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Darker Fables

Writing and reviews. Adventures, maybe? Exciting, definitely.

Autumn

There you are,
picking at your nails again
and squinting in the dark at the face
of your computer.

It’s how I picture you on better days,
when I’ve done something,
or anything, useful.

If this was 1812
we’d be calling God and each others’ names
through the sparks and smoke.

Maybe, before,
we’d be standing in the crowd
when a man said ‘witch’ and cut off his chains.
I’d be holding your hand, biting my lip,
and you’d be thinking of bodies
in amber casing,
all waiting on the new world.

Sometimes when I’m bored
I save up things to say,
and post you clippings
from the newspapers.
Ones that kind of,
but don’t really,
relate.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

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How Strange

It’s funny, you know
(and really, it is),
that after projecting every possible outcome
… something had to happen.

And it’s not what I wanted,
but who am I to say what I wanted
when I can’t even tell you the way that I am?

Just let me heave a sigh and say
that I don’t like my name,
or the way it rolls off my tongue.

I kept turning stones,
and picking centipedes off my hands.
The dirt had a sweet smell, like things
which had happened, and places I had been.

On the radio in the mornings
(which we don’t listen to, but still),
I keep expecting to hear
about congestion on the A30, or an accident
clogging
the M25.

I forget that home isn’t home,
and how much I hate poetry.

How… profound,
these insights which everyone has had
before. I’m too serious to take myself
seriously, too young to take you by the hand,
but here you are.

Here, I am.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

Melinoë

So tired of being tired,
they press coins on their eyelids
and float on down the Styx.

She is waist-deep in the water,
pulling her sleeves through the current
like sweeps of kohl, or ink.

Bored of being bored,
she skims stones between the boats,
and steals,
just for the thrill of it,
earrings, and the bones
from their fingers.

‘Come now, daughter,
you know that’s unkind,’
says he,
with death brimming from his eyes.

Kind, like akin,
or kind like that weakness
which someone called sentiment?

Unkind, this moon child,
a sweetling suckled on madness
at the breast of her mother.
She who married
the King of the Dead.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

Flicker

Hush, hush…
sings the rain
falling soft as tissue
into a newborn’s hand,
or footsteps, creeping in
after the last train home.

I was there before the dawning,
and I shall be there at noon,
weeping for lost children,
but none of them my own.

Shush, now,
and cleave to me,
like my own blood,
before smoke sweeps
up over my head,
and I forget
everything
which ever
happened.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

Songs to Write to

I think I’m getting back to my former pace with writing. Whether my progress will withstand the work/university/life balance remains to be seen, but for now I am doing better than I have been for a while.

And, as ever, I’ve been doing most of my penmanship to a soundtrack. Here are a few of my current favourites.

1. TENDER – Illuminate

I like a mellow tune, and a voice-over when its use is effective. A little bit sultry, a little bit sad, I think this one is good for writing after dark, or about hot summers in which bad things have happened.

2. Maroon 5 Feat. Future – Cold

Sometimes I need a repetitive song that makes for pleasant white noise in the background when I’m really into the swing of a scene, and this catchy piece does the trick. It’s trashy mainstream pop at its trashiest, but sometimes you need a song that isn’t too distracting.

3. Feist – My Moon My Man

I don’t know where I was when this song came out, but I’m glad I’ve discovered it now. This song has a dark, moody vibe. I think it’s not just good for writing, but for being awake in the small hours, surrounded by the mysterious sounds of the night.

Et voilà (no, let’s not talk about my French…), I think that counts for a post.

Until next time 🙂

Paralysis

White, like false teeth,
or a flag of surrender,
these clouds that trample
across the sky.

And, I…
wake up with
the taste of earth
buried under my tongue,
Lucy-like. All my blood
sucked dry.

It’s smoke, the shifting sky,
not the storm I thought
I could see, shaking
the sun up from the horizon.

My questions have names,
and I’ve heard this language,
somewhere, before,
but I don’t remember its name,
or where I put my dictionary.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

Top Five in Russian Literature

Okay, so I’m an anorak, but I love the Russian classics. They’re so moody, dark, and brooding. They have bleak, harsh settings. And (most importantly) they have miserable, self-absorbed characters, all of whom wear their torments beautifully.

I think it’s high time I shared my favourites, so here we go…

1. War & Peace – Leo Tolstoy

There’s no list about this branch of literature which can fail to include Tolstoy’s most famous work. War and Peace lives up to its reputation as one of the longest books out there, but it’s an epic everyone who is serious about reading should try to get through. Really it’s got everything, be it love, death, religion, revenge, pride, evil, righteousness, faith or whatever else you’re looking for. It’s just hands down one of the best books ever written.

BBC’s War and Peace (2016)

2. A Hero of our Time – Mikhail Lermontov

My favourite ever book. Yes, you read that correctly. This is the one book I’ve ever read which nothing has beaten. It’s a short one, containing five novellas about the anti-hero Pechorin, a man who has essentially spent his life ruining his own existence through vice, apathy, and his inability to connect with his emotions. The concept is quite simple, but the depth of feeling this book manages to convey is just perfection.

3. Oblomov – Ivan Goncharov

In some ways similar to the above, Oblomov is the story of a eponymous man who has inflicted his own moral self-ruin through apathy. His circles are much more domestic than Pechorin’s, and the plot is considerably less dramatic, but its still one of the best books I’ve encountered.

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4. We – Yevgeny Zamyatin

It’s hard to believe this book was written in 1921, because it reads like a much more modern text. This book is, I think, far less famous than it should be, since it is the forefather of 1984 (and, I think, the considerably better novel of the two). It is, as many dystopian novels only try to be, truly disturbing, gritty, and chillingly believable.

5. The Zero Train – Yuri Buida

A far more recently published work, this short novel makes the list for being one of the most beautiful texts I have ever found. Even in translation this book has a poetic rawness that brings every sensation it contains to vivid life. Somewhat surreal, but piercing, this is a harrowing portrait of life under Stalinism. Short, but sharp.

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And that’s the list. I’m always on the hunt for reading suggestions in this genre, so please feel free to leave some in the comments!

Shoaling

Oh, girl with the fish heart,
does your blood run blue,
or silver like the sand?

And when your body cuts the dark tide,
a knife by night,
do you remember the hills
where we used to walk?

There are so many miles behind us.
Heaths and woods and cemeteries,
crumbling down into the earth,
with everything we can’t remember.

But you just like the water.
The way its cold hands cradle
you precious head,
and the song it croons into your ears.

Will you come back?
Maybe,
but you may doesn’t mean you might.

© Deanna Scutt, 2017

Review: Gaston Leroux’s ‘The Phantom of the Opera’

three-star-rating-black-hi

Well. That was different to the film.

Oh, I know. Sinner, sinner, sinner. How could I commit such a monstrous wrong as to not read the book first? The answer is even worse.

For a long time, I didn’t even know there was a book.

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Star Wars: Episode III – Revenge of the Sith

But find out I did, and I have since made amends by reading the thing.

It’s a strange old novel, which I liked more than I disliked, and which I think perhaps I didn’t entirely understand.

‘Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead!’ Christine replied.

‘Your soul is a beautiful thing, child,’ replied the man’s grave voice, ‘and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. THE ANGELS WEPT TONIGHT.’

The Phantom of the Opera is not the romance it is made out to be, but a Gothic novel about an outcast genius and his obsession with a naïve young singer, whose virginal personality is more like that of a child than an adult woman.

As far as the classics go it is, in my opinion, easy to read, and the writing is in places very beautiful, making this a highly quotable text.

The plot is also by turns exciting, inventive, and unusual. Unfortunately, it falls down on realism, with over-dramatic dialogue and a cast of (mostly superfluous) two-dimensional characters.

And, despite the care which she took to look behind her at every moment, she failed to see a shadow which followed her like her own shadow, which stopped when she stopped, which started again when she did and which made no more noise than a well-conducted shadow should. As for Raoul, he saw nothing either; for, when he had Christine in front of him, nothing interested him that happened behind.

This is a good book, but in my opinion it’s not one of the best when it comes to Gothic literature. As sort-of-fascinating a character as the Phantom is, I think this novel lacks the depth and nuance of its contemporaries.

Also, for all its romantic themes (love between father and daughter, young love, selfish love, obsessive love, etc.), I found this book quite cold. In my opinion it lacks tenderness, and as such there was no one I really ended up rooting for.

And then there’s The Persian, who is the definition of a plot device in character form, endlessly appearing to deliver his lines, and then disappearing, without need for motive, convincing backstory, or indeed, an actual place in the narrative.

‘I have invented a mask that makes me look like anybody. People will not even turn round in the streets. You will be the happiest of women. And we will sing, all by ourselves, till we swoon away with delight. You are crying! You are afraid of me! And yet I am not really wicked. Love me and you shall see! All I wanted was to be loved for myself. If you loved me I should be as gentle as a lamb; and you could do anything with me that you pleased.’

However, The Phantom of the Opera does feature some delightful description, particularly in regard to the setting, which is an exaggeration of the Paris Opera. I have actually visited the Palais Garnier in real life, and I can tell you, this book really does it justice as an otherworldly, magical palace in which all sorts of strange, glamorous things might happen.

And I did enjoy the plot, which is a good deal quicker-paced than most classics.

So, all in all, an inch shy of disappointing. Not the best, but not the worst. I’m glad I read it, anyway.

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