Apr 15
the aftermath of an overdue close reading essay…
seen from Türkiye
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the aftermath of an overdue close reading essay…
Call for Papers: Reading Fanfiction/ Fanfiction Reading
Fanfiction can be many things: an interpretation of the source text, an insight into a fandom culture, or an exemplar of popular narrative tropes and themes. But fannish stories are also, always, works of fiction, and they reward in-depth analysis as much as any other work of literature.
In Reading Fanfiction/Fanfiction Readings, we aim to put together a collection of essays in which we treat fan fiction as an important form of contemporary literature, using the tools of close reading: focus on the author’s use of language, imagery, and theme. This project calls to all of us who have discussed a story for hours (or over many comments or DMs), or who have a story that we rec to friends who don’t know the fandom or the characters, because it just has that much to offer, or who have a story we come back to long after we’ve moved on to another fandom, a story that we have analyzed in passing but feel it deserved an article of its own. If you love close textual readings and love fan fiction and have a story that says and means so much more, we want your contribution!
Rereading the Archeron sisters' interactions and filtering out Feyre's assumptions and projections is wild.
Take the scene where Nesta pulls Feyre away from the mercenary.
If you strip Feyre’s projections (marked in yellow) out of the scene, what happens is pretty straightforward.
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Nesta pulls her younger sister away from a shady situation, then reveals that she and Elain had actually been mugged by mercenaries before.
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Feyre responds with a question that might sound a lot like victim-blaming to Nesta.
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Nesta explains that there was no real option to report it and that Feyre, a malnourished teenager, realistically wouldn't have been able to take on multiple adult men (which is likely accurate).
The use of the verb "sneered" here really impacts how we, as the reader, understand this assertion.
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Feyre takes offense and makes a passive-aggressive dig about Tomas Mandray (a sore subject from a previous argument).
Nesta doesn't seem to take the bait and pivots the conversation, pointing out that Isaac Hale is waiting for Feyre.
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That’s when Feyre reveals to the reader that she’s sleeping with Isaac-- even though he’s engaged.
In the context of this patriarchal world, the implication of this likely extends beyond being 'the other woman' or being 'promiscuous.' Feyre's actions could’ve destroyed the family’s reputation, making all three sisters unmarriable and disgraced in town.
It also makes Feyre telling Nesta that she couldn't marry Tomas because "there’s one thing he wants from her, and it’s not her hand in— [marriage]" a bit hypocritical.
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Nesta expresses concern about Feyre using protection.
Feyre snaps back, but then admits to the reader she can’t afford contraceptives, which means Nesta’s concern was reasonable.
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Feyre describes Nesta as having “hissed” and “sneered” and even trying to smile sweetly for money. But we’re relying entirely on Feyre’s interpretation to learn Nesta's intent and demeanor, and as the series goes on, we see just how often Feyre misreads people’s intentions and situations.
This is a narrator who said her sister was 'born with a sneer on her face." Even if we assume she's speaking figuratively, Feyre would not have known how Nesta was as a young child... she wasn't born yet!
Ultimately, we’re seeing two young women coping with trauma in different, messy ways. Neither comes out blameless. But is Nesta the “evil stepsister” tormenting Feyre in ACOTAR, as some fans think? I'm not convinced.
I was trying to pin-point the place where the narration switches from "Malfoy / Draco Malfoy" to just "Draco"
(because at some point it does, he's 'Draco' in the epilogue.)
And I found some interesting stuff.
~ The book consistently uses 'Draco' during scenes that feature Lucius, or sentences that mention both Draco and Lucius together. This makes sense - up until Book 7 Lucius is "Mr. Malfoy" or "Lucius Malfoy" in the narration... and you don't want a "Malfoy" and a "Mr. Malfoy" in the same scene, that's just confusing.
(this is also probably why Voldemort calls all his Death Eaters by their last names during the graveyard scene... except Lucius. We're still firmly in Children's Lit, and if Voldemort had started addressing one of his Death Eaters as 'Malfoy' ... somebody would have gotten confused and thought that Draco was somehow there.)
~ The first scene that really commits to "Draco" in the narration is the opening of Book 7, where Voldemort is holding court in the Malfoy dining room. It's told in third person omniscient, and even though Lucius isn't doing much... it's a scene about Voldemort taking his wand (and his power) away from him. So there's a fun mis-match between the detached /objective narrator, who calls him "Malfoy" or "Lucius Malfoy," and Voldemort... who calls him "Lucius." The way the scene is written is telling us that he's being disrespected.
Draco is called "Draco" in this scene so we don't confuse him with his father... but maybe there's also a little implication that "Draco" is the most neutral thing to call him, and he's only "Malfoy" through Harry's eyes (ie the "Harry filter.") Still, using his first name like this during such an emotionally charged scene does have the side effect of bringing us a little emotionally closer to the character - especially during Charity Burbage's death, which is a beat that doesn't have anything to do with Lucius.
“And you, Draco?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he seemed unable to look at her anymore. (...) “Avada Kedavra.” The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which trembled and creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out of his onto the floor.
~ The bit where Draco tortures Rowle is the first time when Harry's narration uses "Draco" (in a scene that has nothing to do with Lucius.) We actually watch the switch happen:
A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a terrified, pointed white face — with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes. (...) Malfoy’s gaunt, petrified face seemed branded on the inside of his eyes. Harry felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put by Voldemort.
~ He's "Draco" all through the scene in Malfoy Manor... and of course he is, Lucius Malfoy is massively important to that scene. But since by now we've had a little moment of "Draco" from Harry, and from the narration (and he's "Draco" during the whole bit with the prisoners in the cellar, which Lucius isn't there for...) I think that this writing choice (unintentionally?) implies... an emotional connection from Harry, that wouldn't be there if his narration stuck to "Malfoy." Like here are two sentences that I think would read very differently if Harry's narration used "Malfoy" instead of "Draco."
Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely: a figure slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.
Harry saw Draco’s face up close now, right beside his father’s. They were extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with excitement, Draco’s expression was full of reluctance, even fear.
~ Harry calls the wand he uses to defeat Voldemort "the hawthorn wand" a couple of times... but MOSTLy he thinks of it as "Draco's Wand." Including at like, the moment he's actually defeating Voldemort:
Harry heard the high voice shriek as he too yelled his best hope to the heavens, pointing Draco’s wand: “Avada Kedavra!” “Expelliarmus!”
I think the Doylist reason for this is to help the reader understand the (pretty confusing) chain of events that leads to Harry being the master of the Elder Wand.... but in the moment, that's a ton of emotional weight for Harry to be giving the name "Draco."
~ There is this interesting little moment where Harry calls Draco "Malfoy" out loud... but "Draco" in his head:
“Not [your wand] anymore,” panted Harry, tightening his grip on the hawthorn wand. “Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who’s lent you theirs?” “My mother,” said Draco.
So it seems we've got a little conflict going. Maybe Harry doesn't have the same relationship with Draco that he used too... but is a little uncomfortable letting Draco know that. Actually, the only time Harry just calls him "Draco" in dialogue is when... he's talking to Voldemort.
“I got there first. I overpowered Draco weeks ago.”
(draco behind a pillar having an out-of-body experience because really potter? did you HAVE to phrase it like THAT?)
~ Interestingly, Harry's narration switches back to "Malfoy" during the Fiendfyre scene. This might be to make Draco more of an intentional pair with Crabbe and Goyle ('Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle' is a construction the books love.) Or maybe it's to reflect Ron and Hermione's perspective? Backpedal a bit on the implied Harry/Draco emotional closeness? Because... lemme just show you what this scene looks like if I swap out "Malfoy" with "Draco"
Draco saw him coming and raised one arm, but even as Harry grasped it he knew at once that it was no good. “Don’t kill him! DON’T KILL HIM!” Draco yelled at Crabbe and Goyle, who were both aiming at Harry [Ron] and Hermione dragged Goyle onto their broom and rose, rolling and pitching, into the air once more as Draco clambered up behind Harry. Draco was screaming and holding Harry so tightly it hurt.
~ And then, in their last real interaction, the names are all over the place:
Draco was on the upper landing, pleading with another masked Death Eater. Harry Stunned the Death Eater as they passed: Malfoy looked around, beaming, for his savior, and Ron punched him from under the Cloak. Malfoy fell backward on top of the Death Eater, his mouth bleeding, utterly bemused. “And that’s the second time we’ve saved your life tonight, you two-faced bastard!” Ron yelled.
All I can think here is that it's "Draco" when the narration is focusing on Harry's experience... and "Malfoy" when it's focusing on Ron's.
essay V.
the most human film ever made
One of the most liked comments on the YouTube upload of Jerry the Ginger Eater, Connor Storrie's 2025 short, reads: “I’m 6 months sober actually” said by a woman on her way to help a cannibal murder her boss. this is the most human film ever made.
The comment is a joke. It is also, accidentally, the correct critical response. What the film does in fifteen minutes is take a situation that has no business being human - a cannibal pulls a sex worker into a car and explains, in a calm register, that he is going to eat her - and resolves it, scene by scene, into something resembling the small negotiations adults make when they have decided to be in a working relationship with someone they met under conditions that would, in any other genre, have produced a corpse.
The opening is transactional. Jerry has already decided. Tweaker is already cornered. The first thing she does is correctly assess that rape is not the threat on offer - “Can you just rape me, please? I'd rather that” which is a terrible line read as a request and a brilliant one read as an actor's instinct about where the scene's actual dread is located. Rape would be survivable. Being eaten is not. The film's first joke is that the sex worker, trained by her profession to read men, reaches for the wrong frame first and has to recalibrate in real time.
What Tweaker then does, inside about ninety seconds of screen time, is negotiate herself out of being the meal and into being the scout. She offers up her boss. Her boss is a ginger. Jerry agrees. The film does not hurry past the bargain. It wants you to watch two people, one of whom was about to eat the other, settle with startling efficiency, into the shared project of eating someone else. One comment registers the move cleanly: the way she negotiates herself OUT of being eaten and INTO a business partnership in under 90 seconds. women in the workplace. This is a screwball premise performed flat. The comedy is the competence.
The central formal trick of the film is that its language for violence is also its language for intimacy. Tweaker, trying to read the domestic context, asks about his wife. There is a woman, he says. “We’re very close. We’re very, very, very close.” Where is she? “She’s inside of me. She’s deep inside of me.” For a beat, the line hovers in euphemism. Then it collapses into the literal. “I ate her.” The exchange is funny because the euphemism collapses into the literal. It is also - and the film knows this - the most honest depiction of a certain kind of romantic absorption available to a fifteen-minute short. “I was saying it so that I didn't have to say it, but yeah, I ate her.” The film’s central romantic proposition, spoken in the only language it has access to, is that love is the thing you cannot metabolise without consuming, and consumption is the thing you cannot do without losing the person consumed. But the joke only works because the film recognises that cannibalism is the only emotional vocabulary it has. It cannot describe love except as a form of catastrophic incorporation.
That is why the scene lands as more than absurdism. The confession does not merely parody romantic language; it exposes something real inside it. The fantasy of absolute closeness, of having someone fully inside one’s life, one’s body, one’s self, is pushed to a grotesque conclusion. The cannibal idiom is not a metaphor laid over the story from outside but the story’s native language for attachment, need, and loss.
Tweaker's counter-confession works by the same logic. She talks about meth. She talks about how much she liked it. “I'd wake up in the morning and just smoke meth and have the best fucking day in the world, but every day.” She talks about being skinny. “I looked like Kate Moss in the Molly, you know? She's like, oh, I look heroin chic." She talks about how her sweat bleached her clothes - “every piece of clothing I had looked like a Pollock painting" - and then, asked “Pollock?”, explains, “Jackson Pollock”. The joke inside the joke is that she reaches, casually, for Jackson Pollock as the simile for her meth-bleached clothes - the art history and the addiction sharing a single register, as though they operate on the same shelf of her memory. The addiction confession is calibrated exactly the way the cannibal confession is calibrated: a person naming a hunger that was larger than the world's ability to contain it, and trying to make the naming funny enough to survive. “I'm 6 months sober, actually.” None of this is framed as redemption. What matters is that Tweaker knows what it is to live under the rule of an appetite larger than the world can contain. She has survived the kind of hunger Jerry still inhabits.
What makes Jerry the Ginger Eater work as a film, rather than as an exercise, is that the two characters are looking at each other from opposite sides of the same thing. Jerry is an appetite with no stopping condition. Tweaker is an appetite that has been stopped, and is therefore available to watch what an unstopped one looks like. The middle of the film, once the premise is set, is basically the two of them in a car, talking. “If you're going to eat, I really want to eat too. I'm really hungry.[....] Diet Coke and fries.” The hunger has to be fed constantly; the question is only what register it gets fed in.
The viewers reaching for David Lynch are correct and slightly off. One of the more striking comparisons, tucked further down in the thread, is this: Gregg Araki and Gaspar Noé had a baby and that baby forgot to take its Adderall and went and made this film. The reference is closer to what Jerry is actually doing. Lynch is the aesthetic inheritance - the willingness to let the dream and the real occupy the same frame, the trust in image over plausibility. Araki is the structural inheritance - the road film about bodies wrong for the world they are crossing, the willingness to treat sex work and drug use and queer desire as simply present. The Doom Generation is a road film about three young people who begin killing and cannot stop, and it is also a love story. Mysterious Skin is a film about childhood trauma and adult sex work that refuses to let either register cancel the other out. Kaboom is a queer conspiracy comedy that treats paranoia as erotic. The Araki lineage is a lineage of films that take bodies the culture has no plan for and put them into narrative structures that also have no plan for them, and film the resulting collisions with unembarrassed affection. Jerry sits inside that lineage.
Storrie has mentioned meeting Araki in passing; he has not, from what I could find, named Araki's films as an influence on this short. Viewers are reaching for the comparison independently, which is what an actual lineage tends to look like from outside - a rhyme the audience registers before the artist ever declares it.
The Noé half of the comparison does different work. What matters there is less influence than discipline. The camera in Jerry does not flinch from physical consequence, but neither does it sensationalise it. It holds. It trusts faces, rhythms, and proximity. The result is that comedy and confession can coexist inside the same shot without either one being underlined. This is Noé-adjacent discipline. Saint Laurent Productions produced Noé's Lux Æterna - the part of the alignment with Storrie that travels publicly. Viewers independently reaching for Noé when describing Jerry is the confirmation that the alignment is real.
One comment, worth quoting in full, reads: a love story between emotionally unavailable cannibal and a lonely tweaker, our generation's When Harry Met Sally. The joke reads as wrong on first pass and right on second. When Harry Met Sally is a film about whether men and women can be friends. Jerry the Ginger Eater is a film about whether two people who should by all rights have killed each other can be functional working partners. Both films propose that the answer is yes, but only after the correct amount of friction. Both are, structurally, love stories in which the love is non-sexual and earned. The comment is doing real critical work: it names the film's genre. Jerry is a romantic comedy in which the romance has been displaced into friendship, and the comedy has been displaced into the body.
That is what makes the short more than a stylish provocation. It is about appetite, certainly: about the body in the wrong context, and about what it costs to be hungry in a world that does not know how to feed you. But it is also about the strange forms of mutual recognition that become possible when two people discover that their hungers, however differently lived, are legible to one another. The darkness is the route to the tenderness.
Which is why the top comment, silly as it is, finally turns out to be right. “This is the most human film ever made” is a joke only until the film has persuaded you otherwise. By the end, it has earned the line.
Taking close reading to the next level.
sotr content is awesome, great, amazing, but i wanted to talk a little more about the meta of the books.
tbosas is the only book in the 5 that is not in first person!!!!!! its in 3rd, which is super interesting. not only is the reader not allowed to see snow's "inner thoughts," but we are alienated entirely from *being him.* with the main trilogy and now sotr, we become katniss/haymitch because of the first person narration. it's pretty widely accepted (at least in the communities of which I am a part) that every time suzanne collins comes out with another thg book, it's because people didn't get the message with the previous books (for more info, see the epigraphs of each book in the order in which they were released; they get more and more specific) and she wants to really just nails it in to us. the main trilogy came out about 10 years ago, so i barely noticed the change in narration styles until I read sotr and tbosas back to back. then, it sticks out like a sore thumb. Collins purposefully wants the reader to connect to the districts because of the social and class commentary that goes along with affiliating with the districts and not the capitol. POV is how authors can control who "has" the narrative and snow is NEVER supposed to be in control of the overall narrative; he is never truly in control of the districts.
i was also struck with the differences in pacing when it comes to tbosas and sotr. the overarching story of tbosas is snow's story. it follows LGB because she is affiliated with him, but ultimately, it opens on him and follows his mentorship journey through the games, and then moves on to him after the games as a peacekeeper. sotr is almost more of an homage to the 2nd QQ featuring haymitch (which is much more in line with the original trilogy) but focusing on the games, but of course it is. haymitch is a spark, but he doesn't end up lighting the revolution. beetee is his predecessor, and he's a predecessor to katniss, so although he is the protagonist of sotr, the true focus of the book is not haymitch himself, but how he influences the games and the revolution.
Dumbledore & the art of avoiding
Rereading Harry Potter as an adult, Dumbledore’s “guidance” hits differently. He has this recurring habit: whenever emotional responsibility is actually required, he avoids it completely. He ghosts.
He leaves Harry on the Dursleys’ doorstep with nothing but a letter to inform Petunia of her sister’s murder. Petunia deserved a conversation. A human moment. Not a passive-aggressive note.
Years earlier, Petunia herself reached out as a child, asking for help in a complex family situation. Did Dumbledore respond with care? Of course not. Another letter. No personal touch, no emotional labor.
The Hogwarts letters to Harry are another classic. The Dursleys’ fear of the magical world is obvious. When Harry doesn’t receive the letters, Dumbledore doesn’t step in, doesn’t mediate, doesn’t talk. Chaos ensues: the family is terrorized, forced to flee, and Harry’s introduction to the wizarding world begins with fear and instability.
He sends Hagrid to “fetch” Harry, but doesn’t prepare him at all. Hagrid doesn’t know he has to tell Harry about his parents’ murder, the wizarding world, or Harry’s own place in it. That’s Dumbledore’s job, but he passes it off.
The revelation about Snape and the prophecy? Harry never hears it from Dumbledore. He learns it through Snape, without guidance or clarification.
There is a pattern: no talking, just letters, delegations, distance. Everyone else is a tool, a messenger, a shield. Avoidance becomes a strategy for him. Emotional labor? Offloaded. Power? Exercised quietly, invisibly.
As an adult reader, I see the manipulation. Dumbledore is someone whose avoidance puts others in real danger. And that matters.
(Rereading Harry Potter as a (queer) adult)