THE VIDEO player wasn't functioning properly, and my nose covered by a small stiff pillow, my heart beating incessantly against the embroidered edges, I knew the answer to the question I didn't ask, "Would this function?" And there I said it, braver, writing it down instead of orally, and everybody who knew me since childhood witnessed my oft disgrace in the hearty matter of elocution. Well it didn't function, much to my chagrin, and I spent the next few seconds thinking of what contents it would have revealed to me. That is it with fate/destiny, I sold my heart to chance long ago, and there are things I will, perhaps, never speak of unless to someone who was there with me as it unfolded, someone who, no, not understood, but lived it with the same vividry as I did, as close to being in my place as humanly possible. We'd share laughter. No, I do not know how to write of certain moments in my illustrious life, a memoirist recommends sixty years later, but I'd say how goes what and to where headed, the difficulties arose with such complacency, the player didn't whirr to life, and so I set aside the film playing now in my mind and resolved to do other things. Six years ago I looked at the large black player below the television in my aunt's house, which was a confection of a sight and wondered, now, in my room, when the unbothered fragments of yesteryears would resolve themselves or whether they'd need me, like children. That is, I prodded industriously on. It was a book instead, that I decided to concentrate on, and this I did usually until the evening.
Anne Rice's Blood Canticle
is remarkable for the author, whose husband Stan Rice (according to the cover information) passed away a year before the book's publication by Alfred A. Knopf in 2003. Lestat, dominant and predatorily asking meaningful questions throughout the book, is as so, stabilizing his responsibility as the most neutral character; it is necessary for the story to be narrated by a first person, as this most achieves the development of the other characters through the eyes of the writer-vampire, most strongly who is sensitive to the main and minor cast in the effect desired by Rice. It is a beautiful, lush story. Were the persons full-bodied? Did they speak in character? Yes, but in the fault seen in most enterprising writers, who focused on both the details and main event simultaneously, the result was overwrought, but even this was weighed, conscious even of its overwroughtness. Blood Canticle
is a detailed insight into the underworld power of vampires, and the nature of Taltos, with a carefully plotted movement, encircling with graceful, poetic language the slightest nuances of sound in the turning of a sentence, masterly by a writer in the prime of her love. The themes are salvation, responsibility, and the moral instead of the physical act, all drawn steadily from a source as potent as it is honest. What a lark Lestat was there, what a convenience, yet he moved a man of his own, and as video player lay ensconced within glass I thought of three things, Ashler and Morrigan arrayed in white, quite dead, the empty video case on the floor, and the fact that there were things that would remain with me, fond within me like running across a field in the rain, leveling with my feet the damp grass, and singing in the darkness. So young, unrifled by opened cases and upturned desk drawers, unwritten by anybody else. I know that there are readers because they know of power, even arbitrarily so, and they are corrupt yet they know it not, because they want strife and calumny.
We should all think of how the world functions, with its mysterious revolution we too would ponder, the force of centuries before us, when will we find the missing link that insists on rubbing away the aches and ills of mankind. Blood Canticle
's Lestat, self-possessed, walks into the night.