violsva: full bookshelf with ladder (books)
 So okay, I’m rereading the (selected) Chronicles of Narnia, because they’re calming, and came across this:

“This is the Island where Dreams come true.”

“That’s the island I’ve been looking for this long time,” said one of the sailors. “I reckon I’d find I was married to Nancy if we landed here.”

“And I’d find Tom alive again,” said another.

We can draw two conclusions from this: 1) There are gay sailors on the Dawn Treader (it’s established earlier that Lucy is the only woman) and 2) C. S. Lewis was not aware of this.

Look at the parallel structure there. “I’d have my wife,” “And I’d have my husband." You can come up with alternative explanations, sure, but this is the most logical.

Lewis did not intend this to be gay. This isn’t representation. But this is evidence for queer relationships being relatively accepted in Narnia. And we can use it as that when reading the books.

What I’m saying, basically, is that something not being intended by the author doesn’t mean it isn’t there. And just because something’s there, or even obviously there to modern/fandom eyes, doesn’t mean it was intended by the author.

And, to some degree, in fandom, that shouldn’t matterAll we have to work with is what’s actually on the page.

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Pied Beauty

Gerald Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things—
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced—fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.


In Bohemia

Arthur Symons

Drawn blinds and flaring gas within,
And wine, and women, and cigars;
Without, the city’s heedless din;
Above, the white unheeding stars.

And we, alike from each remote,
The world that works, the heaven that waits,
Con our brief pleasures o’er by rote,
The favourite pastime of the Fates.

We smoke, to fancy that we dream,
And drink, a moment’s joy to prove,
And fain would love, and only seem
To love because we cannot love.

Draw back the blinds, put out the light:
'Tis morning, let the daylight come.
God! how the women’s checks are white,
And how the sunlight strikes us dumb!


From the Dark Tower

Countee Cullen

We shall not always plant while others reap
The golden increment of bursting fruit,
Not always countenance, abject and mute,
That lesser men should hold their brothers cheap;
Not everlastingly while others sleep
Shall we beguile their limbs with mellow flute,
Not always bend to some more subtle brute;
We were not made eternally to weep.

The night whose sable breast relieves the stark,
White stars is no less lovely being dark,
And there are buds that cannot bloom at all
In light, but crumple, piteous, and fall;
So in the dark we hide the heart that bleeds,
And wait, and tend our agonizing seeds.

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