Harry Potter and Love: Imperfect Friendship

Hello, Potter fans!

Christie is officially in Wales, so hopefully we'll be hearing from her soon! Meanwhile, Masha began our Lenten study of love in the first three Harry Potter books with a set of comments that wants some serious engaging. Here goes.

Best friends. Source.

Friendship is, I think, the love Rowling is least comfortable with..it is the weakest portrayed in the series, the most often portrayed, the least inspiring of all the loves shown in the series.

I would make that argument for romance, not friendship.

Apart from frequency of portrayal, every argument Masha makes here strikes me as highly defensible if we're talking about the romantic relationships—a point I believe firmly even though I shipped the canon pairs from the earliest books. But since we'll probably get to romantic love later on, I won't bother defending my position just yet.

As for friendship:

The primary friendship: Harry, Ron, and Hermione is a frustrating one for me. Harry and Ron are pretty consistently abandoning Hermione for all manner of petty reasons, Ron is - it seems, never really stops hating Harry for life in the limelight, and Harry has the sort of trust issues that can only come from an abusive childhood..but why do they never, ever go away - at least with his two closest friends?

If that had been a wizarding photo booth,
those pictures would move.
Source.

Reader experience is so personal that I can't argue with that. I can argue that Ron does eventually stop hating Harry for life in the limelight, but unfortunately my best proof requires a quote from the epilogue to Deathly Hallows, which is off limits right now.

In these first three books, the Trio is very young, and when I was their age, I was a petty friend, too. I spent a year being angry with my best friend for turning thirteen nine months before I did. Said best friend also got a much earlier grip on maturity. When I think of the evening I spent sneaking up behind her and startling her, or the afternoon I kept flipping her off the inner tube in the pool after promising her again and again that I wouldn't... yeah. I'm lucky she didn't call me a jerk and find a nicer girl to hang out with.

I can't find it in me to condemn Ron when I've been forgiven so much. :)

As for Harry never getting over his trust issues: Masha, can you give me an example of that? I'm not sure what you mean by that, so I'm not sure how to defend him.

Because the trio aren't the only friends represented in the series, but they're probably the best shot at healthy, true friendships, and it's disappointing.

I'd give that "best shot" to the Marauders, actually, sans traitor. No disappointment necessary.

The Marauders—Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs—are introduced in this book, and despite certain notable personal failures, the three loyal ones were indeed loyal. The bond of love between them ran deep. Like, David and Jonathan, Frodo and Sam deep. Deep enough to induce singer-songwriter-GarageBandmaster Zoe Bromelow to write all kinds of songs celebrating that love.

Art by Jackie de Leon

Taking her band name from the dedication to Deathly Hallows, Ms. Bromelow is well known for her Marauder-era tunes. Her songs are pretty rough-cut, but she's just about unrivalled in wizard rock for her ability to pack emotion into a short lyric and a haunting little melody. She is absolutely my favorite wrocker, and here are two applicable songs, both of which I love. It's sloppy academic practice to use wizard rock songs as arguments, but I'm totally going to do it anyway.

"Up to No Good" (sorry, I couldn't find a way to embed these)

So I'll stay with Padfoot even when he's crazy
I'll stick with Wormtail even when he's lazy
Be Prongs' friend even when he's insufferable
This means trouble

"Every Star in the Sky"

You always could see right through me
A silent smile for some inner beauty
I always did know how to calm you down
But life's not the same without James and Lily 

It's hard to sleep and it's hard to cry
But still I repeat it like a lullaby
This war will end
We'll see them again
I swear on every star in the sky

Spoilerific, but I couldn't resist. Art by ahshow.

We'll get some pictures of the Marauders' love and loyalty at the end of this book: Moony embracing the long-lost Padfoot as a brother, and Prongs' love reaching forward one generation to save Padfoot's life and soul.

So much simmering resentment. I look back at my own school-day friendships and I remember having friends like that: friends I liked (even loved), but didn't really trust, friends I knew would isolate me at the first mis-step..those weren't my closest friends. My dearest friends from school were the ones I trusted with my whole heart, the ones I know are still there for me, despite the miles, despite the spiritual distance, despite the paths we've taken that lead away from each other. There's still that core closeness..and maybe that closeness is there, somewhere deeply hidden in the trio. Buried behind back-biting, petty betrayals, and thoughtless cruelties, maybe there's the core of friendship. But if it's there, it seems like a sad, struggling thing - beset on all sides. 

Two words: Hermione Granger.

Art by conniiption.

Hermione is the constant in the Trio, the one who—despite bossiness and a taste for following the rules that goes mostly unshared by her best friends—is never, as far as I can recall offhand, disloyal. She bickers with Ron and is occasionally rude to him, usually after he does something particularly unkind to her, but she never gives either of them up for lost causes. Both boys need that loyalty.

In Prisoner of Azkaban, Ron and Hermione don't speak to each other for weeks on account of Hermione's cat supposedly killing Ron's rat. Harry and Ron are both more heartless without Hermione, and it's her approach, trembling, with the important knowledge of a mutual friend's grief, that begins reconciliation. That act cracks Ron's pride. When Ron's pride cracks, Hermione's caves in, and Harry's might never have existed. All is forgiven.

The Trio is beset on all sides, what with a serious lack of adult guidance and an evil wizard trying desperately to kill one of them off. They quarrel like siblings and sometimes have a real blowup between them, but there is always love there. It pulls them back together every time.

Art by Rae.

Still, if it is there - and I never see it reading the books, really, only in discussing them afterwards with enthusiastic people who can see it - it does raise the friendships in the series above where I saw them. I like to hope that maybe Rowling is trying to draw that aspect of friendship out. Reminding her readers again and again that love is something constant..something that 'bears all things..endures all things..[and] never fails.'  

Human love fails regularly. Rowling shows us that, but she also shows it growing, becoming more than itself, finding new ways around old breaches. Some sort of conflict between the Trio plays a role in the overarching conflict in several of the books, if not all seven, but the friends always return to peace.

What do you think, are her friendships true and beautiful? Are they Loving?

I'd argue that Rowling's friendships are realistic: true and beautiful at times, flawed and unattractive at others. They develop, progress and regress, and finish out the story rather wonderfully, in my opinion, though I'm not allowed to talk about that yet. :)

Thoughts?

Primroses Waiting and other stories

Hello, last weekday of being a stay-at-home housewife! I've been enjoying the sunshine—and killing the whole morning working on things not relevant to what I'm supposed to be working on—and putting off housework.

Maia: "Don't take a picture of me. You'll steal my soul."

The blog schedule will get substantively reworked over the next few weeks, and I won't know how till I know my new schedule... so thanks for your patience. :)

For today: the Today meme is hosted by Masha! Join in over at Piękno, or leave your own sensory notes in the combox...

* * *

Today I am:

Feeling... cheerful. I have four little primroses waiting to go in the ground; I did a bunch of account updating that I've been putting off all week; I've had a pleasant few days of not making myself do very much; and I ordered a bicycle yesterday so I can commute to work like a proper Bellinghamster.*

I'm as excited as a kid about that last one. I've barely been on a bike since my teens... but there was another blue Schwinn once, and before that, a much-loved black-and-yellow dirt bike that I rode till my knees started hitting the handlebars.

I am so going to learn to ride my bike in a skirt, by the way.

* * *

* * *

Seeing... my friend Agnes' band play tomorrow night, if all goes well! Two or three of my other friends and I are driving down to Seattle together to see her sing. I've been looking forward to this for weeks.

Smelling... and Tasting... grapefruit peeled, sectioned, and cut up into a bowl with a handful of walnuts thrown in—a Lenten lunch that doesn't taste penitential. ;)

* * *

Listening... to a real blast from the past. Upon coming home from choir practice this week with something or other stuck in my head, I thought, "I need a song to get this out, now"—and the following came to mind out of nowhere. I haven't seen the movie Polly since I was maybe fourteen.

This was the only video of the complete song that I could find that wasn't flagrantly breaking copyright law. The crowd is very enthusiastic, probably because this performance is kind of adorable.

* * *

Grateful... for sunshine, flowers, these five years of rest, and a job to go to Monday.

First daffodil!

Reading… hmm. I just finished Fiddler's Green (kinda loved it, actually; review coming soon), so I'm between books. I've got Marissa Meyer's Cress on order at the library, Dickens' The Tale of Two Cities still waiting on my Kindle, and sudden strong temptations to re-read the first three Anne books, The Blue Castle, and The Host. Hmmmmmm.

Studying… nothing! Not this week. ;)

Working on... filling out I-9s and W-2s, convincing myself to make something of Lent instead of complaining about it, and preparing a great big response to Masha's first Lenten post on love in Harry Potter. Hey, Potter fans, my good friend Masha doesn't say things like "Friendship is, I think, the love Rowling is least comfortable with..." just to make every Potter fan's jaw hit the floor—these were her sincere impressions! Go convince her otherwise. ;)

* * *

Loving... this day at home.

Hoping... for more sunshine, so I can start biking to work soon. And so my little primroses don't get stunted and beaten back by snow and frost, like the last quartet I got. And so we can finally be done with winter, because spring.

Happy weekend!

* I'll bike-commute in the sunshine, at least. I'm not hard core enough to want to take my book bag and my bangs out in the rain.

Currently Reading: The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making

by Catherynne M. Valente
Square Fish, 2012

“How far is it to Pandemonium, Ell?” yawned September. She stretched her legs, flexing the bare toes of her left foot. 

“Can’t say, small one.” The beast thwacked into the tree again. “Pandemonium begins with P, and, therefore, I don’t know very much about it.” 

September thought for a moment. “Try ‘Capital’ instead. That starts with C. And Fairyland starts with F, so you could, well, cross-reference.” 

A-Through-L left off the nearly persimmon tree and cocked his head to one side like a curious German shepherd. “The capital of Fairyland is surrounded by a large, circular river,” he said slowly, as if reading from a book, “called the Barleybroom. The city consists of four districts: Idlelily, Seresong, Hallowgrum, and Mallowmead. Population is itinerant, but summer estimates hover around ten thousand daimonia—that means spirits—” 

“And pan means all,” whispered September, since the Wyvern could not be expected to know, on account of the p involved. In September’s world, many things began with pan. Pandemic, Pangaea, Panacea, Panoply. Those were all big words, to be sure, but as has been said, September read often, and liked it best when words did not pretend to be simple, but put on their full armor and rode out with colors flying.

* * *

Twelve-year-old September, bored with teacups and small dogs, is only too happy to be Ravished away by the Green Wind and sent into Fairyland. Immediately upon entrance, she follows the path to losing her heart and accepts a quest to retrieve a spoon from the tyrannical Marquess, without beginning to know what she's undertaking, or how she might be breaking the Rules of Fairyland—but September is rational and determined, and she will do what she must to succeed.

* * *

One of the problems most folklorists have with Disney fairy tales is that said tales rarely point out that Fairyland and the majority of its inhabitants are out to bamboozle you. Valente obviously knows the facts, however, as does protagonist September by the end of the novel—and yet, Fairyland's trickery does not destroy its attractiveness.

September, like MacDonald's Anodos, ends up Shadowless; unlike Anodos, however, September's narrator suggests this is a bad rather than a good thing. The imagery only hints at future things, so I'll have to read the sequel to discover the point of all that.

Valente presents Fairyland in extravagant prose, dropping hilarious wordplay into depiction of a wildly colored landscape full of things unexpected. Her scientific and self-reliant little heroine faces it down with the help of two sidekicks: one prone to spouting encyclopedia quotes, and the other shy and blue.

I loved the book for the humor and the characters—which included a jacket, a lamp, and a soap golem—and appreciated it for its beautiful vocabulary and thoughtfulness. The one strongly sympathetic character I could not always quite keep up with was September herself, as she and I had to communicate from the extreme furthest reaches of the Jungian thinking/feeling dichotomy. Fortunately, I had Ell and Saturday and the aforementioned jacket and lamp and soap golem to help relay messages. If I go for the sequel, which I well might, it will very much be for love of September's friends.

Advisory, aimed solely at parents who have serious cautions about Harry Potter—some of whom, for friendship to me, bravely go on reading this blog: This being Fairyland, there are witches and dragons. Well, dragon—or rather, wyvern—or rather, Wyverary. I loved the Wyverary; I ain't gonna lie. Speaking of verbal dishonesty, however, Valente cheerfully and openly subverts the concept of the "good child," starting by requiring September to lie in order to enter Fairyland, upon which I thought to myself (perhaps not entirely justly), "Oh. Well. I guess I'll never get in, then." Homeschooling absolutely crippled me on the dishonesty front. For better or for worse. ;)

Once Upon an SAT

My job starts next Monday; this is my last week of full freedom. I'm tempted to say, "Should I use it for good or for evil?"—but the alternatives are really more like, "Should I use it for cleaning house and writing or for killing time on the internet?"

PSA: Masha will be leading off the Harry Potter discussions for the next few weeks, as a Lenten act of mercy. Thanks, M—you're the best!

Special thanks to all of you who wished me luck, prayed for me, and/or thought of me Saturday! I survived the SAT. I won't know how well I did till March 27, but I survived.

Story time!

The administrators gave us the same basic list of warnings a jury is given before they're allowed to go home at night, so: instead of swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I'll solemnly vow to say nothing that matters. :)

Gratuitous Nyquil would've been a good idea the night before, except that it usually leaves me feeling drugged for twelve hours straight. Not wanting to go to bed at six PM, I opted for lying awake from five AM onward with my brain racing from anxiety. Judging from the lost look on many dozens of teenage faces at seven-thirty, this was a common choice.

Me trying to figure out the self-timer on my new camera.
This is not the look we were wearing, but it's about equally flattering.

I expected to feel old, but mostly I felt as young and lost as my fellow students—and, in fact, nearly got myself and a very young-looking junior actually lost trying to find the meeting place, which turned out to be the exact same room as the lecture had been in Friday night. It's a good thing the SAT doesn't test ability to read maps.

Feeling like a teenager again was a good exercise in empathy. At some point during the morning I took to reminding myself of Friday's lecture, because that was college, and that was fun. The SAT is high school, and high school sucks. I realize that cheating is a common and serious problem, but I began wondering where the classroom leaves off and juvenile detention begins. I hate feeling distrusted. The experience made me more grateful than ever for having been homeschooled.*

At one point, I felt every day of my age: when one of the proctors got sharp with the kids and an aid started pushing them around and scolding them with, "Do you not know what a straight line is?" From halfway across the room, with rows of fixed chairs and confused teenagers between us, I couldn't do anything, but I wanted to march up to her and explain the mathematical improbability of forcing a hundred and some stressed, sleepy young people to line themselves up alphabetically against a wall far too short for them to do anything but crowd against.

Fortunately for my third of the crowd—perhaps fifty students—a proctor with the inestimable advantage of a warm smile took charge of us and marched us up campus to a different classroom.

A girl from Surrey struck up a pleasant conversation with me en route, perhaps out of kindness to the shy stranger built like a Number Two pencil. After a few minutes of chatting, she said: "What grade are you in—eleventh or twelfth? I'm guessing twelfth." I had very warm feelings toward her for the rest of the day, and prayed for her a lot.

The back to Lou's calculator got confiscated for the duration of the test. "It has writing on it." The tiny instruction sheet for using the calculator, really?

The biggest emotional advantage I was given, next to having a nice proctor, was being seated against a wall. I gravitate to walls and corners, especially when I'm stressed. They're stabilizing.

Someone had drawn a dead or exhausted anime character on my desk. Despite the lack of ponytail, he reminded me of Edward Elric. That made me sad, so I told myself he was only exhausted, and commiserated frequently with him throughout the morning.

My second-favorite alchemist. (Dumbledore is my favorite. <3)
Source.

Aside from my old friend Fullmetal, the desk was a joke, especially for a southpaw like myself. To take practice tests with comparable difficulty, I'd have had to rivet a bicycle seat to the right side of a chair and try to balance test book, pencil, answer sheet, and calculator on that.

Fortunately, I did not have to share desk space with the cat.

As for the three hours and forty-five minutes of actual testing, here are details that shouldn't compromise the integrity of the test itself:

• I quoted The Oatmeal in my essay. The quote I wanted to use was much cruder than the one I actually used.
• I have never, as far as I can remember, failed to finish a reading comprehension test in the time allotted—until Saturday. Hopefully the curve they grade that one on will be forgiving.
• Whenever I got to one of the correct-this-crappy-writing sections, I forgot I was testing and started mouthing the words, gesturing, and otherwise thoroughly enjoying the work of proofreading. The proctors were kindhearted enough to not throw me out for this.
• My algebra score could go either way. I lost my head in the final five minutes of the final math section, tried to solve four problems at once, and failed to solve any of them.

At the end I let the weary crowd of teenagers lead the way out, and briefly felt my age again upon catching a group of teenage boys staring at me. I wanted to give them the evil eye, but I was too tired, so I looked away and let them stare. At last I commiserated one last time with Ed, collected the back to Lou's calculator, smiled at the proctors, and walked out into a downpour.

And felt very young and shy and exhausted indeed, as blast after blast of wind and rain hit me over the five minutes it took to walk to the car. I forced myself not to run till I hit the parking lot, and then I made a dash for it. I got into the car, looked at my dripping face and half-drenched hair in the mirror, laughed and let my throat tighten up, turned on the heater full blast, and drove home.

Lou met me at the door, propped me up, and took me downtown to Bob's for burgers and coffee, the latter of which I creamed the heck out of, Lent notwithstanding. I'm not sure anything ever tasted better than that coffee.

* There's nothing like homeschooling to nip a cheating mentality in the bud. My mom caught me behind the couch with the answer section of my math book open when I was about six, and that was the end of that.

The Night Before Test Day and other stories

This has been the sort of day where your morning meeting goes twice as long as normal, after which you cram in a practice SAT test, clean the house in a mad flurry, drive your car up to the school, park your car illegally for fifteen minutes because you can't find the parking meter, and promptly get lost—and you're absurdly cheerful the whole time, possibly because you had coffee.

Which is the one thing I pretty much absolutely refused to give up for Lent. :)

The day didn't leave much time for blogging, especially considering how early I have to be up to take the test. But we'll see what I can do. Don't worry, George—I haven't forgotten how important it is to include one of these:

* * *

Dear God, please let the SAT administered tomorrow be one of the ones I can score a 580 on math on, rather than a 540 like I scored the other day. And please let my calculator and my brain work. That's about all I'm begging for, although I wouldn't complain if the essay question happened to be interesting.

* * *

I think the sunshine had as much to do with my good mood as the coffee. "Partly cloudy and warm enough to walk outside with coat unbuttoned" felt wonderful after "so cold you can feel it seeping through the walls" and "more snow than rainy little Bellingham has any idea what to do with." Look—unexpected flowers:

* * *

The day was so busy that I almost didn't make the trip up to the school for the philosophy lecture, though it was recommended around choir by a friend and I'd sort of halfway said I'd go. Fifteen minutes before I had to make up my mind or else, I looked up the abstract to Dr. Zagzebski's Epistemic Authority:  A Theory of Trust, Authority, and Autonomy in Belief, her book and her lecture topic, just to see how much I wanted to hear her speak—and decided immediately that I couldn't miss it.

Imagery in Harry Potter originally gave me the concept to explain my intellectual relationship to religion, a concept that allowed me to choose to trust despite deep agnostic leanings. It was beyond fascinating to hear some of my thought processes put into academic terminology, to see the tension between the claims of authority and the claims of individual judgment expressed philosophically—a tension I still wrestle with, thanks to some of the same difficulties that questioning students were trying to camouflage behind safe examples.

I'm going to love college so much, you guys. Even if I have to take algebra. I might love that, too.

* * *

That's all I've got for tonight; I've still got to play the piano and make sure I'm prepared to show up for the SAT with everything I need (number two pencils, ticket, driver's license, calculator) and without anything that will get me thrown out (cell phone, friend's digital recorder that needs returning and has therefore spent time riding around in my purse, mechanical pencils and pens). CollegeBoard's test day page terrifies me. I feel like I'm going to the airport and therefore need to put everything into clear plastic one-quart zip-lock baggies and expect to be full-body scanned sans shoes. But most things are not quite as bad as anxiety makes them out to be.

Happy weekend!

Harry Potter, Lent, and Lolcat Syntax

...and the Oxford comma, because it rocks.

I just got a proofreading job!!!! (Wait—am I allowed to indulge in unnecessary exclamation points while claiming status as a professional proofreader? That might be a display of questionable judgment.)

Anyhow, my former employers have hired me back, and I have been doing random little happy dances for the thirty hours since the call came. In celebration of that and of National Grammar Day:

I love this so much... but we're not finished here.
The original writer's first sentence should end in a question mark,
the comma in the second should be a semicolon or em dash,
and "troubleshoot" should be written as one word.
Source.
Yes, lolcat syntax does make me want to claw my eyes out.

Today is also Carnival, and Lent starts tomorrow. Because Lent is always a good time to mix things up, and because Christie is moving to Wales and I'm transitioning into a workday schedule again, and because Masha is a good sport and game for anything, we're slowing down (yes, further) on the Harry Potter read-through for these next few weeks and focusing on the subject of love in the first three novels. As Masha said:

I want to talk about family love and friendship and charity and hope..I know Jenna and Christie have a book's worth of thoughts to share on the topic, and I'm looking forward to your reflections as well! Excited? I am!

I fear it may be hard to defend my ideas about love in the first three novels without referencing the endings of books five and seven, but I'll try. Whether I can get "a book's worth of thoughts" out of my brain and onto this blog remains to be seen, however, as does the matter of whether Christie can post anything at all till she's settled in her new home. The point, though, is that the book club will go on!

For tonight, however, I'm going to go celebrate while I can. Happy Carnival, and blessed Ash Wednesday!

Tangle-Tongued Confusion and other stories

The Today meme is hosted by Masha! Join in over at Piękno, or leave your own sensory notes in the combox.

Today I am...

* * *

Feeling... kind of exhausted.

It's been the kind of afternoon where you sit down to blog, but first your computer crashes on contact with a flash card, and then your blog won't load, because the domain host is having some kind of issue. Also, three cups of coffee apparently weren't enough.

It's also been the kind of week where—well, first you're anxious constantly, partly because you're job hunting and partly because you didn't sleep much the previous week. Then, you discover you might as well go ahead and take the SAT, because if you get 580 or better on math, you can get out of the basic math requirement. Unfortunately, you don't discover that till you've already started the process to take a math placement test, which you then have to put on hold, which makes you feel like an idiot who is wasting a lot of nice people's time.

Also, you haven't been studying for the SAT, because you thought you weren't going to take it.

Yeah.

Anyway, I took a practice SAT yesterday—took it cold. No studying. The result of that experiment is that I will be studying math hard for the next week, because:

That's a 580 on math—just good enough.
Attained by missing mostly gridded questions, which aren't penalized.
We'll see if I can manage to equal or supersede that next Saturday.
As for the rest: yay for competing with seventeen-year-olds. :P

* * *

Seeing... sunshine, and last Sunday's snow finally melting. Seven inches of snow is pretty impressive for us. I'm quite proud of myself for having gotten the car to church and back without destroying anything.

* * *

Smelling... nothing, because I haven't put that loaf of bread in like I told myself I was going to. Maybe I'd better. Be right back...

Tasting... spicy Mexican mocha brownies, adapted from a recipe sent me by MissPhotographerB. It's a box of brownie mix made with a stick of melted butter (no oil), a tablespoon of vanilla, two eggs, 1/4 cup of water, 1 1/2 tablespoons espresso powder, 1/4 teaspoon cayenne, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, and an ounce of chocolate, finely chopped. The results were outstanding.

* * *

Listening... to Hudson Taylor. This was a random YouTube recommendation, and a fantastic one. I'm loving this duo in general and this song in particular.

This is the view from the other side
Put down your weapons
Let's be defenseless

* * *

Grateful... to have my husband home from Rome!

Also for how pleasant and helpful everyone I've spoken to at USU has been, especially considering how many times I've called them in tangle-tongued confusion.

Reading… Fiddler's Green by A.S. Peterson. Course requirements and freshman orientation material for USU. Anything I can find on understanding algebra. And these quotes from Mr. Rogers, who passed away twelve years ago yesterday:

"I believe that appreciation is a holy thing, that when we look for what's best in the person we happen to be with at the moment, we're doing what God does; so in appreciating our neighbor, we're participating in something truly sacred." —from his Commencement Address at Middlebury College May, 2001

Words to live my life by—written by the best of neighbors. Miss you, Mr. Rogers.

* * *

If I fail next Saturday, it will be because I didn't have these two items
with me.

* * *

Studying… algebra, as aforestated. (That is too a word, Blogger.)

Working on... "Clair de Lune." My piano teacher is amazing, natch.

Loving... Christie and Masha, who have talked me through a mountain of emotions this week. <3

Hoping... that I can handle work and school and life without coming completely unglued from reality, and without having to quit choir or blogging. ;)

* * *

Maia: "I'll help you do your makeup. Or take pictures. Here,
swing that camera strap a little closer."

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: The Outsiders

by S.E. Hinton

Speak, [1967] 2006

“The kid’s okay?” 

“I’m okay.” I tried to think of something to say. I’m usually pretty quiet around people, even the gang. I changed the subject. “I didn’t know you were out of the cooler yet, Dally.” 

“Good behavior. Got off early.” Dallas lit a cigarette and handed it to Johnny. Everyone sat down to have a smoke and relax. A smoke always lessens the tension. I had quit trembling and my color was back. The cigarette was calming me down. Two-Bit cocked an eyebrow. “Nice-lookin’ bruise you got there, kid.” 

I touched my cheek gingerly. “Really?” 

Two-Bit nodded sagely. “Nice cut, too. Makes you look tough.” 

Tough and tuff are two different words. Tough is the same as rough; tuff means cool, sharp—like a tuff-looking Mustang or a tuff record. In our neighborhood both are compliments.

* * *

There are two kinds of people in the world, as far as fourteen-year-old Ponyboy Curtis can tell, and he and his gang belong to the underdogs—the greasers, the outsiders. The greasers are used to watching their backs and sometimes getting jumped by the rich kids, the Socs, until the night someone gets killed. Then they discover how deep their loyalty goes and who they cannot afford to lose.

* * *

S.E. Hinton, writing in the voice she knew and drawing from her own experiences, brought the world of teen classism and bullying to the attention of a wide audience. At least as impressively, considering her age—sixteen at the time of the writing—she brought it to life. Her narrator, Ponyboy, observes his world quietly, even innocently, accepting his often horrifying life situation with childhood resilience and reporting on it with a surprising perceptiveness.

His greatest success is in conveying the humanity of his gang to the reader. The story left me with tears, a lot of memories, and a half-dozen new friends.

Advisory: The violence and tragedy are onscreen. The voice, however, is childlike enough to make it readable for its typically middle-grade audience.

Harry Potter Book Club: Prisoner of Azkaban, Chapters 13–14

Hail, friends! It's H.P.B.C. time. I didn't mean to move the Book Club to Tuesdays, but—well, the blog schedule's more or less up in the air till I get settled into new routines. Thanks for your great patience. ;)

The Firebolt. Source.

Here's Masha, from this last week, talking about the Hogwarts staff:

It's too bad Rowling never gave us a sneak peek into the staffroom: Snape sipping bad coffee (no cream) and glaring at Lupin - remembering every wrong done to him; Lupin avoiding conversations that might lead to awkward werewolf issues; McGonagall drinking some sort of smokey, peaty tea (with milk and a biscuit), writing lesson plans and ignoring everyone..tension and unspoken arguments everywhere. Dumbledore couldn't have picked a less cohesive staff if he tried.

Her post also contains a recipe for a dementor drink, in case you want to practice your Patronus charm. And I recommend reading down into the comments to get BTanaka's dramatization of a Hogwarts staff meeting.

As for Christie, the news is out: she's finally getting to move to Wales to join her husband! Which seems a tad more important than keeping up with the H.P.B.C. right now. I know she's still reading the book, but she's also packing, and preparing to say goodbye to family and friends, and finishing up a job, and chasing a three-year-old... and she doesn't have any more time allotted her per day than the rest of us do. We'll look forward to a post from her whenever she gets the chance.

In the meantime, she's getting to move a lot closer to Hogwarts than the rest of us. Not fair.

On to this week's reading!

* * *

This Week in Reading Harry

Read: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, chapters 13–14

Potential Discussion Points:

These chapters are quick reads and pretty light in a lot of ways. I'll just hit the high points:

1. Cedric Diggory. He's such a good guy. He was awesome even before he sparkled. ;) (Sorry, Masha. I couldn't resist.)

Source.

2. Bath buns. Here's a recipe, if you want to try them out. Apparently Jane Austen loved them, which is reason enough to give them a try; of course, the ones she got were probably better than Hagrid's. These look good, but I don't have caraway seeds, so I can't make them right now. Bad planning on my part.

3. Harry's anti-dementor spell. OK, I shouldn't laugh... I shouldn't... but Malfoy and company's getting scared out of their wits by a Patronus and then chewed out by Professor McGonagall, after a really mean-spirited attempt to sabotage Harry, always makes me grin. "Fifty points from Slytherin!" It's about time you took fifty points from a House other than your own, Professor. I mean, really. ;)

And yet, this picture is kind of adorable. Source.

4. Lupin and the Marauder's Map. Ooh, so many secrets. It's so much fun reading this when you know the end of the book. Considering what you knew, Lupin, I'm appalled that you didn't turn that map in. Glad, but appalled.

Art by FabiolaCapo

What I have never quite been able to figure out is whether Snape knew who the mapmakers were. Obviously he didn't know what the map was, but did he recognize the names?

Frankly, I think... aw, dang, it's SPOILERS. Well. Let's put it this way. The four insults carry a decent bit of personality to them. I'm partial to Mr. Moony's; he's clearly the most literate of the bunch. But then, of that foursome—while I love all three of the good guys very much, Moony is my favorite. He just is. What a beautiful heart.

5. Harry, crime, and punishment. It's common for critics of the Potter series to complain that Harry gets into an awful lot of trouble and never seems to get punished, face consequences, or be otherwise fairly set in his place by an adult. This chapter presents two of the best counterexamples in the series:

a. Hagrid tells Ron and Harry off for their mistreatment of Hermione. Hagrid isn't the world's most observant guy, but he's so softhearted that he winds up being very perceptive when it matters to a friend. While Harry and Ron don't respond with immediate behavior changes—Ron is too angry, and Harry too fond of taking the easy way out when he's not having to risk his life to save the world—they are not untouched by the lecture.

Source. Looks like one of Marta's to me.
But GOSH. This was surprisingly hard to find.
 Do people ever draw Hermione with, like, books?
Instead of being hit on by every guy in the series?

b. Lupin manages what Snape never could have done: he makes Harry feel guilty for breaking the rules. I'm not sure there's a more successful punishment in any of the books than Lupin's few, well-chosen words here. It's quite a powerful little scene—it manages to make me feel like I took a deserved kick to the stomach, and I didn't go sneaking off to Hogsmeade.

6. Poor Hermione, who "took nobody's advice but signed up for everything." I'll have to be careful to not get myself in that deep when I sign up for classes. No SPOILERS for me! I have to do everything in [SPOILERIFIC noun and adjective redacted].

Bother! That comment was a waste of time. Too many spoilers.

"Ah, well, people can be a bit stupid abou' their pets," said Hagrid wisely. Behind him, Buckbeak spat a few ferret bones onto Hagrid's pillow.

One of many, many reasons to love J.K. Rowling: she's so. freaking. hilarious. <3

A Soft and Golden Light and other stories

I have been a very bad blogger lately.

This week, the primary problem is that Lou is in Rome. His absence leaves me with no motivation whatsoever to stick to any kind of routine. I have spent all week trying to write and failing, staying up way past bedtime, not bothering to put sheets on the bed, eating at the oddest hours possible, and otherwise batching it like a college boy. But hopefully that will get better, and I will try and return to something resembling a decent posting schedule next week.

But this week has also been amazing, so hang on for verbal and visual snapshots therefrom. Working backward:

* * *

I think I inherited my mom's tendency to mess with her hair when she gets emotional. This morning, under the influence of the past week, I picked up a pair of scissors on my way to take a shower. The result:

Bangs!

I kind of love it so far. The only problem is that watching a Carly Rae Jepsen mashup was part of what gave me the idea. If I keep getting "Call Me, Maybe" stuck in my head every time I look at myself, the bangs might not last.

* * *

When I began seriously considering college, I started clicking through U.S. News' enormous list of best online bachelor's degree programs. One of the top fifty absolutely floored me with its tuition rates, so I clicked over to the school and started researching. I read through the description of their Liberal Arts B.A. program—and I couldn't have more perfectly described what I want out of a college education. It emphasizes four areas of study:

1. historical and cultural traditions: classes in history, anthropology, folklore, religion, geography, linguistics
2. understanding social and legal institutions: classes in sociology, political science, economics, human development, psychology, management
3. appreciation of the arts: theory or history (i.e., not skill) classes in art, theater, music, literature
4. critical/reasonable/ethical inquiry through logic: classes in philosophy, ethics, debate and persuasion, statistics/methods

...and, to cap off the awesomeness, it requires two years of a foreign language. Spanish!!!

That right there decided me on both going back to school and applying to that university as one of my top choices.

Yesterday afternoon, I decided to check the status of my application and see if they'd gotten my GED transcript. This is what I found:

I get to be an Aggie!!!! (Not the Texas A&M kind...)

More later, after I get the letter that tells me what I have to do to say Yes, and start talking to program advisers, and... oh my gosh, everybody. I am SO EXCITED!!!

* * *

Very late Monday night, seated at the keyboard and overwhelmed emotionally, I improvised my way through setting a blank verse poem of mine to music. I played with it a line at a time till it sounded right, sometimes focusing in on a candlelight piano sound, sometimes letting myself drift off the tonal center.

I didn't write it down, but it comforted me. We tend to think of art in terms of permanence, of works that survive and transcend time. But sometimes you just need to make the beautiful thing once.

* * *

Camera experiment, with the pretties the schola gave me.

Late Monday night, Masha sat in her car in the snow, Christie sat in her apartment with her little boy, and I sat on my couch, and the three of us talked on Google video hangout for three and a half hours. Besties! I love you two girls.

* * *

I spent Monday itself at my sister's, trying vegan blueberry muffins, letting my nieces disembowel my purse and eat all my Tic Tacs, and not moving any more than necessary for a good hour as the three-year-old slept snuggled on my lap. My sister kept asking if I wanted to move the niece to the couch, but Aunty was too charmed by the small one's loving confidence. I get wrapped around little fingers so easily.

* * *

Lou kissed me goodbye in the dark Monday morning, long before sunrise. Not since we got married have we been separated for a week, and until now I've not had more than two consecutive nights at home without him. I wasn't sure how I'd handle it. His daily emails keep me sane.

* * *

My camera and I have been studying and experimenting these last few days. Mostly I've been working on still targets, because Maia moves around too much for beginner focus practice—but of all the blurry pictures I've gotten of her, I did sort of like the light in this one:

* * *

The men of the chant schola I directed got me flowers and a card, which they presented after the last Mass we did together. We were an exhausted bunch at that point, but a victorious one. We'd done the improbable: we'd sung the chant propers at a Sunday Novus Ordo Mass.

We also did polyphony (well, a canon) and sang four beautiful hymns in harmony; we sang from the choir loft and had the old pipe organ played and flute and recorders with it—and, quite frankly, we rocked. All thirteen of us (ten singers, two musicians, and me... don't tell Professor Trelawney), if I may say so myself.

* * *

Lou and I came home from a successful first Mass to our first-ever houseguests—one of Lou's college buddies and his incredibly sweet-natured wife—who enthused about hearing the old chants. Then Lou and his friend set about getting limes into bottles of Corona, and my new friend and I made fajitas and proper California guacamole, and the four of us sat down to the kind of dinner and conversation shared by friends who are close in age, in ideals, and in life situation. I was aglow straight through it.

I'm actually really happy with this picture.
And beyond delighted with the flowers
and the card. Thanks, guys!

As houseguests, we couldn't have had better. They put up very patiently with sleeping on the air mattress and never glimpsing the cat.

* * *

The light up in the choir loft comes through the stained glass soft and golden, reflects off tall organ pipes, and crowns its genius by flattering everyone. I always think my friends are beautiful, but a good warm light emphasizes the hallowed in all beauty. Whoever designed our church building understood that. (Whoever painted the inside bright white and put acoustic tiling on the ceiling, not so much. But the old choir loft is still a gentle place to stand.)

There were no microphones carrying the ten deep voices out of the loft and down into the nave. The resonant acoustic of the building did the work, balancing the schola against the force of the organ, floating the flute and recorders on top.

Traditionalists may hate me, but we did Fontgombault one better and put not just organ underneath the chant but a flute drone above. As far as I'm concerned, it was heaven meeting earth.

* * *

On rare occasions, a passing reference in a casual conversation can change the way you see the world. One conversation with two of my friends last weekend has been teaching me, ever since, about what it means for a Catholic, for a follower of Christ, to love.

Love means a lot of different things, and it takes a lot of different forms. This time it was a wild bird sprung from a cage, glorying in being free at last to stretch its wings.

Intense Little Details and other stories

Happy Valentine's Day from Maia to all of you.
I'm sorry she's not a nicer cat. :P

* * *

Sunday afternoon.

Sunday afternoon, I can melt, and that will be OK.

Until then, my life is full—full of short black dresses and scallops baked in the shells my grandparents bought me in Florida—full of rich voices in a high choir loft with old pipe organ and flute bolstering them from beneath and above—full of houseguests, to Maia's certain horror and our absolute delight—full of the little details of organizing a fairly intense musical event, as well as the little details of taking care of people and making sure they can enjoy themselves.

If you wonder why I keep missing blog posts, it's because I'm too busy to think. I might be saner after a proper meltdown Sunday afternoon.

* * *

I'm currently dreaming of how long it will take my GED transcript to travel to a certain campus in certain Midwestern foothills, and how long it will take a letter—one that hopefully says Welcome—to travel back.

Among at least a jillion other anxieties this week, I'm hoping the Admissions Office doesn't think my transcript is a bomb just because I mailed it in a photo mailer. As it turns out, the post office doesn't carry normal envelopes big enough to fit a sealed business envelope in. Who knew?

* * *

Fortunately for my sanity over the past few days, there's coffee. There are also snowdrops.

* * *

Music of the week: In honor of Valentine's Day, one of my all-time favorite love songs. It's true for many kinds of love, and I'm only getting a good start when I say it's dedicated first and foremost to Lou.

* * *

Happy Valentine's Day! You're welcome in my house even if my cat hides and hisses.

Much love,
Jenna

Harry Potter Book Club: Prisoner of Azkaban, Chapters 11–12

Hail! I have excuses for posting late this week, too, but they might bore you and they'd certainly slow down the post. On to the H.P.B.C....

Masha posted on the Marauder's Map, the Fidelius charm, and Lupin:

There is a certain hazard in reaching out to people, particularly to people you care about deeply.

Truth.

In this chapter, Professor Lupin is walking a fine line with Harry. He is, in this book alone, Rowling's best attempt at a father-figure for Harry...

Art by Patricia D./perselus

He is. Several men spend quality time in James Potter's vacant shoes—Dumbledore, Arthur Weasley, SPOILER—and as much as Harry loves and honors those men, only SPOILER really steps up as father rather than as friend or mentor. And even SPOILER, for SPOILERIFIC reasons, only gets halfway there. Lupin is not just a quality teacher for Harry in this book; he is as wise and loving and parental as any relative stranger could reasonably be, and no one ever quite equals him in that.

While Harry never acknowledges that gift in words, I think he knows it—and I think that's a lot of what's behind the fury in a certain scene in book seven.

... and it's clear he steps into the role unwillingly.

There are a lot of possible reasons for that. Masha says,

Maybe he knows that reaching out to Harry will eventually require him to confront all the losses and missed-opportunities in his past.

...and that's similar to my own thoughts. Lupin was conscientious on his own even when very young, but was also very easy to influence, unwilling to challenge anyone he loved. Now in his thirties, he's prone to a sense of guilt and inadequacy so strong that it chokes his judgment, makes it next to impossible for him to feel his way forward in the right direction. (He reminds me of myself sometimes....) And yet, he's wise and caring and possibly more empathetic than anyone else in the series. I love that guy.

There's lots more to come from Remus John Lupin... but for now, on to this week's reading!

* * *

This Week in Reading Harry

Read: Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, chapters 11–12

Potential Discussion Points:

Source. But I was sad and it was the meme-makers' fault,
so I put in a tiny apostrophe after "dementors."
The usage could be singular, rather than plural,
but it's clearly possessive.

1. Christmas at Hogwarts. I love that presents appear at the foot of the bed in the Wizarding World, although this seems to be a charm of some sort, not connected to any personage either legendary or historical or both. Which makes me miss Narnia's Father Christmas.

Christmas dinner at Hogwarts sounds like an awkward family gathering full of stereotypes. Trelawney (the crazy relative) and McGonagall (the enforcer of family tradition) are much less than civil to each other. Dumbledore (the one who makes sure everyone gets together, like it or not) has to play diplomat between them. Snape (the one who 'has not' and is therefore a little to the outside of things, like a spinster aunt who wanted to get married) gets teased about something that embarrasses him.

Which makes me particularly grateful for my family Christmases.

Art by Michael Sheridan

2. The Firebolt. Not the most sensible gift, but then, it's not given by the most sensible guy. Sometimes gifts are given with more feeling than wisdom. Feeling types—as opposed to Thinking types, in the Myers-Briggs—are often subject to this failing. (Being an off-the-charts Feeler, I do this sort of thing myself, usually with affirmation. I wish I could stop, because I see it make people uncomfortable.)

Art by Sarah M. Zagacki

3. Buckbeak and Hagrid. Right now, I'm smiling because Hagrid couldn't leave Buckbeak outside at Christmas, and because Ron made tea as a form of comfort. Crazy they both may be, but it's a good kind of crazy.

And there's no better way to get your mind out of an obsession than by fixing it on someone else's need.... although my mind develops obsessions a lot more frequently than others' needs make their appeals to me. It's rather a constant thing. Fortunately, said obsessions don't usually involve revenge.

4. The Patronus, by definition:

"The Patronus is a kind of positive force, a projection of the very things that the dementor feeds upon—hope, happiness, the desire to survive—but it cannot feel despair, as real humans can, so the dementors can't hurt it. But I must warn you, Harry, that the charm might be too advanced for you. Many qualified wizards have difficulty with it."

I'll bet many qualified wizards do have difficulty with that charm. Hermione later does, as I recall, which makes sense—like the giving of not-very-sensible gifts, the casting of a Patronus is more of an emotive work than a logical or technical one. Intelligence does not necessarily increase happiness—not even when it comes with mastery.

Especially not if you're Grumpy Cat.

As for the definition itself: here in the Muggle world, we don't quite face the utter annihilation of our souls, nor can we quite place our hopes outside ourselves in some invincible protective form. But if Rowling's dementors are depression with substance and animation, it only makes sense that the antidote would be corporealized happiness and hope.

If "Expecto Patronum" doesn't work,
try kittens!
Source.

5. I Expect a Guardian! I love this post by Terpsichore over at The Egotist's Club. Terpsichore asks,

What happy memory or hope is your guardian against Dementor-like feelings?

and doesn't get much of a response, but it's a good question. I'll answer, but first: considering that Lupin defines a Patronus as "a kind of positive force, a projection of the very things that the dementor feeds upon—hope, happiness, the desire to survive," it's odd that Harry is asked for a happy memory. Memories can help, but hope is what's needed, and that's what I like about Terpsichore's post. She points out several (SPOILERIFIC) instances where Harry's casting of a Patronus is done by some means other than memory, and then says,

Where a happy memory may not get us through, our hopes may; perseverance may; or faith may, the assurance about what we do not see.

I employ of all of the above; depression is not a one-weapon battle. But when I "can' see the point o' livin'," like Hagrid in Azkaban, here's one idea that defends me well: the thought of young people whom I know and love dearly, some of whom love me dearly in return—young people who need to see me fight through life, for whom my giving up would be devastating and might influence them to do likewise. I spent yesterday with two of them. There is not much in this world more precious to me than their innocent faith that Aunty lives for them.

This turns out to be a personal Patronus drawing, but I thought it was SPOILERS.
Art by MauserGirl.

6. "Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off—"

This one just hurts me. Lily's sacrifice is made much of in the story; James', perhaps because he—unlike Lily (SPOILERS!!!)—would have gotten murdered anyway, is not. But when Voldemort shows up at the Potters' hideout, James doesn't hesitate.

Fan fic in pictures: James protecting Lily in a more cheerful way.
Art by burdge

If only he could have gotten in a lucky AK. *weeps*

The Gods of Work and University and other stories

Valentine's Day cactus... it didn't bloom at Christmas

I missed Masha's linkup today, so this is kind of the random post of randomness—the more so because my brain is tired.

My cup of coffee and I sat down this morning to tackle a chapter of algebra. Instead, enthusiasm joined the caffeine to keep me all a-jitter and breathless as I wrote several of the important sort of emails that you want to spend hours over, because you're desperately afraid that if your space bar double-types—and mine will cheerfully triple-type when I'm not looking—and you don't catch that, the answer will be "No! The gods of Work and University only accept the unblemished offerings of perfect people."

There was a terrifying but rather fun high-speed editing test in there, too. And in the middle of all the excitement, my browser crashed in spectacular flames.

But I have now done all that can be done for the day. Upon getting permission from myself to stop panicking, I have moved on to feeling dazed and sleepy and—since this school doesn't require the scores to admit me—more than usually tempted to unregister from the SAT and eat the nonrefundable fee.

At least it's now the weekend. Yay. I'm going to go make cookies in a few minutes.

* * *

Maia: "I want to sleep on the towel shelf. There are too many towels, and I can't fit in there. Move one."

Me: "No, kitty. I'm not making it easier for you to get cat litter on the clean bath towels."

Maia: "Hmpf." *bats eye shadow compact onto floor*

Crate full of blankets: an acceptable substitute. In a pinch.

* * *

Everything is useful when you write fiction. E.g.: if I ever need to describe the experience of a character's getting stabbed or shot in the chest, I will remember how it felt to sneeze with pleurisy.

* * *

Music of the week: Marian Call. My friend Alison linked her on Facebook recently with a comment about all browncoats needing to listen to her. At this point I've killed the better part of an hour wandering around Ms. Call's blog and website and YouTube videos, and I'm not sure how to decide between linking the song for River or the song for Jayne, so you get both. And I've got a new musician to follow.

* * *

On rainy late-June days, when it's 55 degrees out, I miss Montana. On early February days with highs in the low 20s and lows in the teens, I yearn over Arizona. It's almost enough to make me overlook tarantulas and water shortages.

* * *

Cats have been sabotaging human work for centuries. Here's proof. Thanks for the link, Lou. <3

Also, these people are adorable. They re-create scenes from movies using cardboard boxes, household items, and their own little family, including their baby. Major cute fix at CardboardBoxOffice.com, if you need it:

Happy weekend!

Currently Reading: The Fiddler's Gun

by A.S. Peterson
Rabbit Room Press, 2009

"Now then," he said and carefully thumbed up the latches on the case. He opened it and Fin and Peter leaned forward to see what was inside. The box was lined in red velvet, and the bottom half was molded to hold three habitants. The first was a violin, glowing lusty red in the firelight. The curves and luster of it were stunning, feminine. It was the most delicate and graceful thing Fin had ever seen. The second object was the violin's bow, long and elegant, strung with white hair. The third object in the box was a Spanish blunderbuss, made of dark red wood and adorned with silver flourishes. The handle was engraved with an ornate B and embellished with festooning swirls and curves. It was as beautiful as the violin but graceless and menacing, its barrel flared out like a mouth yawning open into a scream. 

"Now, see here, you got to put that hurt someplace, and this is where old Bartimaeus learned to put his." He lifted the fiddle out of the case and caressed it. 

"It's beautiful," whispered Fin. 

"Aye," he said and crooked it into his neck. He drew the bow across the strings and the instrument moaned a forlorn note. "Beautiful, that's what you got to do with that hurtin', you got to turn it beautiful."

* * *

Phineas Michael "Fin" Button was born the thirteenth daughter to a man who wanted a son—so, naturally, she grew up in an orphanage, wearing a boy's name and, whenever possible, dirty trousers. She can out-cuss and out-fistfight the boys, and she mostly ignores or sasses the girls, including the two sisters who run the orphanage.

In her late teens, as the American south erupts into pre-war skirmishes with the British, she's ready to marry Peter LaMee, the only person in the world who makes her feel like a girl and like it. Before they can wed, however, she inherits a fiddle and gun from an old reformed pirate, followed by a life of crime from a violent and lustful Redcoat. Faced with unforgiving law, Fin runs for the sea, where she learns to use Bart Gann's gun as easily as she uses his violin—but she never stops writing to Peter LaMee.

* * *

Before I get to the interior: Evie Coates' spectacular cover art is one of my favorite things about this book. It's absolutely beautiful.

A.S. "Pete" Peterson, like his brother Andrew, is one of the more gifted evangelical Protestant writers whose medium of choice is the novel. I got outright enthused over the attractive prose, humor, and thoughtful poignancy in the first few chapters. The book later left some of the stronger literary currents and sailed in the direction of straightforward adventure story, which cost me some of my enthusiasm, as I'm not much of a straightforward adventure story fan, but those who prefer extroverted adventure to prolonged introspection should enjoy the tale with ease.

Lesser writers can fail to interest me in angry, violent characters, so it's very much to Peterson's credit that I liked Fin. Her favorite shipmates, Bartimaeus, and Peter are all quite lovable, and crazy Captain Creache is a proper swashbuckling villain. The gun, Betsy, is a character in her own right, and Peterson's detail—engaging throughout—is particularly arresting whenever Fin interacts with the weapon.

Apart from faint hints of stilting in the prose, the dialect sometimes feeling a tad off, and the light but unmistakable flavor of modern nondenominational thought—aspects of which taste a bit out-of-place in a historical spread—there's really nothing to complain about. Those flaws are so minor that it seems unfair to mention them, and I wouldn't bother if they didn't rank so highly among my literary pet peeves. I do, however, intend to read the sequel, out of curiosity about Fin's further adventures on the high seas and a healthy share of concern regarding Peter LaMee.