In which we first hear Hob referred to by that name.
***
Page 20, Paragraph 6:
Now I look beside her, across the reeds where the hut stands on the dirt rise, with the river aways off, behind the hut. In the river there are shapes moving (which I think are beavers) all around the river-huts they've made for themselves. "How is it that you smell like flowers?", I say.
Paragraph 7:
"There's a way to do it," she says, "to take the flowers' smell and make perfume out of it that you can put on your skin and hair." Now she looks away from me, toward the river. Her speech becomes quieter.
Paragraph 8:
"Hob* wants me to smell like flowers," she says, "so he can know where I've gone when he can't see me." She doesn't say anything more, and looks aways off. Now she tears up a little grass and puts it in her mouth. "I don't know of Hob," I say, and pull at the jerky with my teeth. She doesn't look at me yet, but lifts her hand and points with her finger at the hut. "That hut is Hob's," she says.
Page 21, Paragraph 1:
"I've seen Hob," I say. "He's a black-faced man with antlers on his head."
*According to my dictionary, hob is derived from the Middle English word Hobbe, a nickname for Robert. It means either (1) a hobgoblin or elf or (2) mischief or trouble. Hmmm...
Monday, August 31, 2009
Off-Topic: Let Kids Pick Their Own Books? Are You Insane?
Did anyone else read this article on the New York Times website?
A New Assignment: Pick Books You Like
Don't get me wrong - I'm not anti-canon - I had to read 1984 and Animal Farm and The Catcher In The Rye in high school, too, and I'm glad I did - those are good books. But don't you think that kids would have a more engaging experience with reading if they were allowed to read Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman (or Max Brooks and Stephen King, if their teachers are against anything comics-related)? Wouldn't they then be more likely to view reading as fun rather than drudgery, and wouldn't they then be more likely to be recreational readers as adults?
A New Assignment: Pick Books You Like
Don't get me wrong - I'm not anti-canon - I had to read 1984 and Animal Farm and The Catcher In The Rye in high school, too, and I'm glad I did - those are good books. But don't you think that kids would have a more engaging experience with reading if they were allowed to read Alan Moore and Neil Gaiman (or Max Brooks and Stephen King, if their teachers are against anything comics-related)? Wouldn't they then be more likely to view reading as fun rather than drudgery, and wouldn't they then be more likely to be recreational readers as adults?
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Page 20, Paragraphs 3 - 5
Page 20, Paragraph 3:
She says all this, and now she has more for me to eat. From out of her clothes she takes a stick of jerky, which she now puts in my hand. I put the jerky in my mouth - it's hard to chew, but it tastes good. "Tell me more about coming here," she says.
Paragraph 4:
I have jerky in my mouth, so she makes me repeat myself a lot so she can understand what I'm saying. I talk about walking and the pigs becoming logs and the shagfoal. She shakes her head forewards and back to show that she's heard of them. [i.e., the shagfoal] I tell her how I came upon the valley and saw the big hill-building which I went around the other side of and then came here by that route.
Paragraph 5:
She says, "Did the men in the building see you?" I say, "No," and she says, "That's good." "How is it good?", I say. "Oh," she says now, "they're rough men who've come from the river-village. If they saw you, it's likely that they'd throw a stone at you." I look at my leg and figure she's right.
She says all this, and now she has more for me to eat. From out of her clothes she takes a stick of jerky, which she now puts in my hand. I put the jerky in my mouth - it's hard to chew, but it tastes good. "Tell me more about coming here," she says.
Paragraph 4:
I have jerky in my mouth, so she makes me repeat myself a lot so she can understand what I'm saying. I talk about walking and the pigs becoming logs and the shagfoal. She shakes her head forewards and back to show that she's heard of them. [i.e., the shagfoal] I tell her how I came upon the valley and saw the big hill-building which I went around the other side of and then came here by that route.
Paragraph 5:
She says, "Did the men in the building see you?" I say, "No," and she says, "That's good." "How is it good?", I say. "Oh," she says now, "they're rough men who've come from the river-village. If they saw you, it's likely that they'd throw a stone at you." I look at my leg and figure she's right.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Page 19, Paragraph 8; Page 20, Paragraphs 1 and 2; Note
Page 19, Paragraph 8:
"Eat this," she says, and I say nothing - I just look. Now she puts the bowl to my mouth, so that liquid from it flows warmly onto my chin, onto my tongue, and it's milk, and it's good. I drink, and at the same time look at her above the bowl's edge. "How," she says, "did you come here?" Her speech is strange, with words in a different order, but I can understand what she says.* My mouth's full of milk, so I can't talk to her, but I swallow the milk and it's gone, and she takes the bowl from my mouth. "How did you come here?", she says again.
Page 20, Paragraph 1 (first full paragraph):
I talk a lot now, and it all runs together. I talk about my mother's foot and my people going away. I talk about the bird with the maggots and the settlers who threw the stone at me and tore my leg. At this, the girl smiles and says that she got the infection out of my leg, and now I feel that my leg doesn't hurt, and I look down at it.
Paragraph 2:
There's no scab. Below my knee the shit and dirt is all washed away, and where my leg's torn there's a leaf, all soft and warm. I look from my leg to her and say, "Why, how is this now?" and so forth. She says she found me here at daybreak and saw that my leg was hurt. She pulled me back into the thicket of trees to hide me, and she fixed my leg while I was unconscious.
*Gee, I've never run into that kind of a situation before.
"Eat this," she says, and I say nothing - I just look. Now she puts the bowl to my mouth, so that liquid from it flows warmly onto my chin, onto my tongue, and it's milk, and it's good. I drink, and at the same time look at her above the bowl's edge. "How," she says, "did you come here?" Her speech is strange, with words in a different order, but I can understand what she says.* My mouth's full of milk, so I can't talk to her, but I swallow the milk and it's gone, and she takes the bowl from my mouth. "How did you come here?", she says again.
Page 20, Paragraph 1 (first full paragraph):
I talk a lot now, and it all runs together. I talk about my mother's foot and my people going away. I talk about the bird with the maggots and the settlers who threw the stone at me and tore my leg. At this, the girl smiles and says that she got the infection out of my leg, and now I feel that my leg doesn't hurt, and I look down at it.
Paragraph 2:
There's no scab. Below my knee the shit and dirt is all washed away, and where my leg's torn there's a leaf, all soft and warm. I look from my leg to her and say, "Why, how is this now?" and so forth. She says she found me here at daybreak and saw that my leg was hurt. She pulled me back into the thicket of trees to hide me, and she fixed my leg while I was unconscious.
*Gee, I've never run into that kind of a situation before.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Page 19, Paragraphs 5 - 7
Page 19, Paragraph 5 (first paragraph after the first break):
Dark. Many little thoughts. Cold. My leg burns and oh. Oh, I. Darkness. Nothing. My leg hurts, oh. Oh, Mother. I'm only ten years old. Dark. Dark, my belly hurts and it's cold. Mother and I walk beneath the trees; we walk strangely because she only has one leg and I only have one leg; our stumps are all bloody. Dark. Dark, cold, and nothing in my belly. Flowers. Dark.
Paragraph 6:
Light. I smell... light, through my eyelids. I smell flowers and... open. I open my eyes and... flowers, and I look up at...
Paragraph 7:
She looks at me - the girl that smells like flowers. She sits on her knees by we, as I lay with my back on the grass in a thicket of trees. There's a grey bowl in her hands, like the one she held the river water in. Her long, bright hair prickles my belly, and we look at each other like this, and I can't think of anything to say.
Dark. Many little thoughts. Cold. My leg burns and oh. Oh, I. Darkness. Nothing. My leg hurts, oh. Oh, Mother. I'm only ten years old. Dark. Dark, my belly hurts and it's cold. Mother and I walk beneath the trees; we walk strangely because she only has one leg and I only have one leg; our stumps are all bloody. Dark. Dark, cold, and nothing in my belly. Flowers. Dark.
Paragraph 6:
Light. I smell... light, through my eyelids. I smell flowers and... open. I open my eyes and... flowers, and I look up at...
Paragraph 7:
She looks at me - the girl that smells like flowers. She sits on her knees by we, as I lay with my back on the grass in a thicket of trees. There's a grey bowl in her hands, like the one she held the river water in. Her long, bright hair prickles my belly, and we look at each other like this, and I can't think of anything to say.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Page 18, Paragraphs 6 and 7; Page 19, Paragraphs 1 - 4
Sorry I haven't posted for a while - the last few days have been kinda busy.
***
Page 18, Paragraph 6:
The girl sits by the fire now, on her knees, and doesn't move. The sun's getting lower, and as the daylight fades the fire becomes brighter, and the girl's grey shadow is long on the hut behind her. Even longer is the shadow of the antler-headed man, all black, with the antlers moving like many worms upon his head. He picks up the flowers and casts them into the water above the fire, from which grey steam rises.
Paragraph 7:
In the brightness of the fire I now see a low wall made of dirt that stands in back of the hut. I haven't seen this before. Maybe it's a keep for an animal, like the bigger building up on the hill - but I can only see a little of it, and I don't know. The fire rises up high. Black shadows move back and forth across the aurochs skin.
Page 19, Paragraph 1:
A white substance that's thick and soft like snow rises up from the bowl above and across the edge of the fire, where the all the white stuff runs down and hisses in the fire. The antler-headed man wraps a small fur around his hands so he doesn't burn them. He picks up the bowl from above the fire and sets it by his side.
Paragraph 2:
He takes a little whiteness out from the bowl - two handfuls. The girl sits by him on her knees and doesn't move. The sky becomes dark. Black shadows move on the hut. Now the antler-headed man puts the white on the face of the girl, but she doesn't move, and the white is thick below her eyes, and thick on her mouth. In little bits it falls down on the skins wrapped around her breasts.
Paragraph 3:
The girl doesn't move. The black-faced man now puts his hands all about himself in the dark, as if he's trying to find something, and now a big warm grey feeling comes over me, and I shut my eyes. I smell smoke. I smell flowers, and I hear more of a scratching noise, as if it's scratching forward, and back, and forward.
Paragraph 4:
And back.
***
The rhythm of the prose and the imagery in this section are really hypnotic, aren't they? I hope I've been able to capture that in my version.
***
Is anyone else picturing this as a comic as they're reading?
***
Page 18, Paragraph 6:
The girl sits by the fire now, on her knees, and doesn't move. The sun's getting lower, and as the daylight fades the fire becomes brighter, and the girl's grey shadow is long on the hut behind her. Even longer is the shadow of the antler-headed man, all black, with the antlers moving like many worms upon his head. He picks up the flowers and casts them into the water above the fire, from which grey steam rises.
Paragraph 7:
In the brightness of the fire I now see a low wall made of dirt that stands in back of the hut. I haven't seen this before. Maybe it's a keep for an animal, like the bigger building up on the hill - but I can only see a little of it, and I don't know. The fire rises up high. Black shadows move back and forth across the aurochs skin.
Page 19, Paragraph 1:
A white substance that's thick and soft like snow rises up from the bowl above and across the edge of the fire, where the all the white stuff runs down and hisses in the fire. The antler-headed man wraps a small fur around his hands so he doesn't burn them. He picks up the bowl from above the fire and sets it by his side.
Paragraph 2:
He takes a little whiteness out from the bowl - two handfuls. The girl sits by him on her knees and doesn't move. The sky becomes dark. Black shadows move on the hut. Now the antler-headed man puts the white on the face of the girl, but she doesn't move, and the white is thick below her eyes, and thick on her mouth. In little bits it falls down on the skins wrapped around her breasts.
Paragraph 3:
The girl doesn't move. The black-faced man now puts his hands all about himself in the dark, as if he's trying to find something, and now a big warm grey feeling comes over me, and I shut my eyes. I smell smoke. I smell flowers, and I hear more of a scratching noise, as if it's scratching forward, and back, and forward.
Paragraph 4:
And back.
***
The rhythm of the prose and the imagery in this section are really hypnotic, aren't they? I hope I've been able to capture that in my version.
***
Is anyone else picturing this as a comic as they're reading?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Page 18, Paragraphs 2 - 5; Notes
Page 18, Paragraph 2:
He stands to look over here, but he doesn't look at me. He's the oldest man I've ever seen - his long hair and beard are white and oh! His face! His face is marked with charcoal - nothing except his eyes are white. A band is around his head, up from which come antlers. He has flowers in one hand and sticks in the other. Now he looks around some more, and farts, and sits down in front of his white skin hut.
Paragraph 3:
I can't see what he's doing, except that he keeps moving his hands quickly. Smoke. I smell smoke. He's making a fire, and now he's putting more sticks on it to make it bigger. He picks up little stones that sit nearby and puts them around the fire to make a barrier.
Paragraph 4:
He sits with his back against the hut and picks up something made of stone, not any longer than my hand, that's all flat and sharp. This hand-axe he puts to another nearby stone and scratches it back and forth, as if to sharpen it. Now I lie back and hear the noise of this; the sun is getting lower in the sky.
Paragraph 5:
In with the smell of smoke I can now smell flowers, and I lift my head to look toward the river. The girl is coming back here over the reedy rise; the skins she's wrapped in move all around her knees. Between her hands there's still a little grey shape, and as she walks I see where a little bit of liquid comes out and falls on her arm. I think she's holding a making* like a little valley** that she filled up with water in the river. Slowly, she walks up the dirt rise, where the antler-headed man takes her water to set it above the fire.
* The noun form of making meaning "something made" is actually in the dictionary (well, my dictionary, anyway), although I don't recall hearing it used that way before.
** Presumably some sort of bowl
From the British Museum (http://www.britishmuseum.org/)
***
Speaking of axes - I chopped some wood today. It was kinda fun.
He stands to look over here, but he doesn't look at me. He's the oldest man I've ever seen - his long hair and beard are white and oh! His face! His face is marked with charcoal - nothing except his eyes are white. A band is around his head, up from which come antlers. He has flowers in one hand and sticks in the other. Now he looks around some more, and farts, and sits down in front of his white skin hut.
Paragraph 3:
I can't see what he's doing, except that he keeps moving his hands quickly. Smoke. I smell smoke. He's making a fire, and now he's putting more sticks on it to make it bigger. He picks up little stones that sit nearby and puts them around the fire to make a barrier.
Paragraph 4:
He sits with his back against the hut and picks up something made of stone, not any longer than my hand, that's all flat and sharp. This hand-axe he puts to another nearby stone and scratches it back and forth, as if to sharpen it. Now I lie back and hear the noise of this; the sun is getting lower in the sky.
Paragraph 5:
In with the smell of smoke I can now smell flowers, and I lift my head to look toward the river. The girl is coming back here over the reedy rise; the skins she's wrapped in move all around her knees. Between her hands there's still a little grey shape, and as she walks I see where a little bit of liquid comes out and falls on her arm. I think she's holding a making* like a little valley** that she filled up with water in the river. Slowly, she walks up the dirt rise, where the antler-headed man takes her water to set it above the fire.
* The noun form of making meaning "something made" is actually in the dictionary (well, my dictionary, anyway), although I don't recall hearing it used that way before.
** Presumably some sort of bowl
From the British Museum (http://www.britishmuseum.org/)
***
Speaking of axes - I chopped some wood today. It was kinda fun.
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