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plague and books
I'm feeling about 75% better now after most of a week on antibiotics. My sinus infection has cleared up, cough isn't as bad, and my ears don't hurt, although one of them is still a bit clogged and therefore my hearing isn't quite what it should be. I've only got two more doses of antibiotic and I'm a bit worried that everything will get horribly worse again after that, but I'm probably being silly.
My appetite is still low, which in a way I have welcomed. (Some weight/food talk follows, encoded in ROT13; go here to decode if desired.) Jura V jrag gb gur qbpgbe gurl jrvturq zr, orpnhfr urnira xabjf lbh pna'g qvntabfr na rne vasrpgvba vs lbh qba'g xabj ubj zhpu fbzrbar jrvtuf. V nfxrq gurz abg gb gryy zr gur erfhyg, ohg vg jnf tbqqnza CEVAGRQ ba gur "ivfvg fhzznel" guvat gurl tnir zr gb gnxr ubzr, fb V fnj vg. Naq fvapr gura V'ir unq gung ahzore ebyyvat nebhaq va zl urnq, znxvat zr srry onq nobhg zlfrys. V'yy trg bire vg, orpnhfr V xabj sebz rkcrevrapr gung qvrgvat znxrf zr sbbq bofrffrq naq penml naq V nyjnlf tnva onpx rirel cbhaq naq gurz fbzr, ohg vg'f tbvat gb gnxr n juvyr gb or noyr gb fgbc guvaxvat nobhg vg. Va gur zrnagvzr V'z shyy bs gur hfhny erfbyhgvbaf nobhg zber irtrgnoyrf naq jubyr tenvaf naq yrff whax, naq va trareny sbe zr gubfr ner abg onq tbnyf. V srry orggre jura V rng yrff cebprffrq sbbq, naq V rawbl vg, gbb. Ohg evtug abj V'z gverq nyy gur gvzr naq qba'g jnag gb pbbx, naq nyzbfg nyy gur avpr jubyr hacebprffrq sbbqf V jbhyq abeznyyl yvxr qba'g fbhaq tbbq gb zr. V bayl jnag fbsg hapunyyratvat sbbq, be ryfr penpxref, naq pbzovarq jvgu gur gverqarff guvf zrnaf guvatf yvxr pnaarq fbhcf naq Evpr-n-Ebav naq znlor, ng n fgergpu, fbzr cnfgn. Naq lbtheg (fcrpvsvpnyyl erpbzzraqrq gb zr ol gur cuneznpvfg, jub fnvq gur nagvovbgvpf jbhyq xvyy rirelguvat naq lbtheg jbhyq uryc oevat gur tbbq onpgrevn onpx) Ng yrnfg lbtheg vf abg shyy bs fnyg/fhtne/purzvpnyf, ohg sbe zr, naljnl, vg'f bayl na nqrdhngr zrny ol vgfrys vs V'z zhpu, zhpu fvpxre guna V nz abj. V nz qrsvavgryl ybbxvat sbejneq gb gur qnl jura fbzrguvat yvxr n fgve-sel jvyy fbhaq obgu nccrnyvat naq cbffvoyr. (Ol gur jnl, V'z abg nfxvat sbe jrvtug ybff nqivpr urer. Gunaxf naljnl, ohg guvf vf n cunfr V'yy trg guebhtu. V whfg arrqrq gb irag n ovg. Fhttrfgvbaf sbe rnfl, abg-gbb-cebprffrq guvatf V zvtug npghnyyl jnag gb rng ner jrypbzr, gubhtu.)
All I've done for about the last two and a half weeks is work, sleep, and read Dick Francis novels, so I'm up to 1980 in the Francis oeuvre, having just finished Reflex. I'm liking Francis more and more. The omnicompetent tough guys have mostly disappeared from his novels now, and instead we're getting Stoic Woobies and even Iron Woobies, who are more my type. And Francis does have the perception to suggest, sometimes, that ultra-stoicism is maybe a symptom of psychological damage rather than a marker of courage.
Francis keeps surprising me with his women characters, who even in the 1960s novels are mostly not sexpots or sweet undemanding consolers, but rather tend to be pragmatic, intelligent women with lives of their own. (NB: There are exceptions, though, especially in the early novels.) There's one 1970s novel, though I have unfortunately forgotten exactly which one, in which the love interest character is an air traffic controller with no desire for conventional domesticity. The hero would gladly marry her if she wanted to, but instead they work out a relationship that's more romantic than friends-with-benefits, but doesn't extend to living together. And in 1967's Blood Sport, there's a remarkable moment in which the hero (who, by the way, suffers from suicidal depression that is explicitly named as depression) tells a bored, lonely married woman who's been halfheartedly trying to seduce him that what she needs isn't a lover, it's a career. The books in general tend to treat single career women as admirable and interesting, rather than as sad dried-up old spinsters as is common in a lot of other novels from this period.
I've mentioned that I just finished Reflex, which is the first Dick Francis novel to have any significant characters (there's a dead blackmail victim in an earlier book) explicitly identified as queer. And again, the way Francis handles it is really surprising for a novel published in 1980. The hero, Philip Nore, had a tremendously unstable childhood because his mother (who struggled with drug addiction) constantly fobbed him off on all her acquaintances for weeks, months, or years. When he's twelve, she hands him over to a gay couple, Duncan and Charlie. He lives with them for three years--his mother then takes him away because Duncan and Charlie have split up--and it's his first long-term home. Here's how he remembers them; the context is his reaction to a friend's discomfort about homosexuality in general and Nore's background specifically, assuming that the couple must have tried to turn Nore gay:
So far there've been no explicit queer protagonists, and I doubt there will be, but a lot of the books are slashy, sometimes in a fun old-fashioned homosocial way and sometimes in an awesome, "did you do this on PURPOSE, Dick Francis?" way. 1996's To the Hilt is often mentioned in this regard, and with good reason; it's like Dick Francis wrote a queer rom-com without knowing it. Rat Race and Bonecrack are the two others that were specifically recommended to me as slashy, and I again concur, but I'd also mention Smokescreen (with major, major caveats for being set mostly in apartheid-era South Africa and only hinting feebly at any disapproval for the system), Slay Ride (which memorably deploys a classic slash trope), and especially Odds Against and Whip Hand, the first two novels featuring disabled ex-jockey, now private investigator Sid Halley. Sid has an ex-wife he still loves, and acquires a nominal sort of love interest in Whip Hand, but his deepest and most tender emotional ties seem to be with his ex-father-in-law and with his work partner. (And ooh, a quick AO3 search tells me there is fic for both these pairings.) The later Halley books may be just as slashy but I haven't read them yet.
So as you can tell, I'm enjoying Dick Francis's novels. They don't have the depth of the greats like Reginald Hill or Ruth Rendell, but they're very entertaining stories, and they have a worldview, and a sort of fundamental kindness and humaneness, that I like a lot.
My appetite is still low, which in a way I have welcomed. (Some weight/food talk follows, encoded in ROT13; go here to decode if desired.) Jura V jrag gb gur qbpgbe gurl jrvturq zr, orpnhfr urnira xabjf lbh pna'g qvntabfr na rne vasrpgvba vs lbh qba'g xabj ubj zhpu fbzrbar jrvtuf. V nfxrq gurz abg gb gryy zr gur erfhyg, ohg vg jnf tbqqnza CEVAGRQ ba gur "ivfvg fhzznel" guvat gurl tnir zr gb gnxr ubzr, fb V fnj vg. Naq fvapr gura V'ir unq gung ahzore ebyyvat nebhaq va zl urnq, znxvat zr srry onq nobhg zlfrys. V'yy trg bire vg, orpnhfr V xabj sebz rkcrevrapr gung qvrgvat znxrf zr sbbq bofrffrq naq penml naq V nyjnlf tnva onpx rirel cbhaq naq gurz fbzr, ohg vg'f tbvat gb gnxr n juvyr gb or noyr gb fgbc guvaxvat nobhg vg. Va gur zrnagvzr V'z shyy bs gur hfhny erfbyhgvbaf nobhg zber irtrgnoyrf naq jubyr tenvaf naq yrff whax, naq va trareny sbe zr gubfr ner abg onq tbnyf. V srry orggre jura V rng yrff cebprffrq sbbq, naq V rawbl vg, gbb. Ohg evtug abj V'z gverq nyy gur gvzr naq qba'g jnag gb pbbx, naq nyzbfg nyy gur avpr jubyr hacebprffrq sbbqf V jbhyq abeznyyl yvxr qba'g fbhaq tbbq gb zr. V bayl jnag fbsg hapunyyratvat sbbq, be ryfr penpxref, naq pbzovarq jvgu gur gverqarff guvf zrnaf guvatf yvxr pnaarq fbhcf naq Evpr-n-Ebav naq znlor, ng n fgergpu, fbzr cnfgn. Naq lbtheg (fcrpvsvpnyyl erpbzzraqrq gb zr ol gur cuneznpvfg, jub fnvq gur nagvovbgvpf jbhyq xvyy rirelguvat naq lbtheg jbhyq uryc oevat gur tbbq onpgrevn onpx) Ng yrnfg lbtheg vf abg shyy bs fnyg/fhtne/purzvpnyf, ohg sbe zr, naljnl, vg'f bayl na nqrdhngr zrny ol vgfrys vs V'z zhpu, zhpu fvpxre guna V nz abj. V nz qrsvavgryl ybbxvat sbejneq gb gur qnl jura fbzrguvat yvxr n fgve-sel jvyy fbhaq obgu nccrnyvat naq cbffvoyr. (Ol gur jnl, V'z abg nfxvat sbe jrvtug ybff nqivpr urer. Gunaxf naljnl, ohg guvf vf n cunfr V'yy trg guebhtu. V whfg arrqrq gb irag n ovg. Fhttrfgvbaf sbe rnfl, abg-gbb-cebprffrq guvatf V zvtug npghnyyl jnag gb rng ner jrypbzr, gubhtu.)
All I've done for about the last two and a half weeks is work, sleep, and read Dick Francis novels, so I'm up to 1980 in the Francis oeuvre, having just finished Reflex. I'm liking Francis more and more. The omnicompetent tough guys have mostly disappeared from his novels now, and instead we're getting Stoic Woobies and even Iron Woobies, who are more my type. And Francis does have the perception to suggest, sometimes, that ultra-stoicism is maybe a symptom of psychological damage rather than a marker of courage.
Francis keeps surprising me with his women characters, who even in the 1960s novels are mostly not sexpots or sweet undemanding consolers, but rather tend to be pragmatic, intelligent women with lives of their own. (NB: There are exceptions, though, especially in the early novels.) There's one 1970s novel, though I have unfortunately forgotten exactly which one, in which the love interest character is an air traffic controller with no desire for conventional domesticity. The hero would gladly marry her if she wanted to, but instead they work out a relationship that's more romantic than friends-with-benefits, but doesn't extend to living together. And in 1967's Blood Sport, there's a remarkable moment in which the hero (who, by the way, suffers from suicidal depression that is explicitly named as depression) tells a bored, lonely married woman who's been halfheartedly trying to seduce him that what she needs isn't a lover, it's a career. The books in general tend to treat single career women as admirable and interesting, rather than as sad dried-up old spinsters as is common in a lot of other novels from this period.
I've mentioned that I just finished Reflex, which is the first Dick Francis novel to have any significant characters (there's a dead blackmail victim in an earlier book) explicitly identified as queer. And again, the way Francis handles it is really surprising for a novel published in 1980. The hero, Philip Nore, had a tremendously unstable childhood because his mother (who struggled with drug addiction) constantly fobbed him off on all her acquaintances for weeks, months, or years. When he's twelve, she hands him over to a gay couple, Duncan and Charlie. He lives with them for three years--his mother then takes him away because Duncan and Charlie have split up--and it's his first long-term home. Here's how he remembers them; the context is his reaction to a friend's discomfort about homosexuality in general and Nore's background specifically, assuming that the couple must have tried to turn Nore gay:
I thought of Duncan and Charlie who had hugged and kissed and loved each other all around me for three years. Charlie had been older than Duncan: a mature man in his forties, solid and industrious and kind. Charlie, to me, had been father, uncle, guardian, all in one. Duncan had been chatty and quarrelsome and very good company, and neither of them had tried to teach me their way.In 1980 even the most progressive mainstream mystery writers I know of, such as Ruth Rendell and Reginald Hill, were still struggling with how to include gay characters, and at best were making them tragic victims or sympathetic villains. (Hill soon, in 1984, made one of his protagonists gay.) Less progressive writers were still offering up gay villains who were villains because they were gay. Hell, it still happens. Phil Rickman's Merrily Watkins book A Crown of Lights, published in 2001, has a murderous lesbian, and I'll bet there are more recent books that do too. I have to be impressed that in 1980 Dick Francis could write gay parents.
Duncan had slowly grown less chatty, more quarrelsome and less good company, and one day he fell in love with someone else and walked out. Charlie's grief had been white-faced and desperately deep. He had put his arms round my shoulders and hugged me, and wept; and I'd wept for Charlie's unhappiness.
So far there've been no explicit queer protagonists, and I doubt there will be, but a lot of the books are slashy, sometimes in a fun old-fashioned homosocial way and sometimes in an awesome, "did you do this on PURPOSE, Dick Francis?" way. 1996's To the Hilt is often mentioned in this regard, and with good reason; it's like Dick Francis wrote a queer rom-com without knowing it. Rat Race and Bonecrack are the two others that were specifically recommended to me as slashy, and I again concur, but I'd also mention Smokescreen (with major, major caveats for being set mostly in apartheid-era South Africa and only hinting feebly at any disapproval for the system), Slay Ride (which memorably deploys a classic slash trope), and especially Odds Against and Whip Hand, the first two novels featuring disabled ex-jockey, now private investigator Sid Halley. Sid has an ex-wife he still loves, and acquires a nominal sort of love interest in Whip Hand, but his deepest and most tender emotional ties seem to be with his ex-father-in-law and with his work partner. (And ooh, a quick AO3 search tells me there is fic for both these pairings.) The later Halley books may be just as slashy but I haven't read them yet.
So as you can tell, I'm enjoying Dick Francis's novels. They don't have the depth of the greats like Reginald Hill or Ruth Rendell, but they're very entertaining stories, and they have a worldview, and a sort of fundamental kindness and humaneness, that I like a lot.
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