#nei rambles

[through-the-rabbit-hole]

I love Griffin and Robin's relationship. The way Robin searches for himself in his brother's face as he did in his father's, starved for a connection to his biological family. The way Griffin does not actually see him, much like Lovell never truly saw any of his children. The way Robin must have known, from the books he had read, what a brother should look and act like, but never had the opportunity to have a brother who felt like a brother. The way Griffin wants to coax him to his side for the same reasons Lovell wants him; for his own plans, for his own ends, for the future he envisions. The way Robin has nightmares when even thinking of killing someone, and Griffin is too eager to commit violence. The way Robin hates himself when he makes his brother proud, just as he did when he made his father proud. The way he treasures his friends, his found family, far more than his real family, and yet still foolishly chases the fantasy of a caring older brother. The way Griffin could have convinced him to stay at Hermes if only he wasn't so distant, cold and calculated against Robin's sensitive heart, if only he had the sense to, even manipulatively, pluck at Robin's heartstrings by actually behaving like an older brother. The way Robin, fool that he is, tried to tell him this, was willing to pretend that Griffin was being genuine if only Griffin showed an ounce of care, real or fabricated.

But Griffin does not care. Griffin is fuelled by anger, spite, vengeance. Griffin knows what has been done to him, what is being done to others, and he believes that, because Robin lived under the same roof with the same man as he had, he would understand. Eventually, the fire of revolution would light up in his heart, and he would finally see where Griffin was coming from. He would be just like Griffin.

Except, Robin doesn't know who he is. He's been struggling with his identity for years, having spent his whole life being molded by his father, stuck between two identities — Englishman and Chinaman, respected scholar and uncivilized foreigner, coward and revolutionary. He doesn't know who he is, but he does know that he's easily influenced, and he's afraid of what Griffin could do to him. He's afraid that Griffin, too, will mold him into a perfect successor, into himself.

And then, the straw that broke the camel's back: losing everything. Losing Griffin. Becoming Griffin. Believing that Griffin was a better version of himself, that Griffin should have been the one to survive, should be the one leading the revolution, thus letting his spirit and his ideals live on in him. In the end, Robin never did make the choice for himself. Robin believed, ever since the trip to Canton, that he shouldn't be alive. And the only thing that kept him going was finishing what his brother started, because, though he doesn't want to live, he doesn't deserve to die; dying is the easy way out. He has more work to do. He has a revolution to lead. The revolution that his brother would have led, if only he didn't have to save Robin.

It's not that Griffin was heartless. There must have been a part of him that wanted to be a good brother, that wanted to open up and be comforted. He had little choice; he'd already lost so much, he was likely to lose Robin one way or another, anyway. He couldn't afford to care. All he had left was the revolution. After losing everything, all that was left of him wasn't a man, but a revolutionary. And that was all he could offer Robin, with so little time and so many enemies on their heels: he could only leave him his ideals, his theories, his philosophies, his work. He sacrificed himself, and he sacrificed Robin, because that was the only way he could leave a mark on the world.

( It felt good, didn't it, Griffin says, hoping that he can trick himself into believing he wasn't as devastated about Evie's death as he really was. And Robin looks him in the eyes, and he says what they're both thinking: If I could, I'd take it all back.

But Griffin knows the necessity of violence, and he cannot let his brother and himself dwell on the sacrifices they must make to win. Neither of them can ever sit with this grief, because they don't deserve it. They have a fight to win. That's all that matters. )

[through-the-rabbit-hole]

I don't want to hear any queerbaiting allegations about Robin and Ramy. They don't have to kiss on screen to prove they care for each other. They don't have to have a romantic or sexual relationship to love each other. It can be platonic, it can be more than platonic. They can love each other in whatever way they want to; and they did. They felt it in the way they always reconciled no matter what, they felt it when they tried to save each other. That's enough.

[through-the-rabbit-hole]

I don't know why The Secret History is considered THE dark academia book, and for that matter I don't think anyone knows what dark academia even is at this point. It's an aesthetic, yes, but it only works as a visual and maybe musical aesthetic. Books aren't about the visual aesthetic, they're about characters and plot and relationships and symbols and themes. They're not a photo collage put into words; if I wanted a photo collage I would have sought a photo collage.

The Secret History offers some good visuals that people enjoy, but it's not a "dark academia" book, because no book is a "dark academia" book. I've been reading Babel by R. F. Kuang, and it's unironically more of an "academia" book than The Secret History, because I, too, feel like throwing up when I start studying for exams, and the book actually critically examines academia. Not to mention, it's very clear that R. F. Kuang is very interested in language, and uses the academia setting to share her thoughts on some specific questions and topics in the field of linguistics. It's not "dark academia", but it's something better: it's about academia. It's not just meant to invoke a specific imagery.

( This is not to say The Secret History is bad for not being like Babel. I love the book. I just don't want it to be labeled a "dark academia" book, because that dilutes the book down to an aesthetic, and it's so much more than an aesthetic. )

For the record. It's because of the rising popularity of dark academia and books being an aesthetic that we get works like House of Hollow, which is, ironically, entirely hollow and void of deeper meaning and themes.

[through-the-rabbit-hole]

I'm reading Babel, and, in regards to the research projects that the Hermes Society has been undertaking, there's a footnote attached that essentially complains about how white European translators add too many footnotes with explanatory context in non-European texts, thus leading the reader to read the text the way they want it to be read.

And I just find this funny, because this is the exact criticism I have of R. F. Kuang's use of footnotes. I wonder if she added it in some bout of self-awareness, or if it was just another fun fact. ( Long ramble under the cut. )

Don't get me wrong, the added context is appreciated; there are a lot of people ( myself included ) reading Babel not because they have an extensive knowledge of the 19th century and Victorian England, but because they heard the book is good and popular. The historical context helps the reader understand the circumstances of a situation or the character motives much better.

But it also has a flaw I always notice in a book, which is when the author's voice intrudes upon the narrator's voice. You can clearly hear the author's own grievances and opinions in the tone and the language, even in the choice of highlighted facts. On one hand, I get it: a Chinese-American author is writing a story set in colonial England, told through the third-person lens of a Chinese boy. The story is steeped in commentary about colonialism and racism, and when the protagonist you're following is directly affected by the issues raised in the book, you would expect to see a lot of criticism of said issues. It would he decidedly weird if it wasn't this way.

However, Kuang specifically wrote Robin as someone who is not entirely immune to lies and propaganda. Robin is not as educated, nor did he suffer humiliation at the hands of the white European bourgeoise as, say, Ramy did. Robin is not, at all times, as critical of Victorian England as the real author is, and as the real author likes to emphasize. So in this case, the author is speaking over the narrator when she adds footnotes providing further context that carries her subjective tone. It pulls the reader out of the text, reminds them that this is the real author's opinions and observations; not Robin's.

The funny thing is that I'm not saying an author isn't allowed to show their feelings on a subject unless the author is also the narrator of the book. In fact, R. F. Kuang achieves this in Babel consistently and within full reason: the characters have all the right to point out and discuss the prejudice and injustice they're facing, as well as many other topics that Kuang is clearly passionate about ( this even applies to the discussion of different topics in the field of linguistics in the book ). Like, yeah, of course they would! And this is the ideal place for the real author to do so, where they won't interject themselves into the book.

But by doing so in the footnotes (which, I have never seen so many and such wordy footnotes in a book before), and at times throughout the book, the real author does what, to me, she is exactly complaining about. ( I also have to complain, briefly, about how awkward these sometimes feel, almost like the author wanted to say something more but didn't know where to put it, so it was all thrown into the footnotes. ) I don't think this is a matter of whether these footnotes are objectively correct or not. Her criticism was that non-European texts were burdened with context from white European translators, which implies that this context was subjective, incorrect, misleading, or at the very least, trying to lead the reader to think about the text one way or another. And I agree; context should be objective, it should help fill the gaps where the majority of the reading audience might not be as knowledgeable about a topic, event or person, might not understand a quip or comment because of the missing context.

But Kuang doesn't incorporate these seamlessly enough. In fact, these would be much less jarring, if not at all, if the book was written from Ramy's or Victoria's point of view. Because they're much more aware of the world they live in, are more resistant to and firmly critical of colonial England just like Kuang, because this kind of context, even if it slightly carried the author's voice, would match Ramy's or Victoria's better than Robin's. The point isn't whether Kuang is right to point out the many injustices of the white European man, and whether the white European man is right to add his own context to a non-European text.

The point is how they do it, how prominent their voices are, how much they affect the way the reader will consume and experience and view the book. When you blur the lines between fictional and real communication, when the author is not covert enough in a heterodiegetic narrative, you form a direct, unobstructed line between author and reader that, in this instance, feels out of place. The reader will have to wonder, while reading the text, whether it's the author or the narrator speaking to them, and how this might affect their perception of the events of the book.

Feel free to disagree with me on this, and also I fully admit I am not that well versed in narratology (which is why the terminology is a bit all over the place). In fact, I would appreciate insight from someone who is more knowledge about it than me. These are just my personal feelings on how the author unnecessarily interjects herself into the book, when I feel like it's something that could have been changed during the editing process. I can tell she struggled a lot with the footnotes, because she had a lot more to say without knowing how to add it seamlessly into the book.

(I might revise this, too, at some point in the future; halfway through writing this I stumbled upon Manfred Jahn's Narratology 2.3: A Guide to the Theory of Narrative, and now I'm super curious about it.)

[through-the-rabbit-hole]

"Do you trust the House? I ask Myself.

Yes, I answer Myself.

And if the House had made you forget, then it has done so for good reason.

But I do not understand the reason.

It does not matter that you do not understand the reason. You are the Beloved Child of the House. Be comforted.

And I am comforted."

I love that to Piranesi, the House is the World is God. He equates the House with God, understands that all that's been granted to him has been granted by a benevolent higher power, and treats it the way you would God: incomprehensible, yet endlessly loving, which means that surely, all it does is for his own good. But at the same time, he doesn't actually see it as God. Piranesi blends the concepts of divinity and nature, or rather equates nature itself with divinity. Instead of believing that a higher power created the World he loves, he instead attributes all benevolence to a vaguely defined force he calls "the World", and this is what grants him fish and statues and stars. It's funny how, even without the concepts of sin or wrongdoing that many religions incorporate and emphasize, Piranesi does not need to be told what they are to understand that he shouldn't commit them, simply because why would he? Why kill, or be selfish, or disrespect the dead? What point is there in going out of his way to be unkind or ungrateful, when he has been given so much? He isn't even angry at the house when a flood is imminent, or when the albatrosses won't let him into their nests; is nature not allowed to exist only because it stands in man's way? Piranesi easily finds such concepts ridiculous without needing to explicitly understand religion.

I also love that we get to see another example of how he self-regulates, how he takes care of himself. Aside from that time when he resolved to walk away from the journal for a week for his own good, we also see him comfort himself through religion: And I am comforted. (Though, oddly enough, he both does not seem to regard his reverence to the house as religious in nature, while also acknowledging religion when he talks about how he respects the dead and how the Other does not indulge in religious practices). This is also what keeps him sane for the six years he spends in the House; Piranesi does not break down or curse the world for being the way it is, but instead believes in its kindness and beauty, and focuses on what makes being alive worth it. The fish and the mussels and the seaweed, perhaps, are not the tastiest in the world, and the winters are cold and harsh, but when he makes it through, and he looks up at the statues he knows and loves, he is comforted.

[through-the-rabbit-hole]

Ough. I'm just realizing that the reason why I enjoy Robin in the last 100ish pages of the book is because he embodies one of my favourite tropes: when the grief of losing someone is so all-encompassing that the only way you can survive is by moving forward with the duty of fulfilling your lost one's dream.