One of my favorite TVA moments, actually, is Armand seeing Marius with a switch again and his first reaction being "He's such a drama queen, I'm going back to bed"
i've made a similar post like this before but every time i go back to the iwtv book i just can't believe how hard louis is giving rich jilted ex. i'm reading between the lines and he calls lestat a dumb blonde gold-digging whore at least thirty times. he complains that lestat won't dote on him. he meets armand and he's like oh you're not like other girls you're cool girl. you'll stroke my hair (unlike my cold unaffectionate gold-digging whore of an ex) and cook me dinner (unlike my cold unaffectionate gold-digging whore of an ex) and give me blow jobs whenever i want (unlike my cold unaffectionate gold-digging whore of an ex) and you'll be such a good role model for my daughter (unlike my cold unaffectionate gold-digging whore of an ex). except of course armand is actually the kind of duplicitous evil step mother who waits until louis is out of town on a business trip before he locks up claudia in an attic and throws away the key
Nobody talks about the fact that Bianca got stuck in her coffin on one of the first nights as a vamp enough. Like Marius had to gentle parent her ass out of it while she was screaming her head off lol
Taking another swing at the hornet's nest with this one but goddamn y'all need to stop quoting the Vampire Chronicles books like they're the fucking bible.
They're bad. They're badly written books. The world building is nonsense. The characters don't have a satisfying arc, except maybe a few of them. None of the fun problematic aspects are ever deeply interrogated in a serious way. THEY'RE BAD BOOKS.
Yes, without the books there wouldn't be the show, yes at the time of their publishing the books were influential etc etc. all of this. And then.
Level 0 ragebait 😭 Omg, if you guys are illiterate just say that!! There is such rich messaging throughout the novels about morality, the role of spirituality, trauma, gender expression/identity, sexuality, etc. If you do not understand that, then you are an incompetent consumer of literature. Point. Blank. Period.
At the back of my copy of The Vampire Armand, there's an old interview with Anne Rice talking about creating that novel. I've never forgotten her answer to one of the questions... It haunted me for years.
It gives incredible insight into how and why she wrote such beautiful, brutal and broken characters, and what she endured in the creation process.
BUT before you read this, I'm going to STRONGLY warn you, it goes to very very DARK places
Q: What are your work habits for a novel?
A: Once I truly begin to write, I work obsessively, in twelve-hour days, punctuated by days of long sleep and vivid dreaming. Starting time and ending time are no longer important. I might begin at 9 A.M., or after noon or at eight in the evening. I go from there. I turn on the computer and write, write, write.
My room is a mess. Notes are scribbled on the walls so that I can look up at them at the appropriate moments and insert the date, the name, whatever, when I need it. Books are stacked so high that people have to search for me when they come into the room. Opened books with marked-up pages are stacked on top of one another.
I become suicidal. I go through a horrid despair some time or other before the final page, during which everything seems meaningless—from the dawn of history to the very hour in which I am writing.
I’m intolerable to live with. But I spread myself thin over a number of loved ones and staff members so that no one person has to put up with how intense, hysterical, and miserable I am.
When I get elated and talk fast and furiously about wonderful aspects of history or the characters, or good developments in the story, people run away from me. I don’t blame them.
While the novel is being written, I try to avoid dressing for outdoors. No one can make you go out if you don’t have shoes on. Not even in the south. I wear long velvet robes and soft velvet slippers. I refuse to go out. All food is brought in. I eat hamburgers because they are easy to hold with one hand while reading and holding the book with the other hand.
In the middle of the night I read, sometimes on the carpeted floor of the bathroom, just because it’s warm. I am wretched. I don’t care anymore about being abnormal. Writing is everything. Everything. It seems impossible to write the book. It seems impossible to lift a hairbrush to brush my hair. But I do it. I put on mascara every day that I write.
This period of intense work lasts about six weeks. It’s best that way. My imagination is overheated, and my memory clogged with data of varying importance. If I go over six weeks, I begin to forget things; I feel the loss of intensity and information and I become all the more self-destructive and obsessed.
The end of the book is a big event for me. A big event. I start screaming. I put the hour and the date at the end of the last page. I expect everybody to understand, at least a little. It’s a triumph! The darkness of destiny has been driven back for a brief while. I celebrate. I scream, eat chocolate, and sleep.
Right near the end of writing The Vampire Armand, I realized I had to return to Italy, especially to Florence, and at once I began to make preparations for the trip. As soon as the novel was finished and off to the publisher’s, as soon as it could be accomplished, I flew to Italy. That gave me hope, a way out of a life threatening darkness that often follows the climax of a book. But I still ate chocolate and screamed.
While writing, I don’t want to rest. I don’t want to sleep. Why sleep? It seems stupid, except when weariness overcomes me like a giant cloud of poisonous vapor. Then I sleep fifteen to twenty hours. I tell people to go in and out of the bedroom and ignore me lying there, as if I were dead. I won’t talk on the phone. I won’t open my eyes if I don’t have to. I dream terrible, upsetting dreams.
I want to kill myself. But I can’t. I can’t do it to other people, and I have work that must be done, novels that must be written. So I don’t kill myself. Besides, I don’t think it’s good to kill oneself. It’s a horrible idea. It has a horrible effect even on acquaintances.
I think a lot about people I loved who are dead. I think of how dead they are, year after year, ever more dead.
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