Impulsively I dove into the glacial lake and swum vigorously.

"What are you doing?" Raven shouted.

I shook water droplets from my hair and laughed. I felt free and wildly alive in a way I never had imagined I would in this place.

Everything was beautiful.

Raven was beautiful. His hair was long and black, his skin ivory-pale, hard, and stretched scarce across the bones of his face.

Funny I had never really thought of him this way before. I had held him in awe as our leader: his beauty was cold and harsh.

Now a light crept into his eyes. Dared I believe my antics amused him?

I rose from the chilly water. It streamed around me in dozens of rivulets, thrilling me with the icy touch of wet and wind.

He stared as I waded toward him.

If anyone ever wants to know what are my two greatest influences as a writer, they are: The King of the Castle, by Victoria Holt, and Morwenna, by Anne Goring. They are the two first gothic romance novels I ever read, at an age when I knew nothing about the genre. I may have read books since those that are "better," but being the first, they touched my heart with wonder and inspiration so that I absorbed ever detail.

I read Morwenna when I was in the fourth grade. That seems like an age ago, but I remember distinctly the afternoons recesses I spent on the playground reading. As a book it was too advanced for me, but my mind recorded strong impressions from it, high emotions that I have since imparted into my writing.

Both books found me in mysterious ways. I would never, ever think of getting rid of either of them. They are like spiritual objects for me. If I realize I've forgotten the plot of one, I read it again-- and I've read each of them several times. I realized today that they have become part of my mind and my life-- perhaps not so much for their content, or their superiority in the genre, but because of the impressionable age at which I read them.

Just now I was looking for a book to read in transit this evening. Morwenna presented itself to me immediately. As I looked at the back, I read of the lone rider nearly trampling the hapless girl in her childhood-- and I remembered the awe and subversive delight when I recognized her growing love for this fierce, villainous man.

I remembered how Charles nearly tramples Jenny in the driveway when she's running to Raven Oaks one night in desperation and know I drew from that scene, even though it's been years since I've read Morwenna and have no conscious recollection of the scene. I resurrect these scenes not to plaigarize, but because I want to experience them again. Because what my characters experience becomes what I experience. I write the same stories over and over again not because my imagination is limited, but because there are certain places I need to enter again and again.

I also want to mention that every single bit of my writing is stored on a thumb drive in a dark basket next to my desk. If anything happens to me someone needs to keep this.

"I used to wish that I could see pictures with my hands as I do statues, but now I do not often think about it because my dear Father has filled my mind with beautiful pictures, even of things I cannot see. If the light were not in your eyes, dear Mr. Brooks, you would understand better how happy your little Helen was when her teacher explained to her that the best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen nor even touched, but just felt in the heart."

Helen Keller to Rev. Phillip Brooks, June 8, 1891

We met this way for a while. I did not give Gauvain the slightest indication of how I spent my afternoons. I had long been accustomed to my freedom, and he did not think to question it now. Oskar took care to avoid me on any other occasion than our meeting at the summerhouse.

Our friendship was innocent; yet I feared Gauvain would disapprove and take him from me, as our mother once had.

When I was not with Oskar, I kept my daily piano-practice and occasional meetings with tutors and the doctor. He noted my improvement, told Gauvain I was getting exercise, and that I ought to keep my present routine. Gauvain was gratified, and I was elated—I knew he would not keep me from wandering wherever I would. I felt deeply that I deceived my brother, and should he learn the true nature of my wanderings in the wood, he would be smote, and the bond between us disengaged forever.

One morning tucked beneath my breakfast plate was a letter from Oskar, which changed the nature of feelings between us for good.

I still bear the much-read letter and copy as he wrote,

“Dearest Oriente,

“When we are not together, you bear for me equal beauty and fascination. I find myself unable to reconcile the affection I now hold for you with the matchless friendship we once shared. You were once my companion—now you occupy my entire heart—the sole living being that I love. If you share none of my feelings—which surely by now you must have guessed—you will find my declaration repugnant. Far better that it be borne in the silence of a letter.

“If you meet with me once more, you will hear it again, expounded upon more persuasively, if not more gracefully, with the adoration of my eye and tenderness of my touch. Now you know that every sentiment I bore you was visited with this passion. You must tell me whether my friendship be false or true to your own. If we do not feel the same, we should meet no more.

“With all of my heart,

Oskar.”

I was frightened by his letter. I knew my own passion for him. I never anticipated he would match it—perhaps surmount it. To love him at arm’s length was not alarming to my conscience, but to have the object of my devotion as my own was almost unconjurable. I almost feared him—knowing when I saw him all his passion would be writ upon his face.

I sensed I opened a door, and moved into another room—in darkness, without benefit of knowing what lie within.

The doctor was delayed from his scheduled visit that morning, and I was forced to remain in the house for him that afternoon. I pressed Oskar’s letter to my agonized heart and gazed out the window unseeing—knowing, at the very moment, he must be waiting for me in the summerhouse. My absence would smite him, and yet, how could I visit him with this fear?

Finally the doctor arrived and studied me at length. His pronouncement was not as enthusiastic as I expected. While my strength and color were good, there were sounds that the infestation in my lungs still held—and my breath was weakening.

The shadow that had hung over me in childhood yet returned. I felt wild. He wanted to see me again—soon. He went to the next room to speak with Gauvain and I crept to the door, listened attentively.

“Her lung disease is worsening. The diverse things in the air which once promised health may be her undoing. She weakens, and I fear she will relapse to her former state. You must know that others who have fallen back in such a way have never risen more.”

I was stricken by his words. I did not stay to hear Gauvain’s reply. I fled from the hateful doctor. I flung open the porch doors and breathed fresh air. How could natural things murder me?

It was now twilight—long, long past my meeting-hour with Oskar. I flung a hood over my head and hurried from the burg, as though pursued.

The summer air was warm and balmy. Insects clattered and whirred in the high grass as I crept into the woods. I was aware of every sight and smell; my senses heightened with my emotions, I noticed the slant of the fast-vanishing sun, felt dew and sticky pods clinging to my stockings.

I approached the summerhouse, my breath held. I saw Oskar’s dusky head lean against a pillar.

He gave no indication of hearing my approach. I stepped in the doorway, pushing the hood from my spilling hair. He looked up, saw me in the near-darkness.

I crouched near him and pressed his hand to my tumultuous breast. Tears spilled from my eyes; I caressed his face, his hair, willing him to understand that I reciprocated his every sentiment.

He gathered me close in the enveloping darkness. His face was clouded with urgency and fear. I shook my head, willing him to forget my evident sorrow. I held him and indulged myself in loving him unreservedly.

Labels: excerpt, The Soul of the Rose

I have been feeling anxiety about flying, and this site has helped. I am quitting at Lesson 2 tonight because I'm too tired to pay any more attention, but I plan on taking this up again tomorrow. I already feel calmer and more confident.

I also got bored from it and started making a new Livejournal icon and coming up with a new name, so I know I can't be feeling that bad.

Due to our leader’s ambition we traveled too far. We must be long past the Northwest Passage, past Quebec, past all known civilization in a world of snow and ice whose power lie not in resource, but in intimidation.

Stark fear overwhelmed me as I beheld for the first time the black rocks streaked with white. Our ship skimmed slowly and relentlessly toward a perilously rocky shore. I wanted to beg a halt to the proceedings, but I was a mere particle in the complicated network of our society.

The barren taiga gradually emerging in the mist promised no sustaining nourishment, nor relief from the pervading cold. We were to be sacrificed to our leader’s ambition.

I kept my mutinous thoughts to myself as I watched men preparing to anchor the ship.

I posed a question to Yahoo! Answers here. So far Tina's answer is best. Those others don't sound correct. I believe my use described falls under Fair Use. It's not plaigarism to display someone else's work as their own; and depending on the publisher or author's response, one might not have to pay a royalty, especially for old work in a non-profit situation.

I finally finished typing up A Strange Land today. I had no idea I wrote so much of the novel out. I have no memory of doing this. I dimly remember sitting at my desk and writing, but it seems like it couldn't have been for the several hours it took to laboriously hand-write this draft. I started a second draft of it-- typing it that time, but never got past the first chapter.

I'm impressed by how much I knew back then, and aghast by how much I didn't know. My understanding of Islamic culture was book-based only; whatever wasn't mentioned in my books I didn't know. I appreciate that a World Book isn't sufficient research to write a novel about a completely different culture.

However, my characters are intriguing and really come to life as I recall them. I'm sad for them. I couldn't possibly recreate this wildly inaccurate portrayal of the New World and the Ottoman Empire. There's no way to complete their story. And there's no way to reclaim Givencha's novel-- long-lost. I still remembered the blue flowered journal in which it was written.

Rewritten in 2004 from my original manuscript, A Strange Land.

Chapter One

Fatimah schooled herself from tears and pulled herself up to the dignity befitting her station. She stared at the oppressing crowd with a sense of triumph glowing in her eyes. Her fisted hand trembled as though it held a lightning bolt.

In truth Fatimah was conquered and humiliated, but inward pride kept her from resigning her spirit to the auction block. She glanced sideways at the other slaves. Some of their faces were angry, some tear-marked and resigned. It made Fatimah tremble with rage.

She was bought. Marcus Vernaducci, a purchaser who often came to auctions, assessed her briefly, liked her, and bought her for substantial gold from her slaver, who was well-pleased by the patronage of one of the wealthiest plantation owners in the New World.

Some of the other slaves shouted at Fatimah in Arabic as her owner led her down the auction block on a rope.

"You are well-worth the price, beauty," one taunted her.

"Vernaducci will get his money's worth from you."

"If we were back on golden sand, you would be dead for your insults," Fatimah snarled back, unable to help herself from returning their taunts.

But if they were back in Persia, none of them would even know Fatimah's looks. Her face would still be beneath a modest veil, her body in robes.

Her father's betrayer had made a serious mistake, Fatimah reflected. He had sold a slaver a viper, though they both mistook her for a lamb. The man who had murdered her prince father would die by her hand.

She heard other insults once she was pressed into the manor with Vernaducci's new slaves. These insults were in Italian, a language Fatimah scarcely understood, though the underlying growl beneath them was universal communication.

Fatimah looked among the other slaves for an ally. There was strength in numbers. Surely there was another viper among them who would be glad to strike at his oppressor.

The ugly Italian man who held her wrists jerked her, and Fatimah snarled at him. "My legs are not as long as yours, cheese-fattened pig. You have a care with me."

A large old woman at Fatimah's side leaned close to her ear. "He does not know what you say, child. And take care never to speak so in his language. He will beat you or worse." The black woman gave her a censuring look. "You must not look so prideful at your master."

"My master, my father, is in the grave," Fatimah said coolly, though she refrained from spatting further and alienating her tentative ally. "This uncivilized Italian will never master me."

The black woman spoke heavily accented Arabic. Her features were somewhat Egyptian, suggesting she was of mixed blood. Before Fatimah could speak to her further, they were separated.

I have been experiencing enormous wildlife problems since my lifestyle change. So far, we've found a scorpion in the house; a band of raccoons stole all the bread I left on the porch for the birds last night, and had the nerve to come to the glass to look at us in the living room.

This morning tops it off though. Just now some squirrels were fighting on the porch and crashed into our screen, nearly toppling it. This threw Henry into a frenzy, from which he has still not recovered-- and I closed the door immediately.

These animals treat our porch just like it's their tree or den. What's up with that? And they are not nearly as afraid of us as they ought to be. I thought I missed the country, but right now I don't think I'd be much closer to nature in a log cabin, or even a tent.

For the most part I feel very embarrassed going through my old writing, especially the writing I did by hand. My huge, round handwriting in mostly purple ink looks so gauche, and some of the things I wrote are mortifying.

I feel a stubbornness, however, about maintaining my old work. It's almost an affirmation to myself. I know the things I write now will seem stupid and inexperienced twenty years from now. How will I feel knowing forty-seven year old Amanda may carelessly toss out these journals and files on which I have poured my heart's blood? (Forty-seven year old Amanda...) I can't write with true faith in that case.

Rather than keep the embarrassing papers around, however, I am typing it all up. I type fast, so it goes quickly and gives me a chance to re-read these old notes as I go. I find once it's all typed up, it doesn't look nearly as dumb. Some of it is even clever.

Like my Turkey Encyclopedia. I was enamored with the Ottoman Empire in my adolescence and wrote and planned for a kind of trilogy-- it was and still is my way to tell a story, and then make subsequent stories about the backstory.

In this instance one story was about an Arabian princess enslaved in the American South, the close relationship she develops with her tempestuous mistress and her romance with a Native American, and the mistress Givencha's story-- then the story of all that befalls her once she is restored to her kingdom and meets her betrothed Prince Jamal.

Despite wild logistical inaccuracies in the plot, I researched the Middle Eastern setting quite thoroughly. I was in love with all things Mediterranean and even made plans at some point to study the Turkish language (We are all so ambitious at twelve). I put together an alphabetized series of notes on the Middle East which typed up looks cute and clever. It's special too now that I've seen more of the world (okay, not very much more), to have seen the art and eaten the kinds of food I described in my notes.

My planned tasks got taken over today by my passion to build a Zebra gothic database. A few years ago I started a list which today I converted to Excel and expanded-- and I am still adding titles.

I developed a passion for these books when they first came out. I remember seeing them in Murder by the Book, a book store I frequented with my aunt in the early 1990's. She was only too willing to buy me any mystery novel I liked-- but I had never succeeded in replicating her taste for mysteries, and my fancy strayed instead to these florid, dramatic covers. My aunt refused to buy me any-- little did she know she was fanning the flames of my deep passion for gothic romance, which has far eclipsed my interest in any other genre fiction.

When the Zebra gothics appeared on the secondhand market years later, I collected and read through them rapidly. I did not appreciate the fact that as years advanced, they would grow scarce. Unlike the 1970's gothics, these books have no collectible value and are nearly worthless. Some, I have no doubt, have been destroyed by secondhand booksellers.

As a tool for myself and as assistance to anyone else collecting these novels, I am building a spreadsheet, which will eventually have a dedicated page. Unlike the Sunfire or Victoria Holt series, I have no means of verifying that I have catalogued every book. I will also scan the cover and rear summary, since I find those invaluable in determining if I have read a book, and also because in their own right, they are pretty amazing, sometimes amazingly awful.

Site summary to be modified: Zebra Gothics; core group of authors, diverse locales, traditional gothic format. Some novels are counted among my favorite; some formulaic and awful; some seem accountable for outright plaigarism. The covers: some strikingly beautiful, some hilariously horrifying, a great archive of late 1980's, early 1990's re-interpretation of historical dress. Captures the gothic grotesque in more ways than one.

...is far more erotic than mine. I bow to a master.

Everything favoured my journey. The balloon rose about half a mile from the earth, and with a favourable wind it hurried through the air, its feathered vans cleaving the unopposing atmosphere. Notwithstanding the melancholy object of my journey, my spirits were exhilarated by reviving hope, by the swift motion of the airy pinnace, and the balmy visitation of the sunny air. The pilot hardly moved the plumed steerage, and the slender mechanism of the wings, wide unfurled, gave forth a murmuring noise, soothing to the sense. Plain and hill, stream and corn-field, were discernible below, while we unimpeded sped on swift and secure, as a wild swan in his spring-tide flight. The machine obeyed the slightest motion of the helm; and, the wind blowing steadily, there was no let or obstacle to our course. Such was the power of man over the elements; a power long sought, and lately won; yet foretold in by-gone time by the prince of poets, whose verses I quoted much to the astonishment of my pilot, when I told him how many hundred years ago they had been written:--

Oh! human wit, thou can'st invent much ill,
Thou searchest strange arts: who would think by skill,
An heavy man like a light bird should stray,
And through the empty heavens find a way?

I alighted at Perth; and, though much fatigued by a constant exposure to the air for many hours, I would not rest, but merely altering my mode of conveyance, I went by land instead of air, to Dunkeld. The sun was rising as I entered the opening of the hills. After the revolution of ages Birnam hill was again covered with a young forest, while more aged pines, planted at the very commencement of the nineteenth century by the then Duke ofAthol, gave solemnity and beauty to the scene. The rising sun first tinged the pine tops; and my mind, rendered through my mountain education deeply susceptible of the graces of nature, and now on the eve of again beholding my beloved and perhaps dying friend, was strangely influenced by the sight of those distant beams: surely they were ominous, and as such I regarded them, good omens for Adrian, on whose life my happiness depended.

Poor fellow! he lay stretched on a bed of sickness, his cheeks glowing with the hues of fever, his eyes half closed, his breath irregular and difficult. Yet it was less painful to see him thus, than to find him fulfilling the animal functions uninterruptedly, his mind sick the while. I established myself at his bedside; I never quitted it day or night. Bitter task was it, to behold his spirit waver between death and life: to see his warm cheek, and know that the very fire which burned too fiercely there, was consuming the vital fuel; to hear his moaning voice, which might never again articulate words of love and wisdom; to witness the ineffectual motions of his limbs, soon to be wrapt in their mortal shroud. Such for three days and nights appeared the consummation which fate had decreed for my labours, and I became haggard and spectre-like, through anxiety and watching. At length his eyes unclosed faintly, yet with a look of returning life; he became pale and weak; but the rigidity of his features was softened by approaching convalescence. He knew me. What a brimful cup of joyful agony it was, when his face first gleamed with the glance of recognition--when he pressed my hand, now more fevered than his own, and when he pronounced my name! No trace of his past insanity remained, to dash my joy with sorrow.

I traveled exhaustively to Dunkeld, all the while Lord Raymond’s words ringing in my ears. Mad… It couldn’t be true. Adrian’s mind was a temple of virtues, strength not the least. How could he have shaped me from the roaming beast I was once, if not with intractable strength? His logic was impenetrable, his philosophies sublime.

Destitute, heartbroken… perhaps, but mad, never. The lady Evadne had left his heart a wasteland with her evasion and preference for one so ill-formed as Lord Raymond. Yet I reminded myself this wreck was now the mate of my beloved Perdita. A brother of mine, in fact. If I were true to myself I would admit that Lord Raymond completed Perdita, whom I had long despaired of finding perfect happiness in another.

Adrian had once tamed my wildness; but no one had tamed Perdita, nor had she found solace in the company of another till she met Lord Raymond. Perhaps his half-wildness would content her.

My once-fervor for the Lady Idris now fell away as I felt myself closer and closer to the object of my pursuit. I occupied myself on the desolate roads imagining where and how I would find him, planned a recourse of ministry should he require aid, and dreamed of the thousand things I should relate to him of London, since he had deserted her.

On reaching Dunkeld, I inquired at an inn for Adrian’s whereabouts. The tavern guests were intrigued by my pursuit. They knew well enough of Adrian, of course, the first child of the ex-queen who was driven from London by Lord Raymond, who was languishing from a broken heart—all heresay, and, I was determined to prove, all false.

Adrian had let an old manor from a once-prolific family, of which one aged member remained. The house and grounds were said to be utter squalor, but for me and for Adrian, I was sure, Nature’s squalor was but Nature’s Paradise. If it were madness to live in contemplative solitude in a palace where She reigned, I would surrender myself willingly to the appellation.

As the residents obliged me with directions to the home, I knew a thrill—I would reach Adrian before nightfall. I set on immediately, my flagging spirits quenched and renewed utterly with this knowledge.

The manor house was surrounded by a high spiked fence nearly dismantled by thick, woody vines. The gate was ajar. I rode through without need to adjust it, and observed by its appearance that it had been neither opened nor closed in a number of years.

The property was encompassed in a heavy thicket. The trees grew so close that I was encased in immediate gloom. The coolness and a lingering mist on the ground gave me an eerie feeling which only increased as twilight advanced. I followed the ill-used road round bend and curve, yet saw no sign of the dilapidated manor house.

A smell assaulted me which at first I could not name. I was daunted but continued my quest till at length, from the top of a hill, I viewed a black wreck on the horizon. My blood congealed as I recognized the manor where Adrian was purported to live. I half-collapsed from my horse and left it to graze as I stumbled forth, down the hill where the odor was stronger. I fancied the air was clouded with ashes. My senses reeled as I fell to my knees in the grass and viewed the charred remains.

“Adrian,” I whispered, breathed, as a prayer.

I was insensible. I marked not the passage of time as I lay in the grass and cursed myself for abandoning Adrian to others who could not love him as well as myself; he had sent me away, ‘twas true, but I had given myself to my station and the lifestyle it entailed without more than passing gratitude to my benefactor. I would never be able to show him what I had made of myself, or tell him that I had abandoned my position as ambassador to drink more from the well of knowledge only he could provide. I had not found another master; those in the City were too corruptive. Adrian alone was the guide of my life.

Darkness fell. I slept, yet was fitful and my mind disquiet. I fancied shades visited me. I heard whispers in the trees. The smell of charred furniture filled my nostrils, choking me, yet I could not drag myself from the site the Earl was supposed to inhabit.

I murmured his name dreamily as the smell of flowers came over me. The gradual sunlight behind my eyelids was as the golden corona of his curls. If his ghost remained in these parts, so too would I linger.

“Lionel, be still,” I heard his melodious chanson. “You’re not well.”

Could it be? I knew I dreamed as I beheld him before me in a flower-strewn field, as Lord Raymond had described to me. Mad, wild, abandoned to society and every bit the savage he had found me at the inception of our companionship.

“You live,” I said.

“Of course I live. You are in a fever. Let me bring you to my shelter. You should not sit near the ashes. I will explain all that has passed to you when you are restored.”

“I have no fever. I was lost to myself when I feared you dead. I saw the manor burned and thought you with it.” I passed a hand over his face to reassure myself he was no figment.

He caught my fingers in his and held them to his cheek. “Lionel,” he said briefly, “you must put aside these passing fancies.” But I saw that his cheek glowed with sudden fire; his eyes avoided mine, and when I sought them, I found in their gray depths a smouldering bed of mysterious sensibility. I no more understood the dual joy and despair in his expression than the impartial dexterity with which he handled me while transporting me to his crude shelter.

“You will find him at Dunkeld; gentle and tractable he wanders up the hills, and through the wood, or sits listening beside the waterfall. You may see him--his hair stuck with wild flowers--his eyes full of untraceable meaning--his voice broken--his person wasted to a shadow. He plucks flowers and weeds, and weaves chaplets of them, or sails yellow leaves and bits of bark on the stream, rejoicing in their safety, or weeping at their wreck.” From The Last Man

“…the poet would take a fleet of paper boats, prepared for him by Mary, to sail in the pond, or he would twist paper up to serve the purpose--it must have been a relaxation from his projects of Reform.” From Mrs. Shelley

I have not read past this portion of The Last Man, but the description of the exiled Earl in his madness reminded me poignantly of Ophelia. The narrator, Lionel, is about to embark on a quest to restore the Earl, who is rumored to be held captive. Lionel was formerly a ruffian restored to goodness by Adrian’s benevolent influence, and there followed an intense friendship between them. Lionel has not seen Adrian for some years.

In addition, the passage reminded me of something I read in Mrs. Shelley. According to the author, the character Adrian was much fashioned after Shelley. I actually find the resemblance smacks one in the head at times.

The story enters my imagination so that I find myself with a clear and ready scene of what I would like to happen when Lionel finds Adrian. My scene is so clear to me that I wonder what it will be like to read what really happens.

I guess this would be yaoi fan fiction of Mary Shelley's The Last Man. I wonder if I am the first person to ever write such a thing.

If I ever become an English professor, one of my first tasks will be to refocus literature, especially fantasy literature, to the great early novels.

I don't understand why The Last Man lies in obscurity. It's a compelling novel I can't stop reading. It invents science fiction fantasy. It's so cinematic I could write the screenplay myself. To say I like it better than Frankenstein is an understatement.

I find myself thinking of Adrian and Lionel, Perdita, Idris, like fragments of Mary Shelley's life in a mixed-up dream world.

It's what I always wanted a futuristic novel to be.

Yesterday we set Arthur free. We opened the cage: it took a while for him to come out. Once he did so, he flew directly into the trees till we couldn't see him anymore-- no hesitation.

I'm glad he's gone. He hasn't become more discontent: only that he has never settled into his cage. Wherever he is and whatever happens to him, I know he's far happier than when caged.

I was only beginning to understand the attributes on which I, imperfect and unworthy creature, had been bestowed.

All who saw me swore I was perfect loveliness. Gauvain, now my champion, claimed my beauty to be remarkable and I, bewildered as I was mute and disabled, could only accept the compliments and fealty with bewilderment.

It was not till I saw Oskar once more that I loved. Then I looked into the mirror with changed eyes, anxious to please his gaze.

He came to the castle looking for work. My brother assigned him to the winery. The old winemaster needed replacement and was anxious to confer his trade while he still retained strength.

Oskar worked intently. There was a hard, near cruel determination in his face that affected me keenly. I little knew the same determination was writ on my features time to time, and derived from the same paternal source.

Days passed, and he never came near the house. Could it be that he had forgotten me?

I contrived to make myself known to him.

There was a summerhouse I liked to visit when the weather was warm. In these days my illness was in remission and I no longer had need for a wheelchair. I walked as often as I could to retain my strength and managed quite admirably with a cane.

The summerhouse was long abandoned, but had captured my fancy in the past year, which was wont to prey on all things morbid and melancholy.

Oskar worked in the field all day beneath the blazing sun; I cast him a look as I made my way languorously toward the woods. He stopped what he did to meet my gaze. My look was reserved, yet my face grew hot when he looked upon me. I knew at once that he remembered me.

The look of startled joy writ on his features induced in me an answering rapture. He knew me—he might even share a small part of the anxiety in my breast which had not settled since his return. I had just opened a Pandora’s box and was afraid of the unfamiliar sentiments that drifted unfettered.

I moved quickly to my accustomed summerhouse, unable to tamp down the blaze of joy writ across my face. He had looked fondly on me. I could think of nothing else as I settled the mantle from my shoulders and arrayed myself on the moldering boards to view nature.

Footsteps on the forest path brought me to awareness. I felt it was a miracle which had induced Oskar to leave his work and follow me here. I stared at him with blazing eyes. Suddenly I was very afraid—but mingled with fear was an excitement that shook me with its violence.

He took my hands. “Oriente, dear—“ He kissed my face.

I stared at him, tears dropping unheeded to our clasped hands. Unable to plague him with the questions foremost in my mind, I merely watched him tenderly.

“You wonder why I am returned—I would not dwell on such depressing stuff for all the world. Let me look at you. I never dreamed you would grow so beautiful.”

His unguarded tongue embarrassed me, and my face grew hot.

I had always felt doubt that Oskar’s ardor could equal mine. In our childhood, I needed him in ways he would never need me. I was disabled, limited, speechless—scarcely a fit companion for one so energetic and imaginative as himself. I believed that his friendship for me, founded in kindness, must dissipate without underlying passion of its own.

Whether or not there was truth in my assumption, I understood now we were on equal footing. Something existed between us which made words needless—and we were no longer children who needed to run.

He told me odd, disjointed stories of where he had been and what he had seen when he had been away. His mother was now dead. His eyes told me, when his words did not, that he had known little happiness since leaving the burg. I did not understand on what terms he now remained, but I believed it was for good, and my joy was boundless.

Labels: excerpt, The Soul of the Rose

I was faced with a mask of death, and I did not cower from it. I did not shun it: instead death became a companion for me, an instigator, for with each breath I took I was compelled to grasp more and more of life.

My former perspective fell away. Others thought I was changed, but I felt for the first time as though I commanded myself.

I discarded all conventions and rules. I would do what I wanted to do.

I have always had a secret love for wickedness, which perhaps lends credibility to the wrongful acts I have knowingly committed. Yet in the face of death I cannot say any repentance for them. My outcome would be the same; I would still lay slowly dying whether or no I had ventured to these lonely but alluring precipices.

When I was very young, there was a boy who was called upon to push my chair. Any reluctance a boy would feel to be at the disposal of one of the sex who, at his age, must have seemed alien and repulsive, was concealed in a face full of Christian love and duty.

He made me forget my misfortunes. He offered me friendship and I took it, and in my loneliness I insisted on having all of him, and he gave it to me. Oskar became my playmate, my solace, and despite my infirmities he made me feel as though I reciprocated all of the glorious felicity he bestowed on me.

Certain facts I always knew: that Oskar's mother was a servant who lived in a secluded cottage on the estate, that my mother disliked her. Without warning or commotion which might be expected to precede such an act, my mother removed Oskar and his mother from the premises.

I learned only through the whispers of servants he was gone: we were removed from one another at the time of the decision, never to say even a farewell.

My indignation was paramount. That the being who offered me every happiness I possessed should be removed from me on account of some reasoning I sensed innately was evil, impacted my character dreadfully. I was unmanageable to all, at first on hope that it would compel my boy's return and then, when I lost hope, I was even evil.

The next to push my chair was a young, pretty servant named Gervaise. Her replacement I could not accept: I devised all manner of torment to defer her. She expected and thwarted me easily, making me aware of my deficiencies so that I despised her.

My mother drifted from me, and I never stopped hating her till her death, when my hatred dissipated into a sterile, unreasoning pain nothing would ever lift.

My brother Gauvain relieved Gervaise of her duties eventually. He sensed my unabsolvable loneliness and tried to be to me as my Oskar was: but it could never be.

It was not till much later I learned the things which had contrived to Oskar's and his mother's dismissal. As I mentioned, I have no deference for the conventions of this society, and it did not matter to me if my feelings or actions were unacceptable.

It was soon after my father's death that Oskar returned to the estate. I was nineteen at that time.

Labels: excerpt, The Soul of the Rose

I dreamed of snakes last night. One, and two, all around Nathan and I. We held hands and tried to move between them. Several of them were coral snakes and king snakes. We tried desperately to tell the difference between them. Then we realized we were barefoot. Red and black, friend to Jack, I recited, then realized most of the snakes in question were coral snakes.

I bought some things from Vermont Trading Co. last night: popcorn plisse bedspread and shams with satin champagne ruffle, a Betty Crocker meals for two cookbook and a cobblerette apron.

I realized yesterday that I have a lot of aprons: two made by me, one made by mother and one made by great-grandmother, one from Cafe de France (belongs to Nathan) and the cobblerette coming in. I have plans to display all of them. I also realized that I know more about aprons, and refect on aprons, probably more than the average human.

Country Style advocates one "finding" oneself collecting things. Can it be that I am an apron connoisseur?

I have been forming what I call my transitory schedule. I am entering a bridge of time to reflect and reconnect with my true desires.

However, I intend most of this time to be spent organizing our home to its optimum, ridding our closets of all that is unnecessary to our existence, selling many things, and creating new systems to filter incoming items. Even if we don't stay here for long, my system will move with us, and we will have a great deal less to move.

I don't think that my writing will constitute more of my life than it does already. I will continue to make my writing hour: the luxury of which will be elasticity. No longer will I have to tear myself away.

I am watching State Fair right now and love it. The dresses are dreamy, possibly even more to my taste than Babes in Toyland, since more subdued. I have a special love for almost every era, in particular: the '10's, '20's, '40's, '50's, '70's, '90's. The '30's I don't like much.

I finished Mrs. Shelley at lunch today, excellent. I feel like I am more intimate with the Shelleys than just about any living person on earth, thanks to my extensive reading.

I have not been able to define the source of my fascination, and so it seems to continue as I complete Shelley's correspondence, and begin Mary's novel, The Last Man.