Jo Walton - Among Others

Though Prospero was in fact neglectful however you look at it. He must have been the world’s most crap Duke of Milan, and he would be again. I can certainly sympathise with spending your whole time in the library reading your book instead of bothering with what you’re supposed to be doing. But there’s absolutely no indication that he won’t do the exact same thing once they get back. In fact, he’ll be worse, because he’ll want to catch up on everything his favourite authors have written while he was stuck on the island. Antonio was probably a much better Duke. Sure, he was a conniving bastard, but he’d keep everyone happy because it would be to his own advantage. The people were probably horrified to see Prospero back, drowned books or not.

Very little of this will be going into my formal response essay on seeing the play. But what’s really not going in is what I thought about the fairies, which is that they were brilliant, and surprisingly lifelike.

Ariel did not speak, she sang all her lines. She was wearing something white, maybe a bodystocking, with veils all around that drifted about when she moved or gestured. She had a shaved head, also with a veil. When she went free at the end, all the veils fell away and we saw her face for the first time, and her expression was most convincingly like a fairy. I wonder if the actress knows any? Singing was a good way of getting across how oddly they communicate, well done Shakespeare, well done Touring Company. Shakespeare must have known fairies, probably quite well. He just did what I do and translated the things they say into the things they would have said.

Caliban, well, what is Caliban? I read it thinking he was a fairy, fishy and warty and odd. But seeing it made me think. His mother, Sycorax, was a witch. We don’t know about his father. We don’t see Sycorax at all. Was Prospero his father? Is he Miranda’s half-brother? Or was he there when they got there, as he says, offering welcome, to be made into a servant? He wants to rape Miranda (“I had peopled else this isle with Calibans”), but that doesn’t make him human, or his mother either, necessarily. He could be human, or half human, he’s pokable and hittable in a way fairies aren’t. There was a lot of hitting and cringing last night. What I believed about that particular Caliban, about (I have the programme) Peter Lewis’s Caliban, was that he was between worlds. He didn’t know where he belonged.

Shakespeare must have known some fairies. I know I said this about Tolkien, and actually I do still think Tolkien did as well. I think lots of people do.

What I love about Shakespeare is the language. I came home on the coach quite drunk on it, and had to ask Deirdre to repeat everything she was saying because I hadn’t caught it the first time. I don’t know what she thought. We had a conversation about what Miranda and Ferdinand’s married life would be like, and how she would cope with Italy after an island. Would it keep on seeming a brave new world? Deirdre thought it would as long as she was in love. Can you imagine though, confronting a whole world when you have only known three people, two of them not quite people and one of them remote Prospero? Imagine coping with fashion and servants and courtiers! Deirdre thought Prospero very cruel not to teach her. But maybe teaching her magic would have been more cruel.

Prospero breaks his staff and drowns his books because you can’t bring magic back home with you. If he had brought it back, would he have become like Saruman? Is it power that corrupts? Is it always? It would be nice if I knew some people who weren’t evil and used magic. Well, there’s Glorfindel, but I’m not sure fairies count. Fairies are different. The other interesting contrast with Prospero is Faust.

Letter from Daniel saying the acupuncture is arranged for Thursdays and paid for, saying he’d written to the school asking for me to be allowed to go, and enclosing ten pounds for trainfare and lunches. When I get change, I’ll put half of it into my running away/emergency fund.

I made it to the library, but Greg wasn’t there. It isn’t his Saturday to work. I took my huge pile of books back and collected what was waiting for me. I was wishing I’d arranged to meet someone, but of course I hadn’t because I wasn’t here on Tuesday. I was hoping I’d be able to see Greg and ask him the subject of this Tuesday’s meeting.

I wandered down to the bookshop, where there was no sign of anyone. I didn’t buy any books. It was drizzling in a very discouraging way. I sat in the cafe and ate a honey bun and read, looking up now and then to watch the rain. They always say it’s lovely weather for ducks, but the mallards on the pond looked as miserable as anyone. The drakes are starting to get their spring colours though. Maybe it’s spring rain. They’d have been glad of it in the Dead Marches, I thought. I bought a couple of buns for me and Deirdre—there’s really no point wasting money on Sharon, even though she is speaking to me again.

The junk shop was open, and I looked through their books. I didn’t see anything appealing except a folding cloth (canvas I think) map of Europe, with Germany huge and no Czechoslovakia. I think it must be from the war, or right before. Somebody had drawn a pink line on it in felt pen, but otherwise it’s in really good condition. The country colours are sort of pastels, not hard colours like they would be now. I couldn’t resist it, as it was only 5p. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. But maps are brill.

I walked slowly back up into town, looked through Smiths, which is usually a total waste of time, but today I was rewarded with a copy of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine ! I wonder where that came from. I do hope they’ll start getting it regularly. I bought it, and also a packet of Rollos, which I would happily share with Frodo and Sam if I could, but I can’t. I also bought a card for Grampar, one with the sea and a sandcastle that reminds me of summer holidays, and will remind him too.

Gill was at the bus stop. “No boyfriend today?” she asked.

I looked her straight in the eye. “Not that it’s any concern of yours, but Hugh’s just a friend, not a boy friend. He goes to the book club.”

“Oh. Sorry,” she said. I was amazed that she believed me. It’s a good thing it wasn’t Wim she’d seen me with, or I wouldn’t have been able to say that with such conviction, even though it would have been equally true.

The way to be popular in this school is to go into hospital and come out again. Or maybe it’s to have someone say you’re brave—I know Deirdre’s been saying that. Maybe they didn’t actually believe there was anything wrong with my leg before? Or maybe they feel sorry for me? I hope not. I’d hate that. But anyway, seven buns today, counting my honey bun. Two iced buns, two Chelsea buns, an iced cupcake and an eclair. I couldn’t eat them all, and gave one of the Chelsea buns to Deirdre. I hadn’t done anything to make this happen, not just no magic but nothing at all. It’s very peculiar. I asked Miss Carroll about it and she said it was probably just that I’d been in hospital and come out and hadn’t made a fuss, and I’d been mentioned in Prayers and now was there and was in people’s minds when they went bun-buying. Maybe. It seems very odd to me.

I wrote a cheerful letter to Sam telling him what a terrific idea the acupuncture was. I haven’t even started the books he gave me, so I didn’t mention them. I also wrote to Daniel, mostly about seeing The Tempest , and to Auntie Teg, telling her about the acupuncture and the play. I sent the card to Grampar.

I’m up as far as the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, which may be the greatest thing ever written.