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hellish_butler's Journal
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Created on 2016-11-02 21:42:24 (#2558962), last updated 2019-11-15 (283 weeks ago)
25 comments received, 472 comments posted
19 Journal Entries, 0 Tags, 0 Memories, 15 Icons Uploaded
| Name: | ♞ Sebastian "this rubbish" Michaelis |
|---|---|
| Birthdate: | Dec 15 |
He said, "I promise thee that I'll never leave thy side."
~
Caw, Caw, the black crow sang in verse
For he said, "Thy death is my soul's curse."
"He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy
He who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise
- William Black, "Eternity"
"The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night."
- Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold
The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane by Kate DiCamillo
Edward had never cared for dolls. He found them annoying and self-centered, twittery and vain. This opinion was immediately reinforced by his first shelf-mate, a china doll with green glass eyes and red lips and dark brown hair. She was wearing a green satin dress that fell to her knees.
“What are you?” She said in a high-pitched voice when Edward was placed on the shelf next to her.
“I am a rabbit,” Said Edward.
The doll let out a small squeak. “You’re in the wrong place.” She said. “This is a shop for dolls. Not rabbits.”
Edward said nothing.
“Shoo,” Said the doll.
“I would love to shoo,” said Edward, “but it is obvious that I cannot.”
After a long silence, the doll said, “I hope you don’t think that anyone is going to buy you.”
Again, Edward said nothing.
“The people who come in here want dolls, not rabbits. They want baby dolls or elegant dolls such as myself, dolls with pretty dresses, dolls with eyes that open and close.”
“I have no interesting in being purchased,” said Edward.
The doll gasped. “You don’t want somebody to buy you?” she said. “You don’t want to be owned by a little girl who loves you?”
Sarah Ruth! Abilene! Their names went through Edward’s head like the notes of a sad, sweet song.
“I have already been loved,” said Edward. “I have been loved by a girl named Abilene. I have been loved by a fisherman and his wife and a hobo and his dog. I have been loved by a boy who played the harmonica and by a girl who died. Don’t talk to me about love,” he said. “I have known love.”
This impassioned speech shut up Edward’s shelf-mate for a considerable amount of time.
“Well,” she said at last, “still. My point is that no one is going to buy you.”
They did not speak to each other again. The doll was sold two weeks later to a grandmother who was purchasing her for a grandchild. “Yes,” she said to Lucius Clarke, “that one right there, the one with the green dress. She is quite lovely.”
“Yes,” said Lucius, “she is, isn’t she?” And he plucked the doll from the shelf.
Goodbye and good riddance, thought Edward.
The spot next to the rabbit stayed vacant for some time. Day after day, the door to the shop opened and closed, letting in the early morning sun or late afternoon light, lifting the hearts of the dolls inside, all of them thinking when the door swung wide that this time, this time, the person entering the shop would be the one who wanted them.
Edward was the lone contrarian. He prided himself on not hoping, on not allowing his heart to life inside of him. He prided himself on keeping his heart silent, immobile, and closed tight.
I am done with hope, thought Edward Tulane.
~
“I don’t care if anyone comes for me,” said Edward.
“But that’s dreadful,” said the old doll. “There’s no point in going on if you feel that way. No point at all. You must be filled with expectancy. You must be awash in hope. You must wonder who will love you, whom you will love next.”
“I am done with being loved,” Edward told her. “I’m done with loving. It’s too painful.”
“Pish,” said the old doll. “Where is your courage?”
“Somewhere else, I guess.” said Edward.
“You disappoint me,” she said. “You disappoint me greatly. If you have no intention of loving or being loved, then the whole journey is pointless. You might as well leap from this shelf right now and let yourself shatter into a million pieces. Get over with it. Get it all over now.”
“I would leap if I was able,” said Edward.
“Shall I push you?” said the old doll.
“No thank you.” Edward said to her. “Not that you could,” he muttered to himself.
“Open your heart,” she said gently. “Someone will come. Someone will come for you. But first you must open your heart.”
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