February 22nd, 2004

this is me

really lame quotes for a [future] story

This entry has no meaning. I want to type up the quotes I wrote for my Frankenstein imitation (in the style of Mary Shelley), since I might not get this worksheet back very soon. It won't be cut because I'm lazy. :)

Setting: "My home was in the middle of a luxuriant meadow, full of the verdure that only comes in the middle of a benign spring which brings April showers during the month in which they are named."

"In the meadow, there stands a demonic looking statue; it was old enough that nobody knew when it had been installed, and everyone thought that it had always been there."

Characters: "I come from a large family where pandemonium is expected - if you do not cause some sort of an uproar within the first few years of your life, you might be disowned. We were permitted to follow any sally that came upon us, which resulted in a number of "artists" that spend their lives complaining. To follow the pursuit of knowledge is to be treated with incredulity and not a small amount of disdain."

"Its visage was that of a gargoyle; horns like an elephant, eyes of a fox, teeth of a wolf."

Sentence Structure: "The night my youngest sister was killed was dark and dreary; as I had passed by the statue while chasing after a sibling, the most malignant feeling of malevolence rushed through my body. I briefly stopped, with a cold shiver passing down my spine, before continuing on my way. It was around that time that the clouds turned began to turn black and the wind rose to phenomenal speeds."

Flashbacks: "When I was 12 years old, one of my best friends fell off of a bridge. The police had informed his parents that he had died instantly, as he hit a large shard of rock in the river below. The event had devastated me more than even his parents - probably because I had been the last person to see him that day, much like my younger sister."

Aspects of Romanticism - Nature: "It was a dark and stormy day, but my siblings insisted upon playing in the woods, so as to not die from ennui."

Passion: "I was in French class and mon coeur, my heart, burst - panic, desperation; I felt it all, and I knew that something had happened. Something had happened to someone I cared about, and I needed to be there."

Horror: "My sister's death was the exordium of the whole situation - her bruised and bloodied body was found near the statue, with two holes in the center of her forehead. The gray brain matter was everywhere... even on the horns of the statue."

Obsession: "My sagacity at the time was questionable - I wanted an explanation, a reason, for such abhorrent atrocities, and I wanted them immediately."
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this is me

what a fantastic thing

From "Death of a Moth"
by Annie Dillard

One night a moth flew into the candle, was caught, burnt dry, and held. I must have been staring at the candle, or maybe I looked up when the shadow crossed my page; at any rate, I saw it all. A golden female moth, a biggish one with a two-inch wingspread, flapped into the fire, drooped abdomen into the wet wax, stuck, flamed, and frazzled in a second. Her moving wings ignited like tissue paper, like angels' wings, enlarging the circle of the darkness the sudden blue sleeves of my sweater, the green leaves of jewelweed by my side, the ragged red trunk of a pine; at once the light contracted again and the moth's wings vanished in a fine, foul smoke. At the same time, her six legs clawed, curled, blackened, and ceased, disappearing utterly. And her head jerked in spasms, making a spattering noise; her antennae crisped and burnt away and her heaving mouthparts cracked like pistol fire. When it was all over, her head was, so far as I could determine, gone, gone the long way of her wings and legs. Her head was a hole lost to time. All that was left was the glowing horn shell of her abdomen and thorax---a fraying, partially collapsed gold tube jammed upright in the candle's round pool.

And then this moth-essence, this spectacular skeleton, began to act as a wick. She kept burning. The wax rose in the moth's body from her soaking abdomen to her thorax to the shattered hole where her head should have been, and widened into a flame, a saffron-yellow flame that robed her to the ground like an immolating monk. That candle had two wicks, two winding flames of identical light, side by side. The moth's head was fire. She burned for two hours, until I blew her out.

She burned for two hours without changing, without swaying or kneeling---only glowing within, like a boiling fire glimpsed through silhouetted walls, like a hollow saint, like a flame-faced virgin gone to God, while I read by her light, kindled while Rimbaud in Paris burnt out his brain in a thousand poems, while night pooled wetly at my feet.
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