Masterful by Logospilgrim

Masterful:  Severus Snape, A Jar of Cockroaches, and Me by Logospilgrim, published January 28, 2020.  Order from Lulu.com, $18.50.  Also available from Amazon and Barnes and Noble.


Stories change according to who’s doing the reading.

The character of Snape is certainly not for everybody.  Is he irredeemable?  Brave?  Irrelevant?  A source of strength?

As Logospilgrim says in her new book, Masterful, “Those who approach him will interpret his story based on how they’re writing and interpreting their own story.”

Logospilgrim is not trying to persuade anybody to see Snape differently.  In this searing meditation, she is only demonstrating how this process worked for her:  how recognizing the self in a fictional character can anchor people through traumatic upheavals.  As Logospilgrim notes, Snape was able to leave behind his father, who shouted at his mother, as well as fight the influence of a later father figure, Voldemort, who killed another mother.  Identifying with the character of Snape strengthened Logospilgrim as she freed herself from the influences of a violent father and repressive religions.

When we first meet Snape in Sorcerer’s Stone, we are told that his eyes “made you think of dark tunnels.”

Logospilgrim asks:

Who knows what drives Severus Snape, the man who doesn’t wear his heart upon his sleeve, and at the same time, does?

Those who have gone through dark tunnels.

We know what’s on the other side, the uneven side, the third side.

We are the third side.

The third side is home to those who have known or caused damage and then, taking a second chance, consciously fought the damage and walked away changed.

Snape is on the third side.  He betrayed the Potters to Voldemort and then changed allegiance, and after that, he was able to reverse Dark Magic.

Dumbledore is on the third side.  He colluded with fascism and then fought it, and after that, he was able to reverse Dark Magic.

Harry is on the third side.  He cast Unforgivables, he gave his life for others, and he returned for others, giving him mastery of the Elder Wand.

Draco, too, is on the third side.  He passed through the barrier that required a Dark Mark with intent to kill Dumbledore, and under Snape’s guidance, he passed back out through that barrier again, giving him, too, mastery of the Elder Wand.

Most people won’t ever need to be on the third side.  Not everyone has occasion to know damage so intimately, and of those, not everyone is able to become a changed person and walk away.  It’s not necessarily better to have this knowledge; life is certainly less traumatic if you’ve never been in a position to need it.  But those who haven’t been through it may not know to trust those who have.

In Half-Blood Prince, after overhearing Dumbledore charging Harry with the task of getting a guilty memory from Slughorn that has caused enormous damage, the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black says:

“I can’t see why the boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to, Phineas,” replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical cry.

The cry of the phoenix heralds second chances.  Dumbledore is acknowledging that Phineas Nigellus Black doesn’t understand because he has never caused and then regretted as much damage as Dumbledore has.

Logospilgrim, noting the lack of trust that many feel toward Snape, observes, “The one who changes is immoral.”  Snape would have been easier to comprehend if he’d remained either for or against the Death Eaters, rather than both and then neither.  Dumbledore, too, comes in for a great deal of mistrust from readers because his changes make him difficult to know.

Harry, though, knew and trusted both, once he returned to life and joined the third side himself.  He honored this knowledge when he named a child after Albus and Severus.

Logospilgrim says of Snape, “Who else would have the strength to withstand the hatred that would rain down on him” after Dumbledore trusted Snape to kill him?  If you have ever endured hatred while fighting to protect yourself or others, Snape might be a useful character for you.  You might recognize yourself in Logospilgrim’s book.

Greta Gerwig’s Little Women: In praise of genre fiction

Warning:  Spoilers for the film.

Greta Gerwig’s adaptation of Little Women speaks from the exact moment that some of us are in, American female-identified writers 150 years after Louisa May Alcott struck it rich with this book. With a deliberate hand, Gerwig amplifies or inserts elements she considers important, and outright changes what does not serve her vision.

To understand this version, it works best to know that, like Jo March, Louisa May Alcott wrote pseudonymous thrillers to support her parents and sisters.  These lurid “sensation stories” are well-crafted, fun, and readable, even today.  They were basically genre fiction, unrepentantly trashy, and would have been considered low-status for that reason, even if written by a man.  As a woman writer, Alcott kept them her secret in a way that feels a bit similar to contemporary fandom writers putting their expertly written dark or kinky fic on Archive of Our Own, heavily tagged and protected by a pseudonym from judgmental employers or family.

Unlike fanfic, though, Alcott’s stories were written for money.  Her Transcendentalist father, Bronson Alcott, was worse than useless at providing for his wife and daughters.  The stories were an outlet for Alcott’s preferred style of writing, adventurous rather than moralizing.  Possibly, the need to compensate for her father’s failures helped to overcome whatever qualms Alcott may have felt about writing unladylike pulp that would certainly not have appealed to family friends such as Emerson, Thoreau, and Hawthorne.

In the book Little Women, Jo’s friend Professor Bhaer disapproves of her stories, she stops writing them, and she feels more wholesome after, grateful for his moral guidance.  In this film, Jo also stops writing, but she rejects Bhaer’s disapproval — an original change by Gerwig.  The film shows that Jo had made the stories “spicier” at the urging of her publisher, who maintained that “spice” would sell:  she was writing to market.  At the end of the film, when Jo brings her manuscript of Little Women to the same publisher, he tells her that the heroine must marry because romance sells, and “the right ending is the one that sells.”  But he’s reluctant to publish her story for young readers in the first place; he wants more sensation stories, believing that’s what sells.

The joke ends up being on him:  Little Women becomes, of course, a titanic bestseller.

Famously, Alcott didn’t enjoy writing Little Women or other stories for girls and resented being pushed into writing sequels by a clamoring public.  She didn’t mask this sentiment, either; at the end of her sequel Jo’s Boys, she demolished the fourth wall with an earthquake in which she declared that the ground opened up and swallowed all the characters.  Then, with a resigned tone, she amended that ending to tell the reader that every character knew perfect happiness for the rest of their lives.  That was the ending that would sell.  The whole purpose was to sell.

Greta Gerwig’s film is arguing that for Louisa May Alcott, who didn’t want to marry off Jo or write books for girls at all, Little Women was exactly the kind of mercenary, morally suspect commercial fiction that Professor Bhaer judged Jo March for writing.

This is not to put down Alcott’s classic, which conveys simple truths with undeniably good writing.  This is to elevate sensational commercial and genre fiction to the same level as Little Women.  And, even more delightfully, to grant to the genre of YA, young adult fiction, the same respect in the publishing world as thrillers written for men.  After all, it sells.

I didn’t like, at first, that Gerwig’s Professor Bhaer is youngish and good-looking instead of older, clumsy, and rumpled, as he is in the book.  But when I understood where the movie was going with this character, I appreciated the change:  he looks the part of the romantic interest to everyone but Jo, who is confused when everyone expects her to be swooning for him.  Then, as writer Jo compromises with her publisher and agrees to write a romantic ending for her heroine, the film dramatizes her proposed edit with an imagined, sped-up lovers’ scene between Jo and Professor Bhaer that hits all the romantic tropes — and here, again, the movie does something I didn’t expect.  It refuses to mock this contrived ending.  The swelling romantic music never tips over into irony.  The movie lets you enjoy the romance.  If you wanted this ending for Jo, the movie will not shame you.

Gerwig’s Laurie breaks with tradition in a different way:  at last, a film Laurie as real as the book original.  Mercurial, beautiful and odd-looking at once, charming to balance his irresponsible streak.  In perhaps the most of-the-moment decision of all, this film simultaneously introduces no hint that Jo might be a lesbian and leaves the path completely clear for viewers inclined to take that direction.  She wants to marry Meg, but that’s not new; that’s canon.  When she rejects her adored Laurie as a lover, she cries out that she can’t make herself feel that way and she doesn’t know why.  In the ensuing beat of silence, I could imagine the succinct judgments of countless queer people I know:  “Gay.”  If this resonates with you, check out Malinda Lo’s take on gay Jo.

In this and many other ways, Gerwig’s film reminds us:  Little Women is fiction.  It was fiction based on what the author thought would sell at the time.  If we want to, we can change it; Alcott would, if she were alive, so she could sell us the story again.  The right ending is the one that sells.  So if your Amy was in love with Laurie from the beginning, let it be so.  If your Marmee can tell Papa she is angry with him to his face, well, it’s back in style for women to acknowledge anger aloud.  If love-starved Laurie entering the March home looks like Harry Potter’s first trip to the Burrow, go ahead and write that crossover.

Jo March got the idea to write sensation stories after seeing some by a “Mrs. S.L.A.N.G. Northbury.”  What a fantastic name for a muse and foremother.  If you, too, are someone who writes both YA and scandalous stories published under pseudonyms, give a cheer for Northbury, Jo March, and Louisa May Alcott, and may your writing sell as well as theirs.

Review: When My Name Was Keoko by Linda Sue Park

I didn’t intend to see Snape parallels when I picked up this book, but they’re plentiful.  The narration alternates between a middle-school Korean girl, Sun-hee, and her young adult brother as they live with their parents through Japan’s colonization of Korea during World War II.  The story is set a decade or two after the events of Fantastic Beasts:  The Crimes of Grindelwald, but Japan was already occupying Korea by then, so it does provide some context for anyone who saw Claudia Kim’s Nagini and wondered what life might have been like for a young Korean woman at that time.

Literacy and reading are at the core of this resistance story.  Sun-hee’s uncle goes into hiding and runs an underground printing press.  The Japanese army sends people to search Korean homes for seditious writings, and of course all post is monitored.  Sun-hee’s brother tells her that when he writes her letters, she must learn to read between the lines.  The most thrilling passages of this suspenseful book come when we witness Sun-hee becoming an expert close reader.  It’s a beautiful example of fiction that demonstrates how close reading is one of the most essential skills for survival.

As for the Snapeyness of this book:  Sometimes, what looks like acquiescence or collaboration may not be.  Sometimes, personal friendships can survive bad politics.  Sometimes, people commit themselves to resistance while knowing that they will be thought, in life and even after death, to be collaborators or traitors.  You don’t always have to lose faith in your loved ones.  Sometimes it’s not safe for them to tell you everything they’re doing.

Review: Circe by Madeline Miller

This book was thrill after thrill. It gave me something I have not often encountered: ancient Greek mythological stories that were new to me. I did not know what happened after the Odyssey and its strangely unsated ending. As I learned the story in this book bit by bit, I felt elated. I felt rightness and relief, the same as I recall feeling when I first encountered stories of Iphigeneia in Aulis or Helen in Egypt.

It was fun to read this book as a break before heading into the preparatory work for writing the second edition of my Snape book, since there are so many resonances with the Harry Potter stories and Snape in particular. Circe is a potions mistress extraordinaire! And she slowly wears herself into shape with regrets and penances, and comes into her own power.

I enjoyed the different men that this author gave Circe to be her lovers. I loved the ones that she loved.

Even more, I enjoyed reading the account of how taxing it was for Circe to parent an infant and then a gifted child. Even for a witch, solo parenting was a full-time job and she got nothing else done for years! I laughed.

Of all the enchanting moments in this book, my favorite was a gift that one character gives another, fairly early on. I gasped with happiness when I read of it.

I ate the book in a day, but I was glad to find that it kept giving new twists until the very end. I was afraid it would feel too short and I would feel bereft to let it go, but it was so satisfying that I did not.

Credence in Search of His Story (FBCoG #3)

Third blog post about Fantastic Beasts:  The Crimes of Grindelwald.  The first two posts:  “Closer Than Brothers” and “Your brother seeks to destroy you.”


Who is Credence Barebone?

He’s not Credence Barebone. That name was given to him by the Puritanical adoptive mother he killed.  He had a story before he had that name.

He’s not Corvus Lestrange, according to Leta.

Grindelwald says that the name “Aurelius Dumbledore” is his birthright, but we don’t know what that means, exactly.

What we know is that the need to know his own origins, his own identity, is more urgent for Credence than life itself.  When faced with Yusuf Kama, his would-be killer, he utters the heartbreaking line:  “I’m tired of living with no name and no history.  Just tell me my story — then you can end it.”

As Grindelwald “restores” the name “Aurelius Dumbledore” to Credence, he takes a baby bird from Credence and it becomes a phoenix, a bit of stagecraft suggesting that Credence, like a phoenix, has just died and been reborn.  In Potterverse, death is irreversible.  The dead cannot come back to life, with one exception:  the phoenix.

Credence appeared to be killed when the Aurors attacked him at the end of the first Fantastic Beasts movie, but to Newt’s surprise, he survived and made his way to Paris.  According to J.K. Rowling, “You can’t kill an Obscurial when they’re in Obscurus form.”

What if, instead of being none of those identities, the Obscurial we know as Credence is all of them, en route to his final form as a phoenix?

A Corvus Lestrange crossed the water and may have drowned, although Yusuf Kama says to Credence, “The ship had gone down at sea… But you survived, didn’t you?  Somehow, someone had pulled you from the water!”

Did one baby get switched with another?  Were there two babies?  Was there a shared fate?  Whatever those details, what we know so far adds up to the timeline of one individual life:

  1. Before conception until infancy:  a white European baby named Corvus Lestrange was sent across the water to escape an assassin
  2. From adoption until young adulthood:  a white American boy named Credence Barebone, an Obscurial, killed his Puritanical adoptive mother, survived Auror execution and returned across the water to Paris
  3. At young adulthood:  Grindelwald lured that person to Austria and told him his identity is Aurelius Dumbledore

Both times this person crossed the water, there was a death followed by a new identity.  Kama said to Credence, “Someone had pulled you from the water!”  Perhaps Kama’s conclusion was incorrect.  But what if Credence’s connection to phoenixes means that each time he crosses the water, he dies, is pulled from the water by a phoenix, and is reborn into a different identity?

A repeated image in this movie is an effect that Newt sees in Tina’s eyes:  “like fire in water, dark water.”  Perhaps this has nothing to do with this Obscurial, but that wording would also describe the image of a phoenix rescuing a baby who was about to drown.

What if Credence will have a different story for each of the five films in this series, tied to the film’s location?  What if this character’s identity is, for each location, a story that this place does not want?

The first film, taking place in New York, brings up the ugly U.S. history of Puritan witch hunts, segregation, corporal punishment, and worst of all, casual capital punishment.  

The second film, taking place in Paris, gives us a story of French colonial exploitation of Senegal, the sexual violence and racism against women endemic to colonialism, and some of the real-life consequences.  In response to the crimes of his mother’s assailant, Yusuf Kama’s entire life was sworn to being “the avenger of my family’s ruin.”  Grindelwald described Leta Lestrange, offspring of coercion, as “despised entirely amongst wizards…unloved, mistreated.”  Corvus Lestrange, treasured white son of the man who ruined the Kama family, has his life course determined by the repercussions of his father’s crimes.

Perhaps for the third film, Credence will cross the water once again, and the story he lives out for the duration of the film will be tied to a story of that place.  Perhaps it will be another story of a person of no name or history, a “freak” who is vulnerable enough for Grindelwald to attempt to exploit by telling him, as he tells Leta, “Time to come home.”  After all, as Skender the circusmaster tells Tina, “All my freaks think they can go home.”  Even if, perhaps, there is no home other than their uncomfortable place of origin, the drive to find something to claim cannot be suppressed.

The one thing that mattered most to Harry Potter was his own story.  His parents might have been dead, but their story belonged to him.  Voldemort mistakenly thought that nothing motivated Harry more than the “saving-people-thing” impulse that Voldemort created in him through traumatic violence.  What Snape, Dumbledore, Hagrid, Hermione, and Petunia Dursley knew, though, was that Harry’s greatest drive was to have his story restored to him.  Nothing enraged Harry more than Vernon Dursley keeping his Hogwarts letters from him, Dobby preventing Harry from getting his mail, or Dumbledore keeping the whole truth from him.  Voldemort drew Harry to him by threatening to hurt Harry’s loved ones, but Snape drew Harry to him by leaving Harry half of a letter and photo to find, awakening Harry’s hunger to find the rest of the story, knowing Harry would not rest until he did.

Several differences between the Harry Potter stories and Fantastic Beasts mark one as a series for children, one for adults.  In Harry’s case, whenever he went searching for his story, he found something, a solid and even wealthy family background full of love.  We don’t know yet if Credence will even find much of a story for himself.  So far, it seems that whatever story he does find will be less stable, less nourishing, than what Harry found of his family background.  Rarely, if ever, did the leads that Harry followed regarding his family stories result in dead ends or decoys.  We have already seen dead ends and decoys in Fantastic Beasts for both Leta and Credence.  Most grimly of all, we have seen Grindelwald exploiting, for his own ends, this sacred human hunger for the birthright of one’s own story.

Grindelwald tells his followers about Credence:  “He’s desperate for family. He’s desperate for love. He’s the key to our victory. […]  The path has been laid, and he is following it.  The trail that will lead him to me, and the strange and glorious truth of who he is.”

It works, of course.  Even after Credence knows how Grindelwald treated him in New York, after Nagini warns him that Grindelwald’s people kill people like them for sport, Credence crosses the fire to go to Grindelwald, telling Nagini, “He knows who I am.”  It’s a potent lure for someone who values learning his own story over life itself.

Next blog post to come:  Patriarchy, racism, and vengeance.

 

 

“Closer Than Brothers”: What Does It Mean? A thumbs-up Crimes of Grindelwald post (FBCOG #1)

Spoiler alert!  If you haven’t yet seen Fantastic Beasts:  The Crimes of Grindelwald, be warned that the following blog post contains spoilers.


When a hostile Ministry official accuses Dumbledore of once being “as close as brothers” with Grindelwald, Dumbledore corrects him:

“We were closer than brothers.”

What did that mean?

Possibly over 99% of the theater audience had the first thought:  GAY.  Yes, that was definitely a central part of the picture, and cannot and should not be diminished.

But for me, there are further implications that continue beyond the genders of the characters in this pairing.  I think they hint at answers to several of Dumbledore’s secrets from the Harry Potter series:

  • Why did Dumbledore always seem to despise himself beyond what seemed reasonable?  After all, it was Grindelwald who started the fight that killed Ariana, not Dumbledore.
  • Why did Dumbledore dread “beyond all things the knowledge that it had been I who brought about her death, not merely through my arrogance and stupidity, but that I actually struck the blow that snuffed out her life”?  After all, it would have been an accident, right?  A spell that was not intended to harm Ariana but hit her in the confusion?
  • When Dumbledore relived his worst memory by drinking the potion in the cave, why was this wizard, “a shade more skillful” than Grindelwald, reduced to begging, “Don’t hurt them, don’t hurt them, please, please, it’s my fault, hurt me instead…” instead of working his magic to counter the attack?
  • How does this storyline relate to the “gleam of something like triumph in Dumbledore’s eyes” when he learned that Voldemort had taken Harry’s blood?

Guilt:  Albus didn’t love Ariana enough

When Leta Lestrange asked Albus if he loved Ariana, he answered, “Not as well as I should have done.”  

Albus and Gellert mingled their blood in a ritual that bonded them “closer than brothers.”  From then on, each of them would have contained some of the other’s magic in their blood, and they would be closer to each other than to their own siblings.  The mingled blood, as encapsulated in the blood vial, would have represented a new thing:  magic greater than the sum of its already great parts, a union that would have made these two geniuses, working together, close to invincible.

As Newt asked, and Dumbledore confirmed:  “It’s a blood pact, isn’t it?  You swore not to fight each other.”

During the fight that killed Ariana, we do not see Albus and Gellert attacking each other.  We don’t even see anyone attacking Ariana.  The only confirmed, targeted aggression we see is what Aberforth tells Harry, Ron, and Hermione:  “I had the Cruciatus Curse used on me by my brother’s best friend – and Albus was trying to stop him, and then all three of us were dueling, and the flashing lights and the bangs set her off, she couldn’t stand it – “

If Albus had taken a blood oath not to fight Gellert, and the oath made them “closer than brothers,” and it involved the mingling of their blood and therefore, according to the rules of J.K. Rowling’s universe, some of their magic – then Albus’s magic would have allied itself with Grindelwald against anyone else in the world, including his own siblings.

If Albus had cast magic to try to defend Aberforth from a Cruciatus Curse, it would not have worked against Grindelwald’s intentions.

His magic might even have rebounded and simply lent force to Grindelwald’s attacks against other people.

The blood pact meant that when Gellert tortured Aberforth with an Unforgivable, the formerly near-omnipotent Albus was reduced to helplessness and begging.  All of them knew that through this blood oath with the silver-tongued manipulator that Aberforth had warned him about, Albus had relinquished his power to stand in Gellert’s way, even against his own interests.  Voluntarily.

No wonder Aberforth broke Albus’s nose at the funeral.

No wonder Albus didn’t want to know if Ariana died of a spell that Albus intended as a defense of her, in his first experience of what happens to your formerly effective magic when you try to cast defensive spells against your blood oath partner’s intentions.

This is what Albus meant when he told Leta that he had not loved Ariana enough.  He allied his greatest magical loyalty with Grindelwald instead of with his siblings, and it killed her.

The memory of his helplessness to protect his siblings from torture and death, how utterly gullible and culpable he had been, how clearly Aberforth had seen the risks from the beginning, how much irreversible damage Albus’s family suffered because of a fatal romantic error he made in his youth:  that would explain the depth of self-loathing that we see, in glimpses, from the elderly Albus who mentored Harry Potter.

How this connects to Harry Potter

The moment Dumbledore heard that Voldemort had taken Harry’s blood, he got the “fleeting instant” of a gleam like triumph in his eyes, even if the “next second […], he looked as old and weary as Harry had ever seen him.”

The Dumbledore of King’s Cross explained to Harry, “He took your blood believing it would strengthen him.”  The mingling of the blood – one-sided, in the case of Voldemort and Harry, but mutual and voluntary with Albus and Gellert – was intended to supplement and strengthen a person’s native magic with another person’s complementary magic.  From the effects of the blood oath that Albus had taken, he knew firsthand that attacks against the blood-pact partner cannot be effective, since the bond’s power overrides the power of the hostile intention.  He knew that a Killing Curse from Voldemort toward Harry would be no more effective than his own countercurses had been against Grindelwald torturing Aberforth.  That if Voldemort persisted in attacking Harry, his one-sided blood-pact partner, Voldemort’s own spells might even rebound, since his magic was bound to this person who was now “closer than a brother” and might do anything necessary to protect this partner’s life.

This is why Dumbledore told Snape that it was “essential” that Voldemort be the one to kill Harry.  Anyone else’s murder attempt against Harry could have worked, but a Killing Curse from a blood-pact partner would behave differently.  It wouldn’t spare Harry any pain, but Dumbledore knew how Voldemort had just compromised his own power against Harry.

What Albus and Gellert wanted out of the pact

Here, I am speculating, based on the incomplete clues we have so far.

Before 2016, based on Deathly Hallows, I thought Grindelwald wanted to join forces with Dumbledore because it would be good to have a partner who was devoted to him and appeared eager to dedicate his powers to furthering Grindelwald’s cause.  I thought the proposal to bring Ariana along was something Grindelwald said to keep Albus from leaving the campaign.

In 2016, based on the first Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them film, I changed my mind.  What we learned about Obscurials, and Grindelwald’s driving desire to control and exploit an Obscurus, made me think that Ariana had been turned into an Obscurial when she was forced by trauma to suppress her own magic.  This angle made Albus look even more foolish.  How cold and frightening Gellert must have been as a teen if he exploited Albus’s attraction to feign a meeting of minds while secretly keeping Albus close only to gain access to his Obscurial sister.  If this was Gellert’s impetus and he was the one to persuade Albus to swear that they would not fight each other, it would be chilling indeed to think that Gellert contrived the blood pact so he would be able to control Ariana while neutralizing Albus’s ability to stop him.

But now in 2018, based on new information from Crimes of Grindelwald, I have changed my mind again.  As Susan Şipal highlighted in her brilliant video review of the film, Albus told Newt, “An Obscurus grows in the absence of love.”  Whatever Ariana’s struggles, we know she did not lack for love.  Ariana’s father’s misguided and disastrous vigilante vengeance, her mother’s round-the-clock care, and Aberforth’s tenderness all evidenced a degree of love that is different from the conditions required for an Obscurus to grow, assuming Albus was correct.

So perhaps Ariana did not have an Obscurus.  Perhaps Gellert mistakenly thought she did.  Or perhaps his aim in mingling powers with Albus had nothing to do with such a premise.

Perhaps both boys were invested in creating something separate and greater:  the combined power of the two of them acting together, each of them having taken the other’s blood believing it would strengthen them and give each qualities that neither had had before, as Voldemort believed when he reconstituted his body with Harry’s blood.  This heightened sum of their powers, a third entity separate from the two of them, is magically stored in the vial containing their mingled blood.

I believe that their blood pact worked.  I believe the boys were right to think that their magical union would prove ecstatic and give both of them powers they had never had before, and that as long as the two of them worked together, they would be so strong as to be nearly invincible.

I don’t know if Gellert wanted this for himself as much as Albus wanted it, or if Gellert used his manipulative powers to divine that Albus craved the ecstasy of greater magical power above all things and Albus would say yes to anything that would grant it.

I thought at first that Gellert was not invested in the magical power as much as Albus and intended from the start to entrap him.  But after watching Susan Şipal’s video, which I highly recommend (although I will not spoil it here), I see that Gellert stood to risk just as much with the blood oath as Albus did, and may have been just as unable to foresee the consequences.

Do I find it comforting to think that teen Gellert rushed into that brash blood oath just as unwisely as Albus did, rather than plotting it coldly to disempower Albus against him and bind Albus’s magic to him?  I do, yes; it frightens me to think of a teenager being brilliant enough in his evil to be that cold.  It frightens me more to think that anyone, genius or not, could be so compelled by a charismatic liar that they would suppress whatever warning signs they noticed about him, then have to live with the consequences of inviting that person close enough to cause irreversible harm to their family.

In that reading of Albus’s desire for Gellert and subsequent remorse, I am reminded again of one of Rowling’s recurring themes:  that bad romantic choices made in youth, even in partial innocence, at an age when a person cannot understand the full implications of the harm they will cause, can still create lifelong consequences.

Middle-aged Albus looks in the Mirror of Erised and still sees the blood oath.  The magic had worked, after all.  Could anything equal the rush of power that came of mingling magic with a fellow genius, so equal, so attractive, so intense?  It seems to me that the Albus of 1927 has never found anything compelling enough to provide a counterweight to the pull of that ecstasy, and that he knows perfectly well that if he were to betray his conscience and rejoin with Gellert, they would raise that ecstasy again, perhaps even more intensely with the powers they have gained with age.  Can he resist that craving?  Is his only safe choice to keep himself well away from Grindelwald, and try to deploy workarounds and safeguards to help himself resist?

It is a blessing that Dumbledore has Newt Scamander on his side.  It is no wonder that Dumbledore admires the qualities in Newt that make him incorruptible by the likes of Grindelwald.  Their partnership is not the heady, heedless ecstasy of the union between Albus and Gellert.  It is deliberate.  Conscious.  The dynamic between Albus and Newt is priceless when Newt holds up the blood vial, as if to say, Would you care to explain? and Albus looks at him with equal parts of shame, gratitude, and relief at being seen.  As Dumbledore told Leta Lestrange, “Confession is a relief, I’m told.  A great weight lifted.”  In Newt Scamander, Dumbledore has an ally who knows his great flaw and still consents to work with him.

I cannot wait for the rest of this series.

Stay tuned for more posts to come this week about Fantastic Beasts:  The Crimes of Grindelwald, including speculation about the identity of Credence Barebone.

Lethal White: Worth the read

Remember the Opening Ceremonies for the 2012 London Summer Olympics?  They were a feast for any fan of British culture, combining the real Queen of England with James Bond, the real NHS with greats of British music and theater such as Paul McCartney and Kenneth Branagh, and a bedtime story read aloud by J.K. Rowling.  This was a brilliant strategy for a display of national pride from a kingdom that has seen the decline of its infamously bloody empire, but whose arts remain world class.

The events of Lethal White take place during those Olympics, creating a pleasant double effect of a fictional world, written by Robert Galbraith, operating within the timeframes of a real world that includes authorial alter ego J.K. Rowling.  Galbraith/Rowling revealed the title a year ago; I wondered, idly, if the central crimes of the book would have something to do with drugs, perhaps.  Turns out that they don’t, and “lethal white” means something different.  Does “lethal white” also refer to the United Kingdom’s brutal, race-inflected imperialist history?  A little bit, yes, in a background but ever-present sort of way.

Speaking of race, Rowling demonstrates, once again, noticeable but limited progress in her writing of people of color.  Characters who are people of color read as more natural and fleshed out than in her earlier work, but she still includes a few instances of tokenism, specifying race for people of color and more personal traits for white characters.  She has also made noticeable but incomplete improvement in the anti-fat bias that was arguably the most disturbing element of her Harry Potter writing.  There are still instances of an anti-fat authorial gaze, but it’s far less severe than the bullying tone she used to sustain.  A sensitivity beta could be a big help.

For me, the strengths of this book far override any shortcomings.  One passage in particular is worth the price of the book for me.  It takes place in Chapter 55, pages 488-9, and I read it with eyes wide, heart rate elevated, like the most gripping of suspense scenes — but it is completely domestic, not part of her thriller writing.  It calls back to some of Rowling’s most intense writing about Harry Potter struggling with PTSD flashbacks or fighting Legilimency or the Imperius Curse, and it is related to her personal history of fighting back against sexist domestic conflict, as well.

She knew she was on the edge of a panic attack, but she held on, and every second she did not dissolve was giving her strength, and she stood her ground.

The mindful way that Robin Ellacott asserts herself reminded me of Jane Eyre’s most ringing declarations to Mr. Rochester, and indeed, there’s a reference to Jane Eyre in the very next chapter.

In addition to such step-by-step tutorials for feats of inner strength, several other J.K. Rowling specialties make their welcome reappearances.  As usual, she builds cliffhangers into her dialogue when characters on the verge of revealing secrets are suddenly, maddeningly interrupted.  Delicious.  She exposes the horribleness of everyday people, our petty satisfaction in malice, and especially our hypocrisy; it’s especially funny when she reveals that the most unforgivable insult among some protesters is “middle-class.”  But many of her most repellent characters are complex creatures who elicit sympathy as well as revulsion.

And then, first and last, there is the writing.  The playfulness:

So plosive was the ‘p’ of ‘protest’ that a small piece of potato flew out of his mouth across the table.

The manipulation of imagery, deft and haunting:

The shadow stems of the roses closest to the window stretched like bars across the carpet. The Brahms symphony crashed stormily on in the background.

And finally, on page 505, this stunner:

...recognized in Billy’s imploring expression a last plea to the adult world, to do what grown-ups were meant to do, and impose order on chaos, substitute sanity for brutality.

This comes close to perfection as an expression of one of Rowling’s central themes.  All of her stories chronicle this plea, and the horror if it cannot be answered.  Dumbledore always answered it; this is why so many people loved him and were bereft when he died.  Infant Tom Riddle never got an answer; the resulting horror made him a monster.  Adult Harry Potter came through for his son when Albus Severus made this plea.  Credence begged of Grindelwald, “Help me,” and reverted to chaos and brutality when he was rebuffed.  The job of adults is to answer this plea.  Reading how Cormoran Strike and Robin Ellacott detect order out of chaos feels both satisfying and soothing.