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In this paper, I argue that
Omg the colege flashback
Blackmar perceived the South as a fanciful realm of whimsy, trapped in a time long past, existing merely for Northern writers to project their fantasies upon.
Ianto had asked for nothing more than just a bit of perfunctory, chaste flirtation. She could do that.
Omg
she still felt a strange pull that urged her to stay.
She found it funny that he was so preoccupied with the technicalities. Effy’s mind always skipped over those details.
She wondered if you could love something out of ruination, reverse that drowning process, make it all new again.
He could swing a gun at her one day and be perfectly friendly the next. He could seize her hand and grip it so hard that it hurt and the next day keep himself at a noticeable distance.
Support for thes "there's two of him" theory
Blackmar struggled with A. tonight,
What if thats also thye wifes named lol
“The way they talk about her—about the book. They always call Angharad ‘she,’ or ‘her.’”
Yep
The mariner’s hubris isn’t necessarily in his belief that he won’t die, but his belief that the worst the sea can do is kill him.”
my thesis—our thesis.
Dude
and sleeping through morning classes.
like u effy
Sometimes, you know, there are girls you meet, and—well. But it’s never more than a night, maybe coffee the next morning . . . never mind. Sorry.”
I guess props for him not talking down his one night stands too much
But I suppose that’s because you’re also the smartest, most eloquent person I’ve ever met.” Preston just shook his head.
On dude compliment her a lil
if he could write something like Angharad, why is his other work so . . . so middling?”
At least shes kinda suspicious about this theory
It was evening now; the sun listing gently to the line of the horizon,
Oh yeah wecdont even know tgye season or if tge sun sets late / early in the south.
Effy hardly considered herself a real architect, but she could calculate the cost of each feature, each balcony and balustrade, and it amounted to a sum that made her dizzy.
A nice reminder that she is an architect. Which i appreciate
Her arms were at her sides, hands turned out and fingers splayed, and water spurted from her open palms.
Like parallel to the ground?
Why did Myrddin’s descendants live in such decaying squalor,
Descendant. Singular
the doors heaved open. She couldn’t see Blackmar very well; she could only hear the clacking of his cane
BS A HOUSE CTHAT BIG HAS A DOOR MAN AND BUTLERS OUT THE WAZOO
red velvet dressing gown,
SUSS rich people dress up
Argantians are not known for their zeal or passion. Too cold up there in the mountains, I suppose.”
He had two black-clad domestic workers
There they are
It was a beautiful house, but not a clever one. It was a house with no imagination.
Lol he decorates like he writes
“I’m an entertainer, you know. All great writers are. I entertain readers; I entertain guests.
Omg
“So he lived in an apartment in Syfaddon, just like our other domestics,
An archivist sure. Not house staff. They live on site
The bed was, strikingly, unmade:
Eww
Preston leaned over the desk,
What desk
Why was it always girls whose forms could not be trusted? Everything could be taken away from them in an instant.
As a bastard you shoukd know effie
The bed was easily big enough for two, even if they were not touching.
There were actually 2 beds lol
His freckles were pale, winter-faded. She suspected they would become more prominent when summer returned.
WINTER or spring maybe
Effy saw one of the hag stones half sunk into the plush carpet. It must have fallen out of her pocket while she undressed.
Nooooo whats preston gonna look like
But all she saw was Preston’s sleeping face:
Phew
He hadn’t touched her, but Saints, she wanted him to.
is a story that must have a happy ending.
Ok thats modern romance
For the only true end is death—and
Hij sandman
the end is but a wardrobe with a false back, leading to stranger and more merciful worlds.
Hi narnia
early winter wind.
Ok fall
like your self-styled protagonist.
Thats not what self styled means
“I wish we could talk to her. Blackmar’s daughter.” “That would be the simplest solution,” Preston conceded. “But we’ll have to make do with speaking to Greenebough’s editor.”
They dont know they cant
She wished she could return to that day in her dorm room, when she had stared at his author photo in the back of her book, when this had been just a blank space upon which she could hurl her desires like paint on a canvas.
A good critiqie of other book books
every entry that should have appeared between April 189 and March 190 had been torn out right from the spine of the book. Preston looked more dejected than Effy had ever seen him.
“We have to go back for them,” Preston said, voice urgent. “We’d need both the letters and the photographs to prove the affair.
Argh they lrft yhe photos in the secret room
She pulled the green dress out of the closet
She's Gonna look blike a ghost of the daughter
She could, Effy thought with no small amount of alarm, have been Angharad herself, dressed in the Fairy King’s adornments.
They say it takes a village—well, that’s about a child, isn’t it?”
Uh thats a modern saying
He liked to sell authors just as much as he liked to sell books. The author is part of the story, you know.
Effy never even felt the chill prickle her bare arms;
Lol tstole the fancy clothes
Call her by her name, Effy wanted to shout,
like that he wrote about death as decay. Deaths that last years and years, the same way the Drowning—well, never mind. Those words still mean something, even if Myrddin didn’t write them. Even if he did.”
