Yeah. I scratched something that had imbedded itself near my hairline, and a couple bits of rubble fell out and hit the white tiled floor, making little clattering sounds. The attendant didn’t say anything, so I didn’t, either. I guessed we were both going to agree that hadn’t happened.
It was funny how you couldn’t tell now, I thought, staring. Like you couldn’t tell if a lot of the bodies around Vlad’s city of the dead were male or female, after a while. They just turned into corpses, blackened and split open, with ropes of trailing entrails festooned with maggots and dripping with unknown liquids. Mothers, fathers, lovers, friends; they were all the same in death, rotting under a cheerful blue sky . ..
Somebody had told me that war was a lot of serious tedium interspersed with moments of sheer terror, however. Which I thought described my job perfectly.
…liberated my new cat. Who looked in disbelief at my bed, which was round and so oversized that they needed a new designation for it. Orgy-sized maybe, because it could have fit ten, maybe twelve in a pinch.
You got it, I gritted out, after half a freaking hour. I had been awake for going on a day, under less than ideal conditions. My body ached, my brain was fried, and my eyes actually burned. I was going to sleep right now, damn it! Only I didn’t. I tossed and turned and tried every conceivable position. I plumped my pillow, changed it out for a different one, and then pounded that one into submission, too, before giving up and going back to the first one again. I put on a sleep mask. I took off a sleep mask, because I had black out curtains that my vamp bodyguards almost always kept closed even when they weren’t in here. I didn’t need a sleep mask, goddamnit! The problem was, I didn’t know what I needed.
Somebody had told me that warm milk helped insomnia. It sounded nasty, but I was willing to give it a try. Right now, I was willing to try anything. Of course, that required that I play the fun and exciting game of Hunt the Milk, which was no mean feat. The penthouse’s kitchen had been designed to feed a horde, with three fridges—two regular ones and a shorty under the counter—a standalone freezer, two wine coolers, another wine cooler that was used only for beer, and God knew what else. I didn’t, because I couldn’t find half of it! And what I could find, I often didn’t want
Tami, my friend and self-appointed life manager, and I had sat around one night shortly after we moved in playing “guess the item” with a couple drawers full of weird, one-use-only gadgets. We’d managed to correctly identify an avocado slicer, a carrot peeler, a pair of herb scissors, a strawberry stem remover (okay, we cheated with Google on that one) and a vertical egg cooker. Plus some stuff that even the search engine of the gods hadn’t been able to help us out with. Tami’s go-to greeting for visitors to the kitchen these days was to drag them over to the mystery item drawer and try to make them identify something.
I didn’t have an answer for her. It was one of a whole host of things I didn’t know, because this job didn’t get easier as you went along, like I’d expected. It actually seemed to be getting harder, which was a problem since I was already giving a hundred and fifty percent. Literally. I turned around and went back to bed.
Only you can’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” She leaned forward and put a hand on my arm. “Everybody wants a piece of you, all the time, but you can’t give it to them. They’ll take and take, until there’s nothing left. That’s how people are—”
I seriously contemplating just sleeping where I lay. The bed had one of those down-filled mattresses that grabs your ass like it’s trying to get handsy, and then draws you down into enveloping softness.
I groaned and put a hand to my head, where it felt like I had the mother of all hangovers. And the grandmother and great-grandmother as well, I thought, trying to take stock.
Now, if you please.” Damn it, Gertie! I thought. But I stomped over anyway. “What?” “Pear?” She offered me one. I looked at it blankly. It was fat and yellow, with a blushing bottom. It was a nice pear. It also made no sense at all. “What?” “Yes, I have an apple,” Gertie said, and jerked me inside. “What are you doing?” I demanded, because this was bizarre, even for her. But she just shushed me and turned me toward the crack in the door. It was still open maybe a quarter of the way, giving us a sliver of a view, although why we needed one, I didn’t know. I needed to get back—“Watch,” Gertie said, and ate pear. I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I watched anyway. Don’t argue with teacher, I thought. Only I didn’t know what I was supposed to be watching. The little girls were the easiest to see, still facing their wall. Or most of them were. One was playing with a doll she’d smuggled out, hidden in a fold of her dress, and another had squatted down to examine a fat green caterpillar. But most of the rest were dutifully reciting something, I didn’t know what, because it was in some other language. “A test,” Gertie said, her voice low. “For what?” “To see if they can age a flower.” I looked back at her. “How? They don’t have access to the Pythian power yet.” “No, they don’t,” she agreed. “The question is, can any of them get its attention?”
Or a fight, I thought, catching sight of the rest of the courtyard. “I told you I needed to get out there!” I said to Gertie, as my acolyte faced off with her own mother. I started forward, but Gertie pulled me back, and she was surprisingly strong for an old woman
Why London had what was essentially a petri dish of plague running through the city was beyond me, but it wasn’t my main concern
He’d come back for me, all right, but to capture not to kill. He’d started grafting souls onto his body, like adding apps onto a phone, and I was supposed to be his next upgrade. There to add to his power, but with none of my own, and no say in what mine was used for. Or any way to stop the process or even to die and make the torture end.
Throughout history, the number three has been fundamental to how we understand the world. The space we inhabit is measured in length, width, and height. Time is measured in past, present, and future.” He paused, and I just sat there, expectant. Until I realized that he was smiling slightly. “What?” I asked. “What are you waiting for?” “For the rest—” I stopped, realizing that I had unconsciously been waiting—for another example. I frowned. “The third instance would be body, mind, and spirit,” he continued, “which is how we understand ourselves. But the fact that you knew—instinctively—that there was a third example indicates how our minds classify things…People have always seen the world in threes. Look at religion: Christianity is fundamentally based on the Trinity—the father, son and holy spirit. The magi gave Christ three gifts, the devil tempted him three times, and he rose from the dead after three days. Even the Christian universe is traditionally seen as having three expressions: the upper world of heaven, the middle world of Earth, and the underworld of hell…The Greeks were also particularly fond of the number: there were three Fates, three Graces, three Gorgons and three Furies. There were three brothers who ruled over three realms: Zeus, Hades and Poseidon. Artemis…is often seen as a triple goddess, a unity of the divine huntress, the Moon goddess and the goddess of the underworld… the rest of the world’s religions follow a similar pattern: the Sumerian Goddess Inanna is remembered for having spent three days and nights in the underworld. There are three main gods in Hinduism: Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver, and Shiva the Destroyer. Yggdrasil, the sacred tree of life in the Norse religion, has three roots under which are three sacred wells——not to mention how often the number shows up in the world’s imagery. The triskelion, a three-legged spiral, can be found on items dating back more than six thousand years. The Borromean rings are a centuries-old symbol of unity made up of three interlacing circles. The Valknut rune of Odin——consisting of three interlocking triangles, stood for his power. Even the old superstition of not walking underneath a ladder stems from an ancient Egyptian belief that one should not “break a triangle’. The geometry of the number three was seen as being complete and perfect, and therefore not to be disturbed—”
“When shall we three meet again?” he quoted. “In thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won.”
My husband’s family is an armed forces family. His father was a marine and his mother in the army. They met in the Armed Services band and as the lore goes, that was that. My husband was in Air Force ROTC and got a scholarship to college and wanted to be a pilot. He got derailed by Calculus Four, but that is another story entirely… His little brother and sister were also in ROTC in high school, but chose different paths for their lives.
The first time I ever traveled with my children through an airport, I taught them that the men and women in armed services uniforms were special and that they fought for our country and deserved our gratitude–then I cringed as my two year old ran up to the marine, pulled on his dress uniform with sticky hands and then said “Thank You for saving my mommy” to say he was surprised was an understatement. After many apologies and smiles, we parted ways and I taught both my daughters that the correct phrase was “thank you for your service.” And to this day I feel a sense of pride each time they politely thank the men and women in the armed services. ( and now cringe as they are pretty close in age to the youngest recruits at 14 and 15, and they get a little more attention than I’m necessarily comfortable with)
That being said, I am a fan of many writers who write detective stories and police procedurals. And every time I hear about a police officer losing his or her life I cringe. I have a few friends who ended up as police officers and I always call them when I have any issue that regards the police so I know how to best proceed.
Police officers and fire fighters come into our lives at the worst moments- either we are victims of crime or in the process of committing one. But regardless, they run towards danger and do it every day all day. So why didn’t I teach my daughters to thank them for their service? Why did I teach my daughters that if they are ever pulled over to go to a public well lighted place before stopping? Honestly, most police officers are a suspicious bunch and if you approach them out of the blue, even to thank them for their service to thee community, I’ve found them to be a little wary about it. I try to always nod at them and say thank you when I see them out and about and will redouble my efforts going forward.
So, I’m not sure exactly what my point was when I started other than that police officers and fire fighters don’t get nearly enough appreciation from the communities they serve. Instead we point at the few bad apples and teach our children to be careful and that a uniform doesn’t necessarily mean a hero.
That being said, please give what you can to this fallen officers family and if you happen to see a police officer or fire fighter in the next few days thank them for their service. And send positive thoughts and prayers to ALL the heroes in our communities.
I look forward to discussing all of this with fellow fans at my site bestbooklover.net and at the Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/BestBooklovernet-336745780072074/
If you want to help support this website, donations are accepted at paypal.me/Bestbooklover/
Watching this (and fearing broken ankles with each loop) I can’t helping thinking about that old quote Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, except backwards and in high heels.
But no, if you watch closely you’ll see she doesn’t even step on the last chair. That means she had to trust that fucker to lift her gently to the ground while he was spinning down onto that chair. That takes major guts. I’d be pissing myself and fearing a broken neck if I were in her place. Kudos to her.
Okay so this is true, but a tiny part of a wider truth.
Ginger Rogers was a FUCKING BADASS. Ignore for a sec the rampant sexism in Hollywood (they once bleached her hair blonde in wardrobe without telling her beforehand), the fact that she fought her whole career against typecasting and stereotyping from fellow actors (Katharine Hepburn famously said of the Astaire/Rogers partnership “she gave him sex. He gave her class” ) for starting out in musicals, and went on to have a career lasting over fifty years, winning a Best Actress Oscar (Kitty Foyle, 1940). But… JUST focusing on the Astaire movies…
Not only did she dance “backwards” in high heels, the dances were a task in themselves. Astaire was an absolute perfectionist and choreographed for himself, so as a younger, less experienced dancer Rogers came in at a disadvantage and worked her ass off to match him.
Then there’s the filming complications… these numbers were filmed in ONE TAKE. So one thing goes wrong and you have to start over. Maybe you make a mistake or maybe your dress flies up because…
Ginger had to contend with her wardrobe. Dancing in heels is the norm at this time, but dancing in a dress designed for cinema cameras… not so much. They were heavy, embellished, uncomfortable, restrictive and cumbersome and essentially a third member of the dance, strapped to the body of one partner.Not only did she have to dance and look good, she had to control the dress too!
Take this routine from Swing Time… (it gets going proper at 1:30ish)
This dress has weights, YES WEIGHTS, sewn in to the hem to make it fly out and create a visual effect. So it’s heavy, it hurts if it hits you, and your partner gets mad if it hits him. So you gotta control it.
Well it turns out all these factors on this set, this particular day aren’t going so well. So you’re doing take after take, here’s no labour laws, so at 4am after 18 hours you’re still going, even though part of the routine requires you to spin up those curved stairs with no rail at high speed….
Okay so now back to those high heels. In Ginger’s autobiography she vividly remembers this night as the night she bled though her shoes. They did so many takes, her feet blistered, bled, and the white satin high heels she was wearing finished he night pink because they were literally full of blood. And still they keep shooting. She keeps dancing.
The take they use in the film is the last. Early hours. Bloody feet. And she spins, acts and bosses out until that last second. Because she was that professional, talented and bloody minded. This is the last set of spins…
So I say once again. Ginger Rogers was a badass.
She did everything Fred Astaire did backwards, in high heels, wearing a 20 pound dress, exhausted, injured and standing in a pool of her own blood. And watching her perform, you would never know.
Women Rule,
Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Dancing,high heels, dancing backwards, exhausted, weighted dress, badass, dancing backwards, sexism, jealousy, tap dance, perfectionism, mean, angry, one take
Time to cry over CtD some more! It’s funny this is one of those books I don’t reread all that much (unlike htm which I can nearly recite by heart) so I’ve forgotten how really really good it is. I’m just enjoying it so much:
-chapter 24 – where do I start with this one? Rosier siccing the rakshasas on his kid and then wondering why he’s a great father, ummmm, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?? Pritkin, once again trying to sacrifice himself for Cassie, that boy has a complex (side note: I love how KC follows through on things – she makes it very clear that Pritkin has something of a saviour complex, where Cassie is concerned anyway and it ultimately gets him killed. His sacrifice in HtM was actually super predictable and we really ought to have seen something like it coming. I mean, “It was the only reasonable course of action,” FOR REAL, who says that after almost getting themselves killed??). Plus, we have sudden, out of nowhere Casskin making out, which is essentially what I live for. Like most of the body swap stuff it’s simultaneously weird and sexy. Cassie is essentially getting to see the effect she normally has on Pritkin, and well, it’s hot. The ley line car chase is KC’s usual brand of breakneck pace, humour and adrenaline. I love how even Pritkin is freaked out by the whole thing.
– chapter 25 – I’m gonna have a stroke, there’s so much going on here. Marsden’s dog trying to attack Mircea. Mircea hugging Pritkin-in-Cassie’s-body. Cassie-in-Pritkin’s-body accidentally swearing at Mircea and pissing him off. Mircea pulling Pritkin-in-Cassie’s-body out of the room, presumably for some relieved reunion cuddles and from the sounds of things, gets slapped or kneed in the nuts or sth. Marlowe, dressed up and ready to party, wandering around offering everyone booze. Cassie talking shit in front of everyone: “What? You like wearing a bra?” Serious note – hasn’t Saunders turned up early? Cassie’s been saying all day that her meeting with Saunders is ‘tomorrow’ but this is still today right?? I’m confused. Less serious note – Marlowe trying to provoke Pritkin is one of the many many joys in these books, they should wrestle it out again. There could be some kind of oil involved … Uh, moving on. “Renegotiate this!” Epically silly line, 10/10, would put in trailer for movie adaptation which is sadly never gonna happen. Mircea kissing Cassie-in-Pritkin’s-body – either he’s very relieved that Cassie’s okay or he’s always secretly wanted to make out with Pritkin a little bit. I mean, who hasn’t?
So, Fist I have to say thank you to @windsurfingthroughhell for posting these awesome summaries on the reread. I suck at writing summaries. I discovered this when I tried to do a timeline for the Anita Blake series cause I kept getting confused. The software i used https://www.tiki-toki.com/ is amazingly awesome, But the free account only allows a certain number of entries. And by the time I got to the 4 or 5 Anita Blake books, I had hit the max. Which was totally insane. And those of you who saw my attempts for the Cassandra Palmer series, know I get lost in all the stuff.
I am hoping someone will make a Cassandra Palmer timeline for us all to share at https://www.tiki-toki.com/ since I already used my freebie, and that thing took weeks of work, so I don’t care if its incomplete, I ain’t deleting it.
SO, my original point is that I keep responding to these posts, cause it keeps me from dancing merrily along to my tangential brains music…So, I am not arguing points or tearing anyone down, OK? Just adding my two cents, and if I get a little vehement, it’s only because all of these characters mean something to me, even FRED for god’s sake…
From the beginning, Rossier confuses the shit out of me. So, the fact that Rossier, who hates Artemis and Cassie with a vehemence, is the vehicle through which Apollo is taken down is just Fucking Priceless. I think the fact that Rossier has antipathy towards Cassie and always jumps to “let’s kill her” is odd. I mean, theoretically he has been waiting all these years for SOMEONE to break through Pritkin’s self hatred and walls. But from the moment Cassie shows up, well its weird. It keeps getting weirder.
These chapters are my favorite part. We see so much stuff. It hard to even begin listing it or really digest it. I love Cassie, and its hysterical to see the vampires out of their element, the mages out of theirs and god so much more. I mean, theoretically they are all supposed to be working together but no one knows anyone else’s plan, they don’t even know who is who!
And seeing Kit Marlowe, spy extraordinaire still fucking lost-it just makes me giggle. I mean they are fighting gods, with Cleopatra and Jack the Ripper and all Marlowe can do is hand out drinks. He’s the stewardess on this flight to Ragnorak…And he keeps hitting his goddamned head, which is so fucking unfair. And he knows something is up with Pritkin, cause he isn’t responding right, but in his defense who’s first thought would be “That must be the pythia’s soul in the war mages body because of a chaos loving buddhist type god”? (Since we are on a reread, I will also say that I love it when Cassie and Mircea end up arguing in Marlowe’s office later, and he’s all “there is a god and he loves me”) As a second aside, does anyone else want to know how Marlowe’s ties to the witches just up and disappeared?
And then you add in the triple D’s and Apollo and running up how many goddamned floors with Prtikin in a dress?
And yeah I REALLY want Karen to write the Pritkin Pov of what happens in that bedroom between Cassie’s body, Pritkin’s Soul, and Mircea! Damnit, maybe there will be another event or opportunity to bring that up at some point when Karen has contracts for more books, and is looking for an idea…Sigh, who am I kidding? I don’t have the money to buy a swag bag, let alone…oh well, I digress
And when Mircea kisses Cassie in Pritkin, just WOW. I mean I know sexuality is probably mutable but still, to love someone’s soul so much that it transcends the physical…sigh again!
Anyways, I could go on forever, but who wants to read that? SO, thank you for giving me talking points and tell me where I’m wrong. I keep trying to do reread posts, but I read too fast and even though I am rereading the same stuff, each time i get a little bit different stuff.
Curse the Dawn
Karen Chance
Fiction
Penguin UK
April 2, 2009
400
Cassie Palmer, the world's chief clairvoyant, just can't seem to stay away from trouble. After trying to come to an agreement with the Silver Circle - the magical organisation that's been trying to kill her for years - she finds herself kidnapped by one of its members and swept away in the ley line system, a series of magical currents that occupies the space between worlds. Cassie manages to escape but, fearing for her safety, she decides to invest in a magical device for protection. However, all she can afford is a statue that grants wishes ...But what Cassie doesn't realize is that the statue doesn't always grant wishes the way the wisher would like. And when she wishes for the strength to shift herself and companion Pritkin away from a dangerous fight, the statue grants the wish by switching her into Pritkin's body and him into hers. And that's when the real trouble starts ...
My absolute favourite in the series has to be the revelation at the end of Hunt the Moon. It suddenly made everything fall into place and make sense, and rounded off a topic both highly relevant to the plot and very important to Cassie.
“My power wasn’t some alien thing, I thought, watching the sky in wonder. It wasn’t borrowed from another or stolen from a better candidate. There was no better candidate; there never would be. It had flowed away from Myra as soon as it saw me, like the tide when the moon comes out. Because it was mine—it was mine; it knew it was mine.” – Karen Chance, Hunt the Moon.
The revelation had such a cathartic, enlightening effect (literally enlightening too, note KC’s pathetic fallacy in relation to the Moon in the scene), and as Cassie’s thoughts summarize, she has finally understood her place in the world, accepted her role as her own, and found herself. Such an amazingly pivotal moment, coming so surprisingly late in the series (book 5!), it really raises huge questions as to what other major bombshells the series has in store.
I view the whole series as Cassie learning who she is. i don’t agree with all the romance people who see the triangle and root for one person or the other. Cassie is who I root for. And Cassie has a completely unique viewpoint. And as Cassie grows into her own, she going to keep making choices that make people mad. But in this book she realizes, finally, that it isn’t about the party or the dress, or even who her mother is. Its about her. Its about finding that one place to stand. If you die, you die. But Cassie is the Pythia. Period. End of Report. F*ck everyone else. and we see more of that in the later books…I can’t wait to see what happens next. And I totally root for Cassie when she says that she isn’t releasing anyone from their pledges and no one is dying for her damn it!
The goddamn Apple Store is so fucking trendy these motherfuckers don’t even use cash registers anymore. Like holy shit why would I ever want to wait in line to pay for my immensely overpriced lightning bolt-to-usb cable, when I can wander around aimlessly looking for the one bearded top knot in the grey shirt who happens to have a card reader attached to his free iPhone 6? Literally fucking walked up a dude and was like ‘Yo where’s the till?’ And guy looks at me straight in the fucking face and says, ‘Oh well, there should be one or two people walking around on either side of the store who can process your payment.’ ALL OF YOU DRESS EXACTLY THE SAME! Am I supposed to accost every single goddamn one of you until I finally find the one goddamn fucking anthropomorphisized Mac Computer who is willing to let me pay for this shit? And when I finally find the dude and let him tap his shit against the box that I’m trying to purchase, of course he gives me the smuggest fucking smile I’ve ever seen on a human face and asks, ‘Would you like to use Apple Pay?’ Like GOOD LORD can we please just take a step outside of your möbius fucking circle jerk and let me hand you fifteen pounds in cash? Cash money? Real fucking physical fucking tender? No it’s okay, I don’t need a fucking receipt. What, you mean you’re going to print me a real receipt? A physical receipt that I can carry in my pocket? You’re not gonna beam it to my fucking wrist? You’re not going to send it via dropbox to an undisclosed fucking IP Address where I have to complete a CAPTCHA and accept your terms and conditions for the one millionth time in order to check that, yes, I did just spend £20 pounds and 45 minutes on a thin wire made of plastic and metal that’s gonna break in a month anyway? I JUST DONT UNDERSTAND THIS PLANET ANYMORE
Xcor slowly shook his head. “I don’t see your clothes, I never do, and a fancy dress wouldn’t change that. I don’t see wet hair, I feel the strands between my fingers. I don’t see pale cheeks, I am tasting your lips in my mind. You offer me all my senses at once, my female. You are so much more than any one thing about you.”
When I first encountered the literary classic Lolita, I was the same age as the infamous female character. I was 15 and had heard about a book in which a grown man carries on a sexual relationship with a much younger girl. Naturally, I quickly sought out the book and devoured the entire contents on my bedroom floor, parsing through Humbert Humbert‘s French and his erotic fascination for his stepdaughter, the light of his life, the fire of his loins — Dolores Haze. I remember being in the ninth grade and turning over the cover that presented a coy pair of saddle shoes as I hurried through the final pages in homeroom.
Although I remember admiring the book for all its literary prowess, what I don’t recall is how much of the truth of that story resonated with me given that I was a kid myself. Because it wasn’t until I reread the book as an adult that I realized Lolita had been raped. She had been raped repeatedly, from the time she was 12 to when she was 15 years old.
As a young woman now, it’s startling to see how that fundamental crux of the novel has been obscured in contemporary culture with even the suggestion of what it means to be “a Lolita” these days. Tossed about now, a “Lolita” archetype has come to suggest a sexually precocious, flirtatious underage girl who invites the attention of older men despite her young age. A Lolita now implies a young girl who is sexy, despite her pigtails and lollipops, and who teases men even though she is supposed to be off-limits.
In describing his now banned perfume ad, Marc Jacobs was very frank about the intentions of his sexy child ad and why he chose young Dakota Fanning to be featured in it. The designer described the actress as a “contemporary Lolita,” adding that she was “seductive, yet sweet.” Propping her up in a child’s dress that was spread about her thighs, and with a flower bottle placed right between her legs, the styling was sufficient to make the 17-year-old look even younger. The text below read “Oh Lola!,” cementing the Lolita reference completely. The teenager looks about 12 years old in the sexualizing advertisement, which is the same age Lolita is when the book begins.
And yet Marc Jacobs’ interpretation of Lolita as “seductive” is completely false, as are all other usages of Lolita to imply a “seductive, yet sweet” little girl who desires sex with older men.
Lolita is narrated by a self-admitted pedophile whose penchant for extremely young girls dates all the way back to his youth. Twelve-year-old Dolores Haze was not the first of Humbert Humbert’s victims; she was just the last. His recounting of events is unreliable given that he is serially attracted to girl children or “nymphets” as he affectionately calls them. And his endless rationalizing of his”love” for Lolita, their “affair,” their “romance” glosses over his consistent sexual attacks on her beginning in the notorious hotel room shortly after her mother dies.
This man who marries Lolita’s mother, in a sole effort to get access to the child, fantasizes about drugging her in the hopes of raping her — a hypothetical scenario which eventually does come to fruition. Later on as he realizes that Lolita is aging out of his preferred age bracket, he entertains the thought of impregnating her with a daughter so that he can in turn rape that child when Lolita gets too old
Lolita does make repeated attempts to get away from her rapist and stepfather by trying to alert others as to how she is being abused. According to Humbert, she invites the company of anyone which annoys him given that the pervert doesn’t want to be discovered. And yet, he manipulates her from truly notifying the authorities by telling her that without him — her only living relative — she’ll become a ward of the state. By spoiling her with dresses and comic books and soda pop, he reminds her that going into the system will deny her such luxuries and so she is better off being raped by him whenever he pleases than living without new presents.
Given that Humbert is a pedophile, his first-person account is far from trustworthy when deciphering what actually happened to Lolita. But, Vladimir Nabokov does give us some clues despite our unreliable narrator. For their entire first year together on the road as they wade from town to town, Humbert recalls her bouts of crying and “moodiness” — perfectly understandable emotions considering that she is being raped day and night. A woman in town even inquires to Humbert what cat has been scratching him given the the marks on his arms — vigilant attempts by Lolita to get away from her attacker and guardian. He controls every aspect of her young life, consumed with the thought that she will leave him with the aid of too much allowance money or perhaps a boyfriend. He interrogates her constantly about her friends and eventually ransacks her bedroom revoking all her money. Lolita is often taunted with things she desires in exchange for sexual favors as Nabokov writes in one scene:
“How sweet it was to bring that coffee to her, and then deny it until she had done her morning duty.”
Lolita eventually does get away from her abusive stepfather by age 15, but the fact that she has been immortalized as this illicit literary vixen is not only deeply troublesome, it’s also a completely inaccurate reading of the book. And Marc Jacobs is not alone in his highly problematic misinterpretation of child rape and abuse as “sexy.” Some publications and publishing houses actually recognize the years of abuse as love.
On the 50th anniversary edition of Lolita, which I purchased for the sake of writing this piece, there sits on the back cover a quote from Vanity Fair which reads:
“The only convincing love story of our century.”
The edition, which was published by Vintage International, recounts the story as “Vladimir Nabokov’s most famous and controversial novel” but also as having something to say about love. The back cover concludes in its summary:
“Most of all, it is a meditation on love — love as outrage and hallucinations, madness and transformation.”
“Love” holds no space in this novel, which details the repeated sexual violation of a child. Although Humbert desperately tries to convince the reader that he is in love with his stepdaughter, the scratches on his arms imply something else entirely. Because the lecherous Humbert has couched his pedophilia in romantic language, the young girl he repeatedly violated seems to have passed through into pop culture as a tween temptress rather than a rape victim.
Conflating love or sexiness with the rape of literature’s most misunderstood child is dangerous in that it perpetuates the mythology that young girls are some how participating in their own violation. That they are instigating these attacks by encouraging and inciting the lust of men with their flirty demeanor and child-like innocence.
Let it be known that even Lolita, pop culture’s first “sexy little girl” was not looking to seduce her stepfather. Lolita, like a lot of young girls, was raped.
I was going through this at age 11 when i got my hands on the book, and i never read it as sexual. I cried and related to her on such a deep level. Anyone who thinks lolita is a love story is gross.
Too real. Lolita means so much to me, because I was raped by an older adult man when I was 15 and years later when I came forward about it people said it was my fault because I flirted with him. A friend of his even teased me with the comment “weren’t you his little Lolita?” Lolita. Is Not. A love story. The continuous sexual abuse of a teenage girl is not love.
What chaps my ass is that NABOKOV didn’t see it as a love story. He found Humbert repugnant and went out of his way to make him so.
He hated that people saw it as romantic when he’d meant to write a fucking horror novel.
I hate when people call themselves Lolita or that fucking Lana del Rey song.This book is about a little girl being raped constantly and they make it seem like a seduction or tease.Please people read this article or read what the book really is this story makes my gut churn.I was being molested as a kid and had mental games played on me.Please Please Please to save another persons life stop romanticizing this story let people know this isn’t no old century love this is rape
Rape is never ok. Nor is a relationship between an adult and a child. I read a lot but it is imperative that this be a truth of our age. Too many people refuse to stand up to protect that truth. Many of my favorite heroines were abused as children.
We’re prepared to scribe up,” Bella said. “And then we’ve asked for Last Meal on special service, because we’re doing movie day upstairs in the theater.” “ Magic Mike XXL just came out on DVD,” Beth chimed in. “We have a moral obligation to support the arts, even if they’re just the human ones.” “I haven’t seen the first one,” Autumn murmured. “They tell me his pelvis is double-jointed. Is that true?” Beth came forward and took the Neverfull. “Come on, you look like you need a girls’ night. Payne and Xhex are joining us. So are Cormia, Layla, Doc Jane, and Ehlena. We’re getting all of us the friendship that was being offered. It seemed … too frivolous when she thought about all she wasn’t able to do for that unknown female. Bella leaned in. “We’ve told the males that they can’t come in. Mostly because if they see that Channing guy up on the big screen—” Beth finished, “—we’re going to need to do a remodel after they’re done with things.” “Back to the double-jointed business,” Autumn kicked in. “I mean, how does he walk?” “Very well, my friend.” As Bella answered Tohr’s mate, she put an arm around Marissa’s shoulders. “Very, very well.” As Marissa let herself get drawn into the billiards room—where ink pots had been set up on one of the coffee tables and there was already a glass set out for her—she began to blink fast. Part of the emotion was the fact that that female who had died wasn’t ever going to have anything like this again—if she’d been lucky enough to find good people surrounding her while she’d been alive. The other half was a gratitude so great, her chest could barely contain the emotion. “Ladies,” she said, putting her arm around Bella’s waist. “Let’s do the addressing quickly—so we can get to the undressing.”…“I ’m sorry … they’re doing what ?” As Butch spoke, he looked at the males-only group sitting around the mansion’s dining room table. Not one of his brothers or any of the soldiers was laughing or talking loudly. The bunch of sad sack losers was just sitting in front of half-eaten plates and untouched rocks glasses of vodka, bourbon and whiskey like a roll call of bassett hounds who’d lost their anti-depressants. Not what he’d expected to find as he came late to Last Meal. When Marissa had texted him and told him she was working with the females on something, it had seemed like a good idea to with your sac or something?” Wrath inhaled like he was about to break the news of a death in the family. “They’re having a movie night.” Butch rolled his eyes and went over to his chair. Yeah, it was a little weird to sit down without his Marissa by his side, but for crissakes, it was nothing to go Prozac over. Besides, he was glad his woman had friends in the house— “They’re watching Magic Mike ,” someone said. “Is that a children’s show?” He sat back as Fritz put a heaping plate of lamb in front of him. “Thanks, man—oh, thanks, yeah, I’d love a drink. I’ll take a Lagavulin on the rocks—” Butch stopped talking as he realized the entire table of males was looking at him. “What?” “You haven’t heard about Magic Mike ?” Rhage demanded. “No.” He leaned back again as his drink was delivered. “Thanks. Is it like Barney?” “It’s about strippers,” Hollywood countered. Butch frowned and lowered the glass from his lips. “I’m sorry?” V came in from the pantry with a thick pouch of tobacco, a pack of rolling papers, and a scowl like somebody had stripped his favorite sex toy of its batteries. “Naked,” Vishous muttered as he sat where Marissa should have been. “Buck-ass naked. And they’re humans. Christ, it’s like being shown up by a pack of dogs.” “In thongs,” someone else bitched. “Dogs in thongs.” Butch followed through on taking a drink this time, swallowing the burn, welcoming the heat in his gut. Okay, fine, it was a bit of a surprise to find that he kept going until the glass was empty, but hey, he had a lot to think about. On one level, the fact that his shellan was watching a movie with her buddies, even if it did involve some nakey, really wasn’t a big deal. On another level, he wanted to find the electrical box and cut the power to that part of the mansion. Then torch the DVD. And the screen. And take his mate to bed just to show her all the tricks he had over some actor in a—oh, God, a thong? “It’s fine,” he heard himself say as he motioned to a doggen for a refill. “I mean, first of all, they love us—and second, it’s not like it’s an X rated—” the thing at the fallen angel’s head. “You keep talking like that and I’ma trim your hair. With my eyes closed.” Lassiter laughed. “Yeah, whatever, big boy. I thought you had more mojo than to get worked up over something like this. You really that insecure?” “You want insecure,” V said. “I’ll make you—” “Okay, okay,” Butch cut in. “Leave it, V. It’s fine, it’s great—they’re just enjoying themselves. What’s wrong with that? It’s not like they’re sleeping with the guy.” “You sure about that?” Lassiter smiled. “You don’t think they’re fantasizing about—” The collective growl that rose up from the Brotherhood was so loud, it managed to agitate the crystals in the enormous chandelier hanging over the table. And the fallen angel was an idiot, but he wasn’t stupid. Moving slowly, like there were multiple guns pointed at him, he put his hands up in submission. “Sorry. Whatever. I’ll stop before all this lame-ass uncomfortability you bunch of morons are sporting kills me.” “Wise choice,” Butch said dryly. “Not that I wouldn’t mind hitting you right now. Although that’s not specific to this sitch.” Lassiter went back to eating, shoving food into his face. The Brothers weren’t so quick to do a reset on things, those narrowed eyes and bared fangs still trained on the angel with the big mouth. “Come on, boys, it’s fine .” He cut a piece of lamb off and put it in his mouth. “Mmm. Delish.” In reality, the stuff tasted like cardboard, but he made a show of the yummies. He couldn’t keep it up, though. Two minutes later, he was shoving a full plate away and nursing his second whiskey. “Really. They should have a little independence. They don’t need to be locked at our hips, and listen, life here revolves around us. It’s about time they do something just for them. Really. This is great.” Next to him, V lit up a fat hand-rolled. “Is it. You like the idea of Marissa looking at some other male’s junk?” “It’s not an X-rated—” As his voice squeaked, he cleared his throat. “I mean, it couldn’t be … no, it’s not—” up again before the growling got even worse. “Jesus, you guys are so damn touchy.” Butch shook his head and decided the angel was on his own. “So, yeah, I mean, a little gyrating—a pec pump or two. It’s nothing to get worked up over. Fritz, can I have a refill over here again?” The butler hustled over to pick up the empty glass. “Would any of you care for dessert? We have homemade ice cream and Petit Gâteau .” Butch glanced at Hollywood. “What do you say there, my man?” When Rhage just swished his ginger ale around in his glass, Butch cursed and said to Fritz, “This one here will have some even if no one else does.” “Bring me the dessert,” Rhage spoke up. Fritz bowed with Butch’s glass in his hand. “But of course, sire. I shall fix you a plate directly—” “No. I want the whole dessert. All of the cake and all of the ice cream.” Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd that was how Hollywood ended up with a morose audience of however many playing witness to his consuming fifteen small chocolate cakes and two gallons of vanilla ice cream. It was like watching paint dry, except there was no chemical smell and the room was the same color before and after. The good news was that the booze was doing its job, fuzzing out Butch’s mind, making his body both numb and horny. “May I have another?” he asked a passing doggen who was removing the final chocolate-smudged plate. “Thank you so much.” When his glass came back, he pushed his chair away from the table. “I’m out. I’ve got some work to do.” And no offense to any of them, but hanging around in their vibe was just making him more depressed. Any more of this and he was going to start braiding the noose. Walking out, he paused in the grand foyer. Looked up the stairs. Tried to imagine his Marissa ogling some actor in his underwear. “Really. It’s fine. Good for her.” He took his phone out and called up their text string. Hesitating, he thought he’d just send her something, you know, to about something like this. Marissa wasn’t only the love of his life; she was a female of worth who would never cheat on him. And hello , it wasn’t like she’d checked into a seedy motel with the guy, for fuck’s sake. She was hanging with her friends just like he hung out with his. This was ridiculous. He was not the jealous type— The sound of shitkickers approaching had him glancing over his shoulder. It was Rhage, and the brother had a frothing glass of Alka-Seltzer in his hand. Hollywood looked up the stairs. And dollars for dipshits, he was thinking exactly what Butch was. “I’m going up,” the guy announced. “Now, wait, wait, wait.” Butch grabbed that huge forearm and squeezed. “It’s not like you can just burst in there.” “Why not?” “It’s girls’ night.” “So I’ll put on a dress.” “Fucking hell, Rhage. Really ?” Next out were V., John Matthew and Tohr. And everyone else, including Wrath—and even Manny, who, in spite of being a full-blown human, was right there along with the hound-faced rest of them. “We are not going up there,” Butch announced. “We’re going to go play some pool, and get drunk, and talk about all the kills we had in the attack on Brownswick. We’re going to have a great fucking night—day, whatever the hell it is. Now pick your balls up off the floor and let’s start behaving like men.” “He has skills. I’m just saying.” As Doc Jane spoke up, the captivated audience that was focused on the big screen was in total, very unmuted agreement. Payne let out another of her now-trademark wolf whistles. Xhex cursed and threw more Milk Duds at the image, yelling, “Damn, son, you get that shit! You get it!” Marissa just laughed again. She couldn’t decide what was more amusing, the movies or the company—probably the company. Although the humans were not hard on the eyes, she had to this hard. There was something about being with the girls that made the jokes both worse and better at the same time, and the giggling louder, and the silliness more stupid. All of which was a very beautiful thing, as it turned out. It also reminded her of how great it was to be accepted for exactly who she was, no external expectations laid on her, no shortfalls she hadn’t volunteered for cutting her down. No judgment, just love. Plus a number of naked guys who were almost as hot as her male? Not a hardship. When the final scene was over and the credits started to roll, they clapped like the actors could hear them all the way out in California. “Can you teach me how to whistle like that?” someone asked Payne. “You just put two lips around your fingers and blow,” the female replied. “Isn’t that a line from a movie?” somebody chimed in. “Are they going to do a third one—” “Magic Mike Ginormous—” “We need to watch one and two again first as prep—we’ve got a tradition to uphold—” “Anybody see Nine and a Half Weeks lately—” “What’s that—” One by one, they stood up from the padded leather recliners and stretched in the dim, windowless room, backs cracking, shoulders unknotting. And it was funny—Marissa felt the urge to cut through the conversation and say something profound and meaningful, just to acknowledge the space they’d been in. But the right words didn’t come. Instead, she said, “Hey, can we do this again?” Then again, maybe that was exactly what she meant. Well, what do you know, the peanut gallery was so on board: The rousing cheer was as loud as the hoots at the dance scenes, and the idea that this special time wasn’t a one-off made her feel a piercing kind of relief. “I think we need a Chris Pratt marathon next. Guardians of the Marissa wadded her empty Milk Duds box and made a rim shot with it into the trash. Abruptly, she realized that she couldn’t wait to see Butch—and not because of all the scenes of half-naked bodies. She missed him—which was ridiculous, considering neither one of them had gone anywhere. Heading for the door by the glass display of candy bars, she was smiling as she pushed open the— “Dear … God,” she blurted as she recoiled. The hallway beyond was filled with the males of the house, the Brothers and other fighters and Manny sitting on the floor with their backs to the bare walls, their legs stretched out, propped up, crossed at the knees or crossed at the ankles. Apparently there had been quite a bit of drinking going on, empty bottles of vodka and whiskey littered around them, glasses in hands or on thighs. “This is not as pathetic as it looks,” her Butch pointed out. “Liar,” V muttered. “It so fucking is. I think I’m going to start knitting for reals.” As the females emerged with her, each one of them registered shock, disbelief, and then a wry amusement. “Is it me,” one of the males groused, “or did we just perform our own mass castration out here?” “I think that just about sums this shit up,” somebody agreed. “I’m wearing panties under my leathers from now on. Anyone joining me?” “Lassiter already does,” V said as he got to his feet and went to Jane. “Hey.” And then it was group-reunion time. While the other pairs found one another, Butch smiled as Marissa came over to him and put out her hand to help him off the floor. As they embraced, he kissed her on the side of the neck. “Are you out of love with me now?” he murmured. “’Cuz I’m pussy-whipped?” She leaned back in his arms. “Why? Because you pined after me while I was watching a dirty movie with my girls that wasn’t all that dirty? I think it’s actually—and brace yourself—really pretty cute.” “I’m still all man.” As she rolled her body against him, she let out a mmmm as she and that meant a trip all the way downstairs, into the tunnel, and through the underground passage to get back to their bedroom. He wasn’t going to last that long. Not even close. The first available vacancy with any privacy came in the form of an unoccupied staff bedroom that had pulled drapes, a twin bed with no sheets on it, and a very handy brass lock. Butch didn’t bother turning the lights on; he just pulled his female against his body and kissed the ever-loving crap out of her as he kicked the door closed and worked that dead bolt like a pro. “I need you so bad,” he growled. “You’ve got me,” she said against his mouth. Fucking perfect, his cock roared in his pants. And talk about following orders: with a quick shift, he backed her up to the bed, sat her down and knelt in front of her. As he inhaled deeply, he started to laugh.“What?” she murmured, all half-lidded and wholly edible. “You’re aroused.” “Of course I am.” “You weren’t when you came out of the movie.” “Why would I have been? That was just good fun with the girls. Like going to a museum, you know? You appreciate the art, but you wouldn’t take it home with you.” “So I’m still your favorite flavor?” “You’re my only flavor.” Well, didn’t that make him go all robin-breasted, dick swing with the ego. Flashing his fangs, he said, “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” “Were you really jealous?” she said. “Of a movie?” “Yes.” The laugh that came out of her was so easy and relaxed, such a happy sound, that it made him hope she and her girls got together again and, yes, to watch sexy humans gyrate on the screen, if that was what made his mate uncoil like this. Granted, he wasn’t about to write that Tanning Chatum guy a fan letter, but he was more than grateful for those females and that friendship. Anyone, anything that took care of his shellan was all right in body down on the little bed. He had a lot of plans that involved him going down on her for two hours—but his cock wasn’t going to be able to wait for all that. He needed in her. Now. Zeroing in on the fastening of her slacks, he had her naked from the waist down with some quick hand work and one pull down her long, lovely legs. And then his palms were traveling up her calves, her thighs. With a moan, she spread further for him as if she wanted this as badly as he did, revealing her bare, glistening sex—and that was when he lost his damn mind. Outing his erection, he went right for the heart of her, no preamble, no foreplay—they were both beyond ready. “Marissa,” he groaned as he penetrated her, sliding in deep, the sensation at once familiar and bracingly electric. Cursing on the exhale, he reared up and his hips took over, grinding, thrusting, pumping—and he loved how she held on to his neck and shoulders. “Take my vein,” she ordered. His fangs had already punched out of the roof of his mouth, and he bared them with a hiss. Striking in his favorite spot, on the left side, he drew deep, drank hard, got high on her taste as well as the sex. He couldn’t last long with that, though. Shit was getting too hard, too fast down below. Licking the puncture wounds closed, he repositioned her so he could go even deeper—then he grabbed onto her hip bones and dug in, pistoning her body, rocking things so hard the thin metal frame banged into the wall and the tinny mattress springs became a symphony of wild creaking. He heard her come, which was what he’d been after, heard that common, nothing-fancy name of his erupt into the sex-scented air—and he wanted to stop so he could feel that rhythmic gripping of her core. He was too far gone, though. His balls were tucking up and going hot, his pelvis was doing that autonomic jerking shit that he was no more capable of reining in than he could stop his own heart, and his cock was that bizarre combination of numb and hypersensitive— Butch came so hard he got a load of fireworks across his vision, and even as he started to ejaculate, he knew he wasn’t finished. He kept riding her, shifting positions again, arching farther over her body until his weight was braced on the balls of his feet floor. But again, there was no stopping. He just walked along with it—until the frame fit itself obligingly into a corner. Talk about some leverage. Fucking. Perfect. Butch kept going at it, pounding her, his body doing an uncoiling of its own, the weeks—and maybe, if he was honest, months—of feeling somewhat separate from her disappearing like he was fucking that subtle distance out of existence. Lot of orgasms. The fantastic ugly kind where your face screwed up hard, and you were going to be sore when you woke up, and shit got really, really messy down below. When it was finally over, he collapsed on top of her. He meant to roll over, though, so she could breathe easier. He really did. Yup. Rolling over would be good right now. Uh-huh. In three … two … … one.
