Realty Company!

Kowloon Generic Romance, volume 1 by Jun Mayuzuki (Translated by Amanda Haley)

Connexions (24)

An admirable capacity to grasp a situation

Rosamund, Dowager Countess of Trembourne, was finding life in Delft curiously agreeable. Had quite seen the necessity of going into exile, somewhere where she would be most unlike to meet any of her social circles either from England or the Continent, before her condition became too apparent to conceal, but had supposed that 'twould be quite immensely tedious.

For she had been used to the diversions of the spaws and the cities she and her late lord had been in the habit of frequenting, quite aside from the excitements of her secret endeavours for the interests of the nation. And dear Gillie….

Even when they had returned to England, while there were still those shunned 'em after the scandal over slandering Clorinda Bexbury and Lord Trembourne had been obliged to publish a public apology in the newspapers, they were still received in enough circles to have a bustling social life, as well as a deal of family matters in train with all this marrying and begetting.

So she had anticipated that it would be exceedingly dull to rest and wait upon lying-in, and then to be brought to bed, and fancied that at her time of life might take rather longer than had been wont in earlier years to recover from her travails once that was done. Entirely ennuyant.

But she had not imagined how much she would feel freed of a burden: like to float up like unto a balloon. Sure she and her late husband had not lived in one another’s pockets, had not shared a conjugal bed since before Lewis’s birth: but he had ever been there, moping about complaining of draughts or stuffiness and sitting down to table to discourse of the unwholesomeness of whatever fare had been set before 'em, and getting into a fret about some symptom he supposed he had. Boring everybody about his spaws and his quacks &C.

At least he did not recount aught about the ladies that provided for his particular pleasures – one felt a little sorry for the creatures, though supposed they were well-remunerated for their trouble.

Here she was, under the care of Mevrouw Peeters, that was kind, and competent, and not in the least encroaching, a very good sort of woman, one perceived that midwives were considerably esteemed in these parts. And the house so very clean and well-kept.

She might beguile the time by improving her understanding of Dutch, one never knew when that might come to be of use, whilst also polishing her abilities in cyphers and lock-picking. And dear good Grissie, sure she did not deserve that her daughter had turned out so well, had put into her trunks materials for embroidery and some several novels.

She entirely did not deserve that Clorinda Bexbury, that must have a deal of business upon hand, sent her the English newspapers accompanied by letters that contained gossip about the inwardness of various matters reported. La, Talshaw dead of some accident! though Saythingport had very properly ceased pursuing that suit to Nora as most improper while the family was in mourning.

But she had not imagined how much time she would pass in simply doating upon tiny Penelope. Had found it not only possible, but strangely pleasant, to feed her herself, although Mevrouw Peeters was quite able to find a wetnurse was one required. Look into those miniature features and endeavour to discern some resemblance to Gillie. Wonder whether the blue eyes of babyhood would darken to that warm brown…. Gaze upon the little hands and feet as if she had never seen a baby before.

Indeed, she had give little enough attention to her others. Had seemed to her an entire ordeal from the begetting to the birth – the months of the discomforts of increase – the time out of the pleasures of Society – And then once born, the infants handed over to wetnurses and nurserymaids.

How different things were, now.

Mevrouw Peeters strongly commended the practice of going promenade somewhat, now that Rosamund was growing stronger – though forbade her yet from carrying the babe herself, so she was followed by Geertje with the child well-bundled-up as she walked along beside the canals, or ventured as far as the Markt square with its bustle and fine buildings.

As they were about to re-enter, came out Mevrouw, saying that there was a gentleman come call for Her Ladyship, that she had put in the best parlour.

A gentleman? Rosamund put out a hand to steady herself against the door. She could only suppose it to be Undersedge, come with some news that should be delivered in person – she could not suppose that the matter of Talshaw was of any great urgency but oh dear, mayhap somewhat had come to Hermione?

She gulped, straightened her back, desired Geertje to take Penelope to her nursery and went towards the best parlour, that was very seldom used.

As she opened the door, she saw that that was too tall to be Greg Undersedge – took a second or so to realize, yes, that was Gillie, Gillie that had somehow found out her refuge. She shut the door behind her and leant against it, her legs trembling.

Why Delft, asked Gillie, though I quite apprehend that it is entirely out of any society that you are to know, a retreat quite like unto a convent perchance.

You are unacquainted with Mevrouw’s profession?

Gillie frowned. Profession?

Rosamund took a breath, stood up straight, leant over to take his hand. Come, she said, opening the door, and leading him upstairs to the nursery, where Penelope was already sleeping peacefully in her crib.

Mevrouw is a very skilled midwife.

Gillie looked down into the cradle, and then up to Rosamund. Ours?

Sir Vernon had initially commended Lord Gilbert to her as a young man that had an admirable capacity to grasp a situation with exemplary rapidity. She nodded. Her name is Penelope.

He picked her up quite surprizing confident for a young bachelor, then Rosamund collected that he had several nephews and nieces, so perchance had some practice in the art. She watched him thoughtfully scrutinizing her.

A pretty babe, he remarked at length. What are you intending to do with her?

She caught his uneasy tone.

Fie, I am not going to leave her outside some foundling institution! She took Penelope, that was still peaceably slumbering, in her own arms. No, 'tis my intention to take her to Yeomans –

Yeomans!

My dear, you must have had the thoughts I have had that perchance the orphans are not quite as bereft of parents as 'tis give out? Even did those parents mayhap not go to church with one another.

Indeed I have supposed 'em mostly by-blows rather than true orphans! Doubtless of friends of Miss Ferraby that found subscribing to her views cost 'em rather too dearly.

Well, 'twould be unmannerly to interrogate upon the matter, but Clorinda Bexbury assured me that Miss Ferraby and Miss Roberts would be entirely agreeable to taking Penelope –

Gillie grinned and said, and she would be in the hands of that peerless mistress of nurseries, Betty Higgins! One could not have the least objection. Those very healthful surroundings – Essie entirely commends the characters of the existing family – for of course visits quite often, still doats on the fiery Flora, to the great distress of all aspirants to his hand – there is an excellent governess – indeed, a prime solution to any difficulty. For Sir Vernon, I must reveal, is most anxious to call you back into the game – has been worrying at me and any other who might know to discover where you are.

She kissed Penelope and placed her back in the crib. The dear thing. But one saw that it would not do to keep her with her, no, she must put her in that very excellent situation among good kind people.

She took Gillie’s hand. I am gratified to hear that Sir V thinks so well of my services! I daresay for the next several months I must be about lingering at spaws, repairing my nerves from the shock of my husband’s death. But I daresay there may be work to be at there.

Indeed, she thought, she was still somewhat knocked up from bearing Penelope, at her age 'twas no light business, recruiting was only sensible.

But let us go and take coffee so that you may tell me what you have been about.

So they went to sit in the parlour, and Gillie recounted his adventures on Rozovsky’s estate, and how the Imbremeres did, and then how things had gone in St Petersburg, and then throughout the Baltic –

Very cold, he remarked. But now, after this short holiday at home in the bosom of my family, I am bound for Paris.

Paris, sighed Rosamund. Alas, that is not a destination for a grieving widow I fear – mayhap when I am out of black – but I might try one or other of the French spaws – Vichy? one hears well of it. Or Spa would not be any very great distance, would it?

Gillie sighed. I fear Sir V may have opinions in the matter and desire you to go to Carlsbad –

Rosamund groaned.

– or Baden-Baden, now that would not be an entire impossibility –

They sighed. Duty to the nation’s interests, it had to be considered, and here she had been, resting up very comfortable these several months.

A silence fell.

I suppose, Gillie began, stammered, began again, I have been in some thought – now that you are free – that now there is no obstacle –

O, Gillie! He had never looked so young.

Rosamund took a deep breath. My dear, she said, do not go further towards where I think you tend. 'Twould be entirely unanswerable –

And one day, she surmized, there would be a younger woman that would ensnare his heart, she could not imagine that this could endure – however much it had become more than a flirtation or a brief indulgence – however little could she deny that 'twas love –

No, she would not tie him in formal bonds. And while they might keep the matter clandestine, was it ever revealed, she shrank from the spiteful gossip there would be. Had circulated too much of the like herself.

Now, she said, I fear you should depart. I may tell Mevrouw that you have been bringing me news and messages from family and friends, but I do not think it wise to make it look any more than that you were passing through and did that civil task.

Slowly he nodded. Wisest, he conceded. Lifted her hand to his lips. Until Vichy, then.

Right wing coup foiled

Tepid remake of the Fenian Raids fails to launch.

Current Mood: accomplished

Entry tags:

Toady is Tuesday and Other Helpful Reminders

I'm already having one of those weeks.

The only good news is that my family and I are getting a lot done around the house. Mason, at 21, has been aggitating for a new bed. To be fair to him, he was still sleeping on the bed we bought him as a toddler. His feet literally hung off the edges as he's grown. Shawn, my incredibly thrifty and clever wife, saw that someone on our local Buy Nothing group was offering up a mattress and box spring. My parents have been trying to get me to come down to LaCrosse for over a month now to pick up an old bed frame. So, clearly the stars had begun aligning.

Step one, was getting Keven to help us get the mattress and box spring to our house. We don't have a truck or a minivan or anything with any real cargo space, so we have to rely on what my brother-in-law likes to call Big Brother's Roadside Assistance. Mason and Keven went to the Buy Nothing address with the truck on Sunday and hauled it back to ours. Shawn, Mason and I struggled it into the living room because Keven needed to tap out. He says he feels fine since his diagnosis, but it's clear that his strength isn't what it used to be. I mean, he's also 70? So, there's a little bit of all of that going on.

At any rate, we sent Keven home as we always do these days with food. Shawn had made him a nice lasagna from their mother's recipe, but also froze it knowing that Keven's chemotherapy is coming up this week (tomorrow, I think.) And he might want something easy the day of or, even more likely, the day after.

After Keven left, my family and I started to negotiate what came next. Should we try to take apart Mason's bed the same day? Should we wait? What did we need to accomplish the next step? It was determined that Mason--who was up early to do the hauling--nap on the mattress on the living room floor while Shawn and I went to Target and JC Penny's in order to get fitted sheets, etc., for a full size bed. We actually had a full-size bed at some point, so we had SOME of these items, but we didn't have a mattress topper. So, Mason face planted and we shopped.

When we came back we still didn't really want to tackle the job of dismantling and hauling everything up our stairs, but Mason wisely pointed out that there was no good reason to wait. Shawn and Mason took apart the bed. I helped haul things to the garage--where we decided to store the old bed in the meantime, with the hopes of also passing it off on Buy Nothing (Shawn had already taken a picture of the stripped bed to show it off.) I also started dinner while all this was happening because my family gets notoriously cranky when we are hangry. Then, it came time to haul the box spring and mattress up the stairs and I do not know how we managed it, but the three of us did it. Mason is currently sleeping on the box spring and mattress on the floor, but we have an appointment to pick up a U-Haul truck on Friday for a trip to LaCrosse to collect the last item in this scavenger hunt!

Last night, Shawn got a ping on Buy Nothing. A young family was ready to move their toddler into a "big boy bed," and ours looked perfect. We made arrangements (I hauled everything back OUT of the garage and set it up near the alley so it would be easy for them to throw things into their truck.) We got a reply after delivery from the mom that read, "Thanks again! He just kept saying 'my bed is so huge!' Over and over as he was getting ready for bed tonight." Which makes everything worth it.

As part of all this, of course, we discovered a bunch of boxes we had stored under Mason's bed which we now have to figure out what to do with--but honestly, they'll probably end up in the attic with all the other things we'll need to sort "someday."

All and all a very productive set of days.

Today I recorded the next podcast with Ka1lban today, in which we talk about American Flagg. As often happens, I wonder what of substance we'll have to say and then suddenly we're having a deep discussion about corporate greed or whatever. Good times!

But, man, all I want to do is nap now!

How was your weekend?