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"God would forgive him.

It was a good story. It made him feel better. Stories were useful that way. They smoothed over the gaps and sharp edges of the world."

Merlyn aggressively arguing that communism is what prompts war will only be funny if Arthur contradicts him by noting that feudal Camelot is at war (and has warred several times previously with other feudal societies).

Merlyn railing against equality is deeply unsettling.

"Frontiers were imaginary lines....The imaginary lines on the earth's surface only needed to be unimagined.
The airborne birds skipped them by nature. How mad the frontiers had seemed to Lyo-lyok, and would to Man if he could learn to fly."

The beautiful lesson at long last. I can forgive a lot (though not all) of this book for its final lesson. It's anti-war stance. It really is a beautiful, but marred, book.

"Those who lived by the sword were forced to die by it....It seemed as if the only hope was to not act at all, to draw no swords for anything, to hold omself still, like a pebble not thrown. But that would be hateful."

This presumes, wrongly, that all actions must be violent. That the two choices are 1) inaction, or 2) action with the purpose of harming another.

Lionel and Bors are magically back from the dead. I wonder if this is a Malory joke?

"Desdemona robbed of life or honour is nothing to a Mordred, robbed of himself—his soul stolen, overlaid, wizened, while the mother-character lives in triumph, superfluously and with stifling love endowed on him, seemingly innocent of ill-intention."

I don't want to dismiss T.H. White. I recognize how much there is to love throughout the Once and Future King. But have mercy, I can't surmount his mother-hatred.

"It is the mother’s not the lover’s lust that rots the mind. It is that which condemns the tragic character to his walking death. It is Jocasta, not Juliet, who dwells in the inner chamber. It is Gertrude, not the silly Ophelia, who sends Hamlet to his madness."

Sir, go to therapy.

"These [Cressida, Cleopatra, Delilah] are not the heart of tragedy. They are fripperies to the soul of man. What does it matter if Antony did fall upon his sword? It only killed him. It is the mother’s not the lover’s lust that rots the mind."

Freud would have a field day with White. The mommy-issues hits just keep coming.

Rhysand is allegedly likeable later on, but I can't imagine it. Grabbing the exposed bone of a horrible injury and twisting it to compel "consent" - is not spicy sexy bullying. It's torture.

White comes so close to accurately referring to Elaine's crime against Lancelot as what it is - rape - only to retreat, and to call it a trick, and to excuse it.

I loathe it. Igraine and Lancelot are victims of identical crimes, and while both victimizers get away with it unremarked upon by the authors of the bulk of Arthuriana, Elaine is often treated as if she is in the *right.* It's sickening.

White's casual, jovial sexism and sporadic reminders of his xenophobic preoccupation with indigenous people are a pair of bright stains on what would otherwise be a wonderful body of work.

White's casual, jovial sexism and sporadic reminders of his xenophobic preoccupation with indigenous people is a pair of bright stains on what would otherwise be a wonderful body of work.

Feyre's ceaselessly ableist disdain for her LITERALLY CRIPPLED father makes me break out in fits of wrath. Genuinely, I hate her.

I haven't wept at the end of a book the way I'm weeping now in a good, long while.

I adore the Kwen facta non verba moral stance, and the riverbed notion of yet unfulfilled potential for good. While I don't think intentions count for nothing when weighing the goodness of a person, ultimately, it is the actual impact we have upon others in the real world rather than our theoretical, intended impact that matters.

This magic system! Sanderson, eat your heart out.

Sciona and "Tommy" have met. I'm enchanted, gobsmacked, intrigued. Wang has done a flawless job of making this reader simultaneously sympathetic to Sciona's plight and furious with her dismissive, prejudical treatment of Thomil.

Both Sir Ector and the Lady of the Lake have made miraculous recoveries from death.

I'm impressed with the performances and editing of this dramatization, but every once in a while the anachronistic anglicization of everyone's speech makes me squawk.

I struggle to understand why Graves invented the false narrative about Postumus being framed for attempted rape of Livilla by Livia. It seems explicitly woman-hating to turn Livilla into an accessory to legal entrapment that never appears to have actually happened.

This author clearly believes in the friendzone.

Never before had he received the look of scientific condescension native to a mind that is forever tracing deep connexions between unscientific postulates and the world itself. Psychoanalytic jargon allowed both respectable professionals and those en route to respectability to pepper their vocabulary with genital references that would have been out of bounds even in openly lowbrow entertainment such as cabaret shows.

You think every functioning couple knows themselves and expresses what they want and hears what the other is saying perfectly? That we're not pumping everyone else full of prejudices and fantasies with no connection to reality? The only thing holding relationships together is intention. It's not a matter of fact or reason. We get to say what happened because we're the only ones who care.

shyness wobbling her voice at the rare moment of wanting to get a compliment right.

You think I'm oblivious to what you want, but you still want me to intuit your feelings, even though you deliberately mislead me about them, possibly to test my intuition, which you use to gauge the depth of my understanding and caring for you.

What I really fear is being an echoist. A helpless nymph who loses her voice for loving it too much, loses her body for loving a narcissist. Nothing but a dumb attention-hungry repetition of other people's words. The cliche made flesh, then robbed of it. Wherever will collapses under fate it makes an echo.

to the charge of narcicissm? Nolo contendere. All love is projection. stuffing your experiences and hopes into whatever object petit a, then embracing it. And don't forget, dude, we've discussed how self-loathing is narcissistic too; dwelling over your shortcomings, insisting on your own worthlessness over everyone else's objections. Hating is, after all, caring.

I want impossible self-authorship: to be sui generis, valuable in myself and flawed by my own hand. I'll become the archangel of wry suffering, producing only ephemera, marginalia, juvenilia--a print so fine it doesn't exist. Being unwritten, unread, hiding out in an apartment, in subtext, unnatural, unnurtured, refusing to be emplotted like a good little subject, that's my whole deal now.