Writing a novel is like driving your car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole journey that way.
– E. L. Doctorow
Characters are obliged to act according to the laws of the world in which they live. In other words, the narrator is a prisoner of his own premises.
- Umberto Eco
Am I some dancing Lancelot who only falls in love
with the woman who belongs to someone else?
Is it just the blood of Paris running through my veins
that sees a taken woman, and myself I can’t restrain?
Is this knight of cups in his noble stance
just a jack of clubs with an eye askance
at the queen of hearts in her royal blue?
I may shield the poor, but I can’t save you…
Known variously as “Guinevere” or “Lancelot’s Tune.” I love the deftness of its imagery. I first heard Lucy Kaplansky sing it, but it turns out she’s covering a song created by The Buskin and Batteau Trio.
The exchange that encapsulates why this particular relationship worked. From These Happy Golden Years by Laura Ingalls Wilder.
Laura hurried, but the colts were pawing and prancing impatiently when she came. Almanzo was holding them with both hands, and said to her, “Sorry I can’t help you,” as she got herself into the cutter. As soon as she was seated, they dashed away down the street.
No one else was out driving, so the street was clear as the colts fought to break away from Almanzo’s grip on the lines. Far out on the road south of town they went on racing.
Laura sat quietly watching their flying feet and laid-back ears. This was fun. It reminded her of a time long ago when she and Cousin Lena let the black ponies run away on the prairie.
… [Almanzo] looked at her curiously. “Do you know there isn’t a man in town besides Cap Garland who will ride behind these colts?” he asked.
“Pa said so,” Laura replied.
“Then why did you come?” Almanzo wanted to know.
“Why, I thought you could drive them,” Laura said in surprise.
More Bujold! This pretty much captures the intersection between poetry and smartassness that makes her writing so delightful.
You’ve won a twisted poor modern knight, to wear your favor on his sleeve. But it’s a twisted poor world we were both born into, that rejects us without mercy and ejects us without consultation. At least I won’t just tilt at windmills for you. I’ll send in sappers to mine the twirling suckers, and blast them into the sky.
- Miles
I’ve recently gotten into Lois McMasters Bujold’s Miles Vorkosigan series. The following quote goes a long way to explaining why.
Welcome to Barrayar, son. Here you go: have a world of wealth and poverty, wrenching change and rooted history. Have a birth; have two. Have a name. Miles means “soldier,” but don’t let the power of suggestion overwhelm you. Have a twisted form in a society that loathes and fears the mutations that have been its deepest agony. Have a title, wealth, power, and all the hatred and envy they will draw. Have your body ripped apart and re-arranged. Inherit an array of friends and enemies you never made. Have a grandfather from hell. Endure pain, find joy, and make your own meaning, because the universe certainly isn’t going to supply it. Always be a moving target. Live. Live. Live.
- Cordelia, Miles’ mother
