by Carl Larsson, in situ at the National Museum in Stockholm
“Indeed. People think the name of this island means ‘blessed,’ and so it does, but ‘blessed’ does not mean what people thin kit does. In the old tongue it was bletsian and before that blotsian, and before that, just blod. It means sacrifice.” ~ Marcus Sedgwick, from Midwinter Blood
Saturday, late afternoon. Partly cloudy and not so cold, 51 degrees.
I just read the most amazing book: Midwinterblood (2013) by Marcus Sedgwick. The painting above, which was created for the central staircase hall of the Stockholm’s National Museum, figures prominently in the story, or rather, stories, seven to be exact.
It’s a fast but intricate read, tracing the tale of Eric and Merle through hundreds of years, and seven iterations. I was fascinated by the deft mixing of mystery, fantasy and history that links the seven stories, beginning in the future, and traveling back before time on record.
Apparently, it’s a book for teens, but I find that classification a bit useless. What defines a book? That’s a whole other post. But what aggravates me about that category for this book is that while the stories would appeal to teens, it takes a bit of life to understand and appreciate that love through seven different lives does not have to be passion-filled love between lovers in order to be important. I’m not sure if I’m making much sense, perhaps because I literally just put the book down and walked over to my desk to write this.
Alex Brown of tor.com wrote a wonderful review, which you can find here. And here is a short YouTube promo for the book that I found intriguing:
More later. Peace.
Music by Delerium (featuring Azure Ray), “Keyless Door”
When I awoke this morning, I was mulling over the last line to Robert Browning‘s “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came. Which brought to mind (a non sequitur, I know) bits of the following, which I had to search for before finding the actual poem, and then hours later I realized that I had gone of on some tangent and had completely forgotten (once again) to publish the post . . . anyway:
Longing
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam’st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!
Or, as thou never cam’st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
~ Matthew Arnold
When I woke up that morning I was all afire about writing it… And then… I did write it down on a chalkboard to remind me… I’ll make myself a note to work on it…
Time to have some chamomile and rest my eyes…
Sounds interesting… I might have to check into that. I finished The Maytrees by Annie Dillard last night… I enjoyed it.
I had this interesting dream, and I remembered it, and I meant to write it down – and then I got involved doing something and forgot it…
Guess I’ll go eat a grass fed pear.
Oh, I had this idea I was going to write a humorous poem about “Restorative Sleep,” something like “Glorious Mud,” in The Hippo Song and that’s what made me forget the dream. I never sat down to fool with the poem, either…
You should do it, and then send me a copy.