'I bow not yet before the Iron Crown, nor cast my own small golden sceptre down. . .'
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Holmes and the Holidays
Saturday, November 28, 2009
My Tardis . . .
I really took this picture when it wasn't quite done--you can see the windows on the right look different from those on the left. But it's all finished now.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Day In My Life (Finally!), Nov. 17
Okay, so I'm going to say that my day on Nov. 17 started at midnight, since I was awake for midnight, and so the day started with me frantically working on a memorial I had to finish writing for my Honors class. We're currently doing a China game, Ming dynasty, and I was one of the first people who had to present a memorial to the Wanli Emperor. Confusing, I know, but anyway. I was probably finishing off my black peach tea about this time too, which had gone cold a while ago. And perhaps listening to music. I had been listening to my Playlist earlier, but I think I might have switched it off around midnight, for fear that it'd lull me to sleep.
Thanks in part to the tea, I managed to stay up long enough to type out and print a respectable essay, but I only finished at four-thirty in the morning. I then snatched two hours of sleep before I had to get up and get to campus for my first class of the morning, Hawaiian Studies at 7:30. I got to the classroom early, but since I was feeling rather ill due to not getting enough sleep, I fell asleep at my desk and napped until class started about a half-hour later.
During Hawaiian class we watched a film about the Bayonet Constitution, and it was very interesting and rather sad, even though I knew the story already. I worked while I watched the film, editing the printed-out version of my speech for Honors, so by the time Hawaiian class finished, the speech was a lot better and quite scribbly and untidy looking.
Then a quick dash across campus--a fifteen-minute speed-walk--to get to Honors class. It was the first day of our China game, so we were still getting used to the new format of things, such as everyone bowing when the 'Emperor' enters the room, and such. I was second to give my speech, in which I had to criticize the Emperor for corruption, and it went pretty well, though my professor told me later that she thought I should have been more aggressive in my condemnation. And there I was thinking I was being too aggressive! I guess I'm just too nice, haha.
After Honors class I went to the Honors Lounge at the library, where I polished up the copy of my memorial that I had on my laptop, Gareth, before emailing it to my professor by the noon deadline. Then I was free for the rest of the day, huzzah, and after grabbing a quick lunch (a turkey wrap, in case you were wondering. Which you probably weren't.) I stood at the bus stop for a broiling fifteen minutes or so before the bus finally showed up.
On the bus, I fell asleep. Told you I was tired. When the bus had reached downtown I woke up a little to discover that there was this guy sitting next to me who hadn't been there when I fell asleep, but I didn't care enough to stay awake, so I napped again. I was awake to get off at my stop, however, and so got back to the apartment at about twelve-thirty.
Once there, things got a little boring, because I just slept for another four hours. Oh, no, wait, I listened to the first few chapters of 'The Lost World' on Librivox first, which was enjoyable. I love that book, and the guy reading did a decent job, even though he didn't have a British accent, heh. I tried to find that 1950's film adaptation online, but failed. Then I fell asleep.
When I woke up it was already dark, which was disorienting because at first I thought I had to get up and go to school and that it was next morning. Ugh.
Spaghetti for dinner, Video-Skyped my family who are on their way to Colorado right now for the Oireachtas, and did Russian homework. Then I hammered out a couple-hundred more words of 'Quinn', which means I'm in double-digit territory at last, but still am miserably far behind from where I need to be. Was a bit too tired for any serious creative work, though, which is why I only got a couple hundred words written. So I finally switched off the brain cells, spent a happy forty-five minutes or so watching 'Midnight' (I had forgotten how good that episode actually was, creeepy and clever), wrote in my journal, and then went back to sleep at about eleven at night.
All in all, it wasn't a bad day, although I always hate staying up all night. My only real regret is that due to my being exhausted I didn't go down to the shopping center to pick up 'Star Trek' on dvd! And after anxiously counting down the days all this time, too! Still, I'll get it soon.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
"The Waters of Mars": My Review
Friday, November 13, 2009
Quinn: An Excerpt (II)
Chapter One.
I am no author, but it comes to my mind that the best way in which to begin the story of a life would be to start at the beginning: that is, at the birth of the subject. Here I am afraid I must already fail you, for I cannot remember the day of my birth, nor the occasion, and have never in all my life found any one who could enlighten me on the subject. In an attempt to save the situation I shall now list the plain facts that I do know, poor as they are, in whatever order that seems to me most logical: 1, that I know I was born a child unwanted, given freely to the orphanage by a hale mother when I was not yet forty-eight hours into this world; 2, that I have never discovered the names of either my mother or my father, nor did they feel it necessary to inform me of mine; 3, that the tender years of my infancy I spent in as much misery as any child can bear, though in better health than many of my fellow orphans, for I have always had a hearty constitution, and 4, I was saved from my purgatory when I was six old, by a man named Gabriel, and brought by him into a new life. Since this is the first true birth of mine that I can recall, it is here that I shall begin my story.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
NaNoWriMo 2009, Update 2
Monday, November 9, 2009
Quinn: An Excerpt (I)
Quinn: Prologue
It had been many years since I had last seen Mr. Julian Quinn, and as is the nature of such flighty things, my memories of him, once so cherished, had long since been forgotten--still there in my mind, surely, firm and unassuming as stones in a riverbed, but softened, worn faded and shapeless, as all things eventually are, by time. Looking down through the flowing waters of fifty years that ran between us, I found them grown smooth also, slipping from my fingers like minnows. Such reminders of age do not rest easily upon me: the sensation of the dull cotton of my brain gathering dust and moonbeams and my bones gathering the cold. So it is that even now that I approach the age at last when a man's best source of entertainment is plumbing for those river stones to examine them anew in the sunset of his days, I have always avoided those sunken memories of the man with an instinct something akin to that of a wary beast still tendering old hurts. And, considering the half-century of silence that I had not been alone in building between us, I suppose he felt something of the same regarding memories of me.
How foolish men are, and old men most of all! When we were boys together, I might have laughed at it--nay, I surely would have made merry over the notion. Now, however, I can see the tragedy of the thing.
It was morning when the letter came, tucked quietly into the packet of the daily post and papers that my youngest granddaughter brought to me in my study. I did not immediately take notice of her arrival, for I was absorbed in my latest writing--a good story, I thought it then, certainly my best since Phoebus. Unlike my old myth fancies and poetic prattlings, however, this was a story set here in my own England, in that place and time when I had been young. Even muses, it would seem, grow tired and begin to yearn for their beginnings again.
Mary greeted me merrily that morning, I remember, lingering a brief spell to keep me company and to clear away the breakfast things that still cluttered my desk; the cold tea dregs and the plate, the knife and the napkin. She had dressed already for work, fresh-faced and bright-eyed, her hair clipped short and curled in the fashion that most pleases women these days, the hem of her grey smock of a dress frisking about her calves. Such a poor thing for women to wear, to my mind, though little Mary is quite proud of it, and indeed that morning her dress’s many black buttons shone like eyes. She had plainly polished them the night before. Those buttons are all the fripperies she and the other women of her age are allowed in these dark days, though they wear them almost as proudly as they flaunt the slimness of their ankles from beneath their dress hems. But still there are times when in my dozing hours I catch like butterflies the memories of silk and lace and taffeta and ribbons, skirts wide and rustling, hair braided and bound and bedecked with flowers, and I think I see my Mary as she should be, as girls her age were in the days of my youth, and then I cannot but pity her. Some thought of this kind was in my mind as I set aside my pen to greet her, and we spoke some little time together. I recall that she spoke something of the cold, as winter drew close, and I teased her gently as was my wont as regarding her ankles, which would have been so scandalous in my own time. She only replied as she did to most things: with a smile that dimpled so deeply, it could have held rainwater. It was a smile like the one I had once smiled as a boy, which may, I suppose, also account for the fondness I have for the child.
And all those careless, precious moments, the letter waited for me, so close I could have touched it without fully extending my arm, and yet I knew nothing of it. It waited silently and patiently, and I felt no such chill or premonition such as I have read of in the old novels; no half-remembered voice whispered to me from within the yellow paper; no unconscious compulsion preyed upon my mind, urging me to open it, to read the words. My life, at least, has never been like a novel, no matter how many I have written.
It was only once Mary had gone that I turned my attention at last to the few letters she had left. She had flung open the shutters at the window to make way for the sunlight, so that the mahogany of my desk that had been so black moments before now bore whorls of red and gold in its glossy heart, and a brilliant white fire was kindled in the reflective sides of my tobacco tin, though the letters remained as they had been, pale and unremarkable. I slit them open methodically but swiftly, impatient to return to my writing, not caring even to glance at the names scribed upon the envelopes themselves, but instead scanning each envelope’s contents swiftly and coming to my own conclusions before I reached each signature.
The third envelope was of excellent quality, doubly impressive in light of the paper shortages, as it seemed to my author’s fingers nearly as thick and sturdy as parchment, and creamy and pleasantly textured. I suppose I fancied it some sort of note from the government, or perhaps from the publishing firm; I do not remember now. I do recall clearly that I slit it open easily enough, withdrew from its chrysalis a single sheet of paper, and tossed the envelope aside to join the other papers in the clutter on my desk. The paper it had borne, in sharp contrast to its elegant wrapping, was a casualty of the war effort, of cheap make and no longer than the span of my hand, and no wider that I could reach from forefinger to thumb. In the corner of the sheet was written the date: 17 October, 1915. Underneath it was an address, a London address, of all places. And there at the top of the page, in the cramped handwriting that had once been as familiar to me as my own breathing, the cramped, precise hand that had so aggravated our schoolmaster when we were boys: My dear John . . .
I have said some memories wear smooth as river stones. Yet there are some, when snatched from the water, which are found to be exactly as they were a thousand years ago--it was only the moss, the distortion of the stream current, the trick of the light glancing from the surface, that made you see them as they never truly were, that made you forget.
My God! How his face was instantly there before me, and not merely his face, but him, the man in his entirety, just as he had been in our glory days as students and young men first stepping out into the world, sharper than I had thought any memory could be, complete from the dark gloss of his carefully curled hair to the scar from a pox in childhood still evident upon his chin to the defensive way he hid his hands deep within his grey trouser pockets. I know not what expression was upon my face then, nor can I recollect leaping to my feet and calling for coat and cab--though my daughter and her family later assured me that I did--so suddenly and completely was my conscious mind overwhelmed and astounded.
Still, it was not many minutes later, I am sure, that I emerged from a state which was probably the closest I have ever come to fainting in all my life to discover myself seated in an electric carriage, rattling over the twisting, sordid byways of old London town, with the cyclists and horse-drawn cabs and heavily bundled pedestrians flashing past. I had no collar at my throat nor hat upon my head; my coat was in a bad state of disarray; and I still clutched the wondrous paper tightly within my fist. I discovered, when I shifted my position and attempted to straighten out my rumpled coat, that my walking stick had been set carefully against my leg. Later I was to discover that I had insisted upon going out alone, saying only that I needed to meet a friend, and that I would not listen to the confused protests of my daughter and her family. They had at last given way to my will, but my daughter had made sure to set the stick in the cab after me, along with a goodly amount of money in my left pocket. I did not much regard it at the time, being so caught up in a sudden boyish spirit of adventure and intent only upon urging the driver to drive faster to the address which I could show him upon the note I held, and to take the shortest way. And always before my eyes like a ghost the face and form of the young Julian Quinn of my boyhood days. It seems absurd to me now that I never once gave a thought to the rather obvious fact that Quinn would have now become an old man even as I have. In my fancy I saw him as he had looked in his student days, when he was as dear to me as though he had been one of my own brothers; I saw him working by candlelight, carefully writing out his letter summoning me back to a happier past, those bitter differences that had broken our friendship in anger showing all forgiven upon his expressive brow, and his ugly hand firmly signing the letter, Julian Quinn.
Once the long-suffering little man at the wheel had managed to convince me that he could urge the vehicle no swifter than he had already urged it, and that he was certain of the address and we should get there in the speediest possible time, I turned my attention at last to Quinn’s note, and read once and then again the actual body of the words he had written to me, as I had not managed to get past the opening salutation previously. It is strange that I should have recognized his hand so easily and immediately in the characters of my name, written firmly on the penny paper with a pen that was obviously old, by the way the ink sputtered and bled and then ran dry upon the page. The poor ink-flow rendered his handwriting, which had always been notorious among acquaintances for its illegibleness, nigh impossible to puzzle out, and not all of that was due entirely to the pen. Age was evident in his lettering just as I had noticed it becoming evident in mine. Still, it had been enough, and as I puzzled eagerly through his words now in their entirety I became aware suddenly for the first time of their import and meaning. I set out here for the reader’s benefit the letter in full, copied directly from the original by my own hand.
My dear John, it began; My dear John, pray do not be alarmed that I should choose to write to you now after so many countless years of silence. I had no other recourse left to me, now that Diana has died. These past four months have been a misery and a torment to me, and I have no one at all left to me in all this wide world save you alone, an unhappy truth that I hope you will forgive me for burdening you with. It is this loneliness, this strange emptiness of the mind, that weighs most heavily upon me all these dreary days, and the screaming of the sirens and the smoke rising from grand old Europa do nothing to give me peace. I wish I could speak to you again in person, John. It would be such a comfort to me. Yet in my heart I believe--nay, I know--that this is after all the best method of conveying my farewells to you, for ever were you too stubborn for your own good. You would not understand if I were to appear upon your doorstep only to bid you farewell, and I am afraid that perhaps my own courage could not withstand the ordeal. It is easier to explain myself thus, with pen and ink and paper, not having to see your expression as I confess myself.
John, when you read these words, I shall be dead.
Do not mourn for me, my dear fellow; I have been far too poor a friend to you for any tears. If, however, you cherish at all any part of our friendship that once was, I entreat you to take the key I shall enclose with this note and go swift as you can to the address indicated upon the back of this sheet. The door you shall find awaiting you there will open to the key. Upon the table you will see to your left, you will find a manuscript. This too is waiting for you, John. It is all I have to bequeath, and there is no other man left living in this world to whom I can bequeath it, nor indeed to whom I would wish to bequeath it. Do with it as you will--burn it, print it, bury it, but only first swear to me that you shall read it. It is a hard thing to die alone, and it will be a comfort to me to know that there will be a man left living after me who will know the truth of my life, and perhaps find some gladness in it. This is perhaps only the flattering of an old man’s vanity, but I shall sleep the easier for it.
I remain, sir, your servant,
Julian Quinn
PS-. If I might make so bold as to make one last request of you, John--Diana lies buried in the _______ cemetery, beneath the ash sapling on the west side, and beside her lies my father in his grave. If you would visit every so often to think of them, and pray for me, I should be ever grateful. J.Q.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Remember, Remember, the Fifth of November
As I promised those of you who know me not only on blogger but also on facebook, in honor of Guy Fawkes Day I've decided to post here the essay I wrote about him last semester for history class. I had to give a big presentation as well as write the speech, and the paper was an accompaniment to the presentation, so I do not go into as much detail as I could have regarding the intricacies of the plot, the fate of the conspirators, subsequent history, etc. Instead, I focused on one theme, namely, how the story has ben remembered over the centuries. I believe the paper and presentation got an A; I don't much remember the writing of it, as I was too busy panicking and running out of time, hehe. As I do not have the smarts or the memory to recreate my powerpoint presentation below, I have instead taken a lot of the material I used in my presentation, such as weblinks and photographs, and am presenting them again with many of the same points made, but I think with a slightly snarkier attitude. I haven't had much sleep recently, and my inner sarcasm-beast is a bit more alert than usual.
All of the below is copyright to me. Except the poem, which is of course a folk song.
Guy Fawkes: How the Gunpowder Plot is Remembered
‘Remember, remember, the Fifth of November,
Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.
I see no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t’was his intent
To blow up King and Parli’ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England’s overthrow;
By God’s providence he was catch’d
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!’
The British nursery rhyme generally known by the repetitive, sing-song title of ‘Remember, Remember’ has no certain date of origin, although there is evidence that it has existed as a popular song since at least 1850, when The Times reported on people chanting ‘Remember, remember, the 5th of November,/ The Gunpowder Treason and Plot’ in the streets of London (1). Likewise, the author of the poem is unknown, but his purpose in composing ‘Remember, Remember’ is clear: the verse is a reminder of the discovery and thwarting of the Gunpowder Plot, a seventeenth century terrorist plot which, if left undiscovered, would have destroyed Britain’s government. The Plot is curiously little-remembered outside of England, but in England the event is still extremely important, as evidenced by a macabre national holiday known as Guy Fawkes Day, the festivities which take place then, and of course the aforementioned children’s poem. What is ironic, however, is that the Gunpowder Plot and Guy Fawkes himself are remembered erroneously in modern Britain. This scrap of simple rhyme which is taught to first year students throughout the country represents a purposefully faulty national memory which calls into question the very nature of remembering, and thereby the nature of history itself.
The roots of what would become the Gunpowder Plot first sprouted in 1603, from the mind of a young British nobleman named not Guy Fawkes, but Robert Catesby. Catesby was a Catholic, as were all the men who were eventually to join him in conspiracy, Fawkes being one of these. The sixteenth century was a time of religious turmoil and strife in Britain, first with the persecution of Protestants during the reign of Mary Tudor, then followed by the reciprocal persecution of Catholics during the reign of Mary’s Protestant sister Elizabeth. Catesby, along with many other Catholics, suffered under the rule of Elizabeth and, in turn, that of her successor, the Scottish King James VI. By the turn of the century and the coronation of the new Protestant king, the radical and hotheaded Catesby decided that he must turn to terrorism and assassination in order to gain a new and free future for his religious faith. The complex and fraught religious backdrop to the plot used to be recognized in ‘Remember, Remember’ with additional (Protestant) lines mocking the Pope and the Catholic religion, but these have been removed over the years as religious tolerance became more prevalent in British society. This is unquestionably a good change, but it has also had a curious effect: children grow up in Britain knowing that Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament on November 5, 1605, but they are ignorant as to his motives and to the religious strife which was so crucial to the whole event. The poem clearly declares Fawkes’ ‘intent’ to destroy the King and Parliament, but carefully avoids discussing what fueled that intent, in what seems a ‘cover-up’ of ugly but important historical fact.
Catesby’s initial plan was to dig a tunnel which would lead under the Houses of Parliament. From there he would set off a massive amount of gunpowder, wiping out not only the King but also his wife, his sons, and his Parliament. King James’ young daughter Elizabeth would then be set on the throne as a puppet-ruler, trained and controlled by Catholics, to return government power back to the Catholic faith. Catesby was evidently eloquent and likeable; he is described as possessing ‘the knowledge of character, the tact, eloquence and shrewdness combined with will, daring and force, that enabled him to rule unchallenged the men of tempestuous character he gathered around him’ (2). He therefore quickly won other frustrated young Catholics to his cause, most notably two men named Thomas Percy and Thomas Winter. Of the thirteen known conspirators, these three were the most influential and important, for they were the masterminds of the Plot. Guy Fawkes was the fourth man recruited, but his job was not to plan, being instead to carry out orders given to him by superiors such as Catesby. When the tunnel idea failed due to the unexpected difficulty of the labor involved, the conspirators decided to work from a house near to Parliament instead. Guy Fawkes was stationed at this house in the guise of a servant, as a guard to watch over the gunpowder, and with the additional responsibility of being the man to set off the powder on November the fifth. Thus his journey to infamy began.
Considering his somewhat lowly role in the development of the Gunpowder Plot, as more of a loyal follower than a leader, it is peculiar that Guy Fawkes is the character most popularly connected with the Plot. That this is so is evidenced by the national holiday bearing his name and the fact that his is the only name mentioned in the ‘Remember, Remember’ nursery rhyme. Every British schoolchild could tell you that Guy Fawkes was the man who tried to blow up Parliament, but practically no one knows the name of Catesby or Winter, the men who persuaded Fawkes to blow up Parliament. The character of Guy Fawkes has transformed over the years into that of a tragic hero or romantic villain, who is apprehended by the King’s men mere moments before he sets fire to the gunpowder, with a ‘burning match’ already in his fingers. This is not the true account of what happened: the truth is that Guy Fawkes was seen in the cellar but not arrested, and that it was only later that night when he emerged from the cellar suspiciously dressed for travel that he was captured. His clothes, and not the match of the rhyme, gave him away. There was no lighted match involved, and no gunpowder close enough to Fawkes to be dangerous at the time of his arrest. The image of Fawkes surprised in the cellar, however, remains one of the most powerful images of the Gunpowder Plot, no matter if it is fabricated, and is yet another popular misconception promoted by the nursery rhyme.
‘Remember, Remember’ is commonly taught today as a children’s rhyme, a piece of propaganda disguised as entertainment instead of a history lesson. When I attended school in Oxford, my first grade teacher taught the classroom the poem for Guy Fawkes Day, and gave us a brief overview of the story of Guy Fawkes: how he was caught just as he was about to blow up Parliament, how he was tortured, and how he was executed. I was six years old when I learned what it meant to be ‘hung, drawn, and quartered’. It was not until many years later, however, that I bothered to learn the truth about the life of the man Guy Fawkes. In the England of today he has become more of an abstract symbol in man’s shape than a historical figure: a lesson warning of the dangers of treason and at the same time an excuse for a party. The sadistic and disturbing custom of burning Fawkes in effigy every November fifth still continues in England, and it is presented as a game to the children, who--and I speak from personal experience--heartily enjoy watching the poor ‘guy’ get consumed by the flames of the bonfire, and chant the rhyme condemning Fawkes without really thinking about what they are saying or doing. On one level, the poem and the festivities it is associated with are celebrations of the British spirit and the ‘providence’ which saved Parliament from being blown up, which explains the fireworks and the teaching the children the triumphant poem; on another it is an attempt at preserving a memory of history and a warning against treason but only a history distorted from the truth; and on another it is a disturbing celebration of the brutal death of one man, a man who has become less of a historical figure and more of a fictional character as the generations pass.
So what does it mean to ‘remember’? In the case of Guy Fawkes, it is to remember only that which your culture wants you to remember. What is important to the rhyme’s British audience is not one-hundred percent historical validity, but instead the message of British pride and confidence the poem can impart to its audience, especially its target audience of children. It is used to teach British children to enjoy watching the image of a man burn for treason. The implications are disturbing, but also profound: Guy Fawkes is chosen to be the scapegoat whose image is burned and whose name is singled out for infamy not because he was more important than his fellow conspirators, many of whom were more to blame for the Plot than he was, but because as the man with the match and the gunpowder he is the conspirator most easily simplified into something easily hated. By focusing solely on Guy Fawkes’ image and intent instead of his motives and his companions, the rhyme can dehumanize the conspiracy and avoid the messy religious context to turn the story into a story to inspire patriotic zeal against the plotters which children’s hearts can understand. By telling the story in a sing-song poem, the historical events are effectively moved from the realm of hard historical fact into that of a story with a lesson. And so the British continue their ‘remembering’, passing the rhythmic poem and its message down from generation to new generation and turning death and torture into a parable and a celebration.
And now with the help of some photographs and articles and the like that I used in slides during my presentation on Fawkes, here's a photographic look at how Fawkes has been remembered throughout the ages, from 1606 to the present day.
For a contemporary view on the matter, I found a .pdf version of the newspaper which was printed the day after Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were executed. The front page article was, naturally, a very detailed account of the whole affair, which was the sensation of its time. Here's what the writer of the article--no doubt speaking for the general opinion of the population--had to say about Fawkes:
"Last of all came the great Devil of all, Guy Fawkes, alias Johnson, who should have put fire to the powder. His body being weak with the torture and sickness he was scarce able to go up the ladder, yet, with much ado, by the help of the hangman, went high enough to break his neck by the fall. He made no speech, but with his crosses and idle ceremonies made his end upon the gallows and the block to the great joy of all beholders that the land was ended of so wicked a villainy."
Fawkes-hatred is quite palpable in these few lines; and there is certainly nothing of the playful festival that is celebrated today in them.
Fig. 1. That hatred is still apparent in this woodcutting from the seventeen hundreds, but there is also the beginnings of its transformation into a sort of game, showing children triumphantly marching an unflattering effigy of Fawkes about London to celebrate and commemorate his capture and the thwarting of the Plot he was a part of. At this time effigies of the Pope would also commonly be paraded about with Guy, evidence that the memory of religious strife playing a huge part in the Plot was still very much alive.
Fig. 2. Fawkes in the cellar, in his traditional pose of pouring gunpowder while holding a candle aloft, although he never had the time to do anything of the sort. This image is significant, however, because it was an illustration in a book written in the mid-eighteen hundreds which romanticized the story of the Gunpowder Plot and portrayed Fawkes as a sympathetic character, one of the first depictions to do so. The book (which I have read and personally didn't think much of) was immensely popular when it was first published, evidence that the public opinion against Fawkes was no longer quite so vitriolic. I doubt the newspaper reporter of the day of the execution would have found any heroizing of 'the great Devil of all' appealing.
What about today? The effigies known as Guys are still made, only now more emphasis is put upon burning them than parading them up and down streets, and the Pope is generally no longer included in the burning and mocking. Guy Fawkes Day, or Bonfire Day, as it is sometimes called now, is celebrated with fireworks as well as the bonfire, carnivals and parties. It has also been absorbed by our consumerist culture. We have such fabulous items marketing the event as a Guy Fawkes Day Winnie the Pooh dressed up in 16oo's garb and eagerly waving a torch (don't believe me? Click here), a cute barrel-shaped firework designed for the celebrations of the day sporting a cheerful and very colorful Fawkes himself waving a sparkler around (again, click here for the evidence!). If I were the man, I would not be so eager to torch myself, and would not necessarily agree that the day of my death should be celebrated with huge festivals, but whatever.
The best example of how Guy Fawkes is remembered today, however, is evidenced by a page that I found on the Disneyland Paris--yes, DISNEYLAND--website inviting families to bring their kiddies to the magic kingdom for a Guy Fawkes celebration Disney style! Best lines?
"A classic British tradition is ignited with spectacular Disney magic. Musical fountains glisten and jaw-dropping fireworks explode over Lake Disney's giant floating bonfire, all set to an elegant and majestic soundtrack including Disney's Fantasia!"
Just look at that, and then look back at the story of Guy Fawkes. Yeah . . . so many things wrong with this, I don't even know where to begin. I wonder if Pooh bear will be the one given the honor of setting the Guy ablaze?
What I find interesting is a little disclaimer the friendly folks of Disney thought to put on the webpage, which notes that although traditionally the bonfire burning and fireworks exploding and all commemorates the gruesome deaths of Fawkes and his fellow conspirators, 'In modern times . . . the event has had no political significance'. Do you think that's true? And if it is true, do you think it's right? I for one believe you shouldn't exactly celebrate Guy Fawkes Day without realizing exactly what it is that you are commemorating. It's not a pretty story, and any attempts to take Guy Fawkes out of the Day does not, in my opinion, change the meaning of the celebration. Kudos to Disney for trying, though; they just made the whole thing a lot creepier.
And I have to admit that I never before thought that I'd see the words 'hung, drawn, and quartered' on a Disney website. Cheers, Mickey, that made my November.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
NaNoWriMo 2009, Update
"It had been many years since I had last seen Mr. Julian Quinn, and as is the nature of such flighty things, my memories of him, once so cherished, had long since been forgotten--still there in my mind, surely, firm and unassuming as stones in a riverbed, but softened, worn faded and shapeless, as all things eventually are, by time. Looking down through the flowing waters of fifty years that ran between us, I found them grown smooth also, slipping from my fingers like minnows. Such reminders of age do not rest easily upon me: the sensation of the dull cotton of my brain gathering dust and moonbeams and my bones gathering the cold. So it is that even now that I approach the age at last when a man's best source of entertainment is plumbing for those river stones to examine them anew in the sunset of his days, I have always avoided those sunken memories of the man with an instinct something akin to that of a wary beast still tendering old hurts. And, considering the half-century of silence that I had not been alone in building between us, I suppose he felt something of the same regarding memories of me . . ."