It was such hard work setting it up in the first place. But it seems I don’t have a choice. The themes have all been upgraded. Any readers I may have left: are you seeing ads with this?
Archive for the ‘Book Blogging’ Category
Still here — I had a computer crisis and now have a new Mac. It should be excellent for photo and graphic work (and the Wacom tablet just hums on it, tripleguess!) I am scrambling around getting files transferred, particularly text files, as I have been a WordPerfect user forever and will have to do some converting, not to mention learning a new platform. Please stand by….
[I turned in my final grades today. Class over, Christmas obligations over, sprained foot much better, slight cold and exhaustion all that remains. There is a bit more of this small story remaining to which I need to make some small adjustments. Hope you enjoy this brief installment. I hope to post the rest of it tomorrow.]
Somehow Howell got himself pulled together, then it was Megan’s turn to start blubbering and she ended up having to borrow Howell’s silk handkerchief. After that couldn’t have told you how long they stood there, their arms around each other, wordlessly trying in that short space of time to clean up the dog’s breakfast their lives had been ever since Mam died.
A light tap at the door brought them back. “Ten minutes, Wizard Howl.”
“Thank you, Justin.” Howell said.
“I guess that’s it, then,” Megan said.
“Wait,” Howell said. “Your highness?”
“Yes, Wizard Howl?”
“Would you be so kind as to show Mrs. Parry the way to the garden?”
A tall man, just this side of middle-aged, popped round the door. He had crisp blue eyes and grey-flecked hair, and he was dressed every bit as splendidly as the King. Resembled him too, though Justin was as lean as the King was plump.
“My pleasure,” he said, bowing gallantly and offering an arm to Megan.
“Wish me luck, Meggie,” Howell said.
She stood on tiptoes to give him a sisterly peck on one cheek. “Pob lwc!” she said. “You’ll be fine. I’ll see you on the other side.”
In the ten minutes it took him to say good-bye to Megan, put the final touches both physical and magical on his appearance, and make his way down and through the back of the house and out to the vast garden, now all garlanded and beribboned, Howell went from nervousness to apprehension to anxiety to despair to a kind of galvanised fatalism.
There was no way Sophie was ever going to show up for this charade. No way in hell.
Plenty of other people had, however. Hundreds of them, in fact: customers of the Sophie’s family’s hat shop and Howell’s magic shops and the flower shop; fisher-folk from Porthaven who’d put on their best faded clothes and made the long trek down to Vale’s End by carrier, some of them leaving the northern coast for the first time in generations; overdressed, heavily perfumed nobs from Kingsbury; cheerful burghers and farmers of Market Chipping and its surrounds. Sophie’s old friend Bessie was there with her new husband, and Jane née Farrier, Countess of Catterack, was there with hers: Jane, not-so-plain any more, positively dripped jewels as she towered over her adoring Count. There was a chattering youthful bevy of Sophie’s old school chums, together with a more mature yet still chattering bevy of Mrs. Fanny Smith’s old school chums. Annabel Fairfax had brought several daughters and sons-in-law and a flock of grandchildren, together with a veritable herd of her clients from over in the Folding Valley. Also there were a handful of Mrs. Pentstemmon’s tall and thrawn elderly relatives, all that remained of that great lady’s noble family; and Ben’s extended famly from Wales, who, being magic users, seemed utterly at home in Ingary; and many others whom Howell had never seen before but took to be associates of Mr. Sacheverell Smith. Half the Court was there, dancing attendance on the King was also there with the Queen and Valeria and Valeria’s nurse and the extensive retinue of each. And, seated just up front and looking as if they might be starting to relax a little, were the Parrys. Howell saw Megan sliding into the seat between Gareth and Neil and taking Mari in her lap, while Justin slipped back to join the Royals.
Good Lord, this had turned into the be-there-or-be-square society wedding of the century! All of which would make his humiliation all the greater, when Sophie failed to appear. And then—and then—the goddesses would have their revenge.
Oh, what precious nonsense, said a voice in his head: the voice of Mrs. Pentstemmon. Man up, you silly fool.
All right, he would try. But he wished with all his heart that that great lady could have been here today to see him joined to Sophie, Sophie to whom with joy and great relief she had bequeathed her tender care for Howell and his moral and magical well-being. He wished with all his heart that his dear old teacher had lived to witness his victory over fire demons and the vicious temptation to power and immortality they offered, and to sit in a place of high honour at his wedding banquet….
All was prepared. The Royal String Orchestra was in the midst of a delightful Mozartian prelude. A few last-moment arrivals were hastily taking their seats.
Through a fog of doubt Howell made his way to the appointed spot, just to the right of the rose-draped table they had rigged as an altar. Michael appeared at Howell’s right hand, and Ben at Michael’s. So far so good. Calcifer hovered nearby. Silly vain fop of a fire demon, he had done himself up for the occasion in a glittering purple glamour that clashed, rather amfully, with the softer colours of the wedding party. The Royal Chaplain, on the other hand, was all in sedate black as took his place behind the altar.
The prelude ended with three graceful chords.
The assembled dearly-beloveds caught their breath.
The musicians began a march, delicate and stately.
Howell’s heart flopped like a fish.
Having stirred up a cloud of dust, Sophie has to sprinkle water in order to “lay” it.  I seem to have had heard of this practice before; I’m not sure, though. It would be like the first rain of autumn clearing the haze of dust and ag particles that follows the harvest. It makes the air fresh and the sky blue, but all I can see it doing to a stone floor is coating it with dirt that is now damp and slimy.
This leads to more sweeping, which also allows Sophie to sweep her way to the door so she can examine the fourth side of the knob and have a go at the cobwebby beams. Calcifer has been sneezing purple sparks since page 62. (The physiology of this is not explained.)
Marvelously spruced up, Howl enters.
He took one look and backed into the bathroom again with a blue-and-silver sleeve protecting his head.
“Stop it woman!” he said. “Leave those poor spiders alone!” 
The ensuing conversation is not so much about spiders as about boundaries. Howl may regard Sophie’s response to them as a test of her Witch of the Waste credentials or lack thereof: even those of us who dislike spiders, and are terrified of turning over a planter or a board and finding a black widow, would prefer to let them be than outright kill them (at least I would). If Sophie can remove the webs without harming the spiders, that will ease some of his misgivings about her real identity.
On the other hand, he’s got a real infestation there, which enhances the creepy-castle air of the place. Likewise, the spiders represent another object onto which Sophie can project the anxiety of her unrealized feelings about Howl: “Probably he had a wicked affinity for spiders, Sophie thought.”
Either way, the subject is changed from their mutual efforts to impress one another. The boundary-crashing continues, however:
Sophie leaned on the broom and watched Howl cross the room and pick up his guitar. As he put his hand on the door latch, she said, “If the red blob leads to Kingsbury and the blue blob goes to Porthaven, where does the black blob take you?”
“What a nosy old woman you are!” said Howl. “That leads to my private bolt hole and you are not being told where it is.” He opened the door [green-down] onto the wide, moving moorland and the hills. 
“Bolt hole” is a British phrase that apparently means “escape hatch.” Actually this seems to go for any of the castle’s exits, not just the black one: Howl walks away from the entire situation, leaving Sophie duly warned about spiders, Michael “despairingly” wondering when he’ll be back, and Calcifer crackling “with malicious laughter.”  When you’re a slitherer-outer, any old portal will do.
The washing/cleaning/sweeping activities are signs of renewal. Really, I could end this post here; that pretty much says it.
If I did, though, I’d miss pointing out the sheer drollery of the conversation on p. 62:
“What are you doing?” cried Michael and Calcifer in a horrified chorus.
“Cleaning up,” Sophie replied firmly. “The place is a disgrace.”
Calcifer said, “It doesn’t need it,” and Michael muttered, “Howl will kick you out!” but Sophie ignored them both. Dust flew in clouds.
“It doesn’t need it…!?” How can Calcifer SAY such a thing, particularly when he’s already agreed to go along with the cleaning lady ruse? Is it because he’s a non-corporeal being and thus is neither aware of nor attuned to material clutter? Or is it just guy-speak? Howl himself seems unconcerned about the mess, so Calcifer is as well.
Michael, on the other hand, is broadcasting his own still-uncertain status in the household. He’s never pinned Howl down about anything, let alone whether he is welcome to go on staying there, and getting kicked out is probably always at the back of his mind. Plus I detect a bit of jealousy towards Sophie on the next page, when the doorknob goes blue-down and there’s a little girl from Porthaven there to pick up a spell for her dad’s boat.
“Has the Sorcerer got a witch working for him too?” she asked.
“No,” said Michael.
“Meaning me?” Sophie called. “Oh, yes, my child. I’m the best and cleanest witch in Ingary.”
Michael shut the door, looking exasperated. [Michael knows how rumors get started and spread.] “That will be all round Porthaven now. Howl may not like that.” 
Sophie cackles in reply. She doesn’t care. She’s cast off the grey mouse, she’s out of the hat shop, and she’s having the time of her life. She’s also just made herself the best and cleanest witch in Ingary.
Just as she notices that the fourth paint blob on the revolving doorknob is black, then sets to work on the cobwebs festooning the beams, Howl emerges from the bathroom. “He looked marvelously spruce.”  Other than that his suit looks brighter, that’s all we get of Sophie’s response.
She’s hoping to impress him with her diligence. He’s hoping to impress her with his gorgeousness. It seems to be working. Feelings are happening. This is uncomfortable for both of them. Best to change the subject; this Howl does by directing the conversation to spiders.
Posted in Book Blogging, Diana Wynne Jones, Howl's Moving Castle, tagged Baba Yaga, Books, Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Diana Wynne Jones, Howl's Moving Castle, Women Who Run With The Wolves on October 29, 2012| 2 Comments »
Chapter Five begins with Sophie desperately wanting to stay.
The only thing to do, Sophie decided, was to show Howl that she was an excellent cleaning lady, a real treasure. She tied an old rag round her wispy white hair, she rolled the sleeves up her skinny old arms and wrapped an old tablecloth from the broom cupboard round her as an apron….She grabbed up a bucket and besom and got to work. 
In checking my notes and my favorite books of folk tale/fairy tale interpretation for this post, I got merrily caught up in Clarissa Pinkola Estes’s chapter in Women Who Run With The Wolves on the story about the innocent girl Vasalisa and the chicken-legged house of the crone Baba Yaga. There are some compelling similarities between Vasalisa and Sophie, which once again I attribute not so much to any direct, intentional parallel, but rather to the “primordial sludge” — comprising everything she has known, learned, or read — which DWJ cited as inspiration in “The Profession of Science Fiction.”
Vasalisa began life with stepmother and stepsister problems, which in Sophie’s case are inverted/averted; however, she shares with Sophie a missing “positive mother,” the source of a girl’s self-esteem and ability to trust her own intuition. Although Fanny never abused Sophie in any wicked-stepmother way, there’s no denying that Sophie’s loss in infancy of her real mother, combined with her own tendency toward passivity, had in her hat shop days collapsed Sophie’s reality into practically nothing.
Vasalisa does the everyday chores without complaint. To submit without complaint is heroic-seeming, but in fact causes more and more pressure and conflict between the two oppositional natures, one too-good and the other too-demanding….At this point a woman begins to lose her psychic bearings. She may feel cold, alone, and willing to do anything to bring back the light again. This is just the jolt the too-nice woman needs to continue her induction into her own power. One might say that Vasalisa has to go meet the Great Wild Hag because she needs a good scare. [WWRWTW, p. 87]
We’ve already seen Sophie longing for something more to life as she dutifully trims hats all day and far into the night. We’ve seen her so deeply compliant and resigned that the Hag, the Witch of the Waste, finally had to come to her. Having been jolted from her passivity by the Witch’s curse, we’ve seen Sophie leave home and shop and set out into the Wild — willing, as night comes down cold and windy, to take her chances with Wizard Howl’s Castle because there’s fire and light inside.
(Miyazaki’s version even helpfully puts the castle on giant biomechanical chicken legs.)
At this point, DWJ begins departing from the old story, inverting it. In the folk tale, Vasalisa’s family send her to Baba Yaga seeking fire, an errand which they assumed and hoped would be the end of Vasalisa. Upon meeting her, Baby Yaga then strikes a Rumpelstiltskin-esque bargain with the girl — she will give Vasalisa the magical fire in return for impossible fairy-tale household chores such as sorting mounds of poppy-seeds from mounds of dirt before dawn. There will also be sweeping and laundry to do. But Baba Yaga doesn’t live in Howl’s Moving Castle. There is an enchanted fire at the heart of it, but rather than passively waiting to be stolen, this fire has drawn Sophie there and and allowed her to enter.
As far as the sweeping and washing go, the resident bachelors don’t demand it in return for lodging. In fact, they insist they don’t even want it.  Yet Sophie throws herself into it with a wild, mad joy. For now it’s what she is choosing to do, and for someone who for so long had felt so trapped, that means the world.
So Sophie has accomplished a Goldilocks or Snow White-style occupation of Howl’s Moving Castle, complete with gratuitous house-cleaning. She has learned that there’s really no castle beyond the small house with one dingy room overlooking Porthaven and a large well-appointed bathroom downstairs, and two bedrooms upstairs. She’s learned that Howl and Calcifer somehow created the castle, and that Calcifer “keeps it going.”  She’s observed that the doorknob was green-down when she entered the castle from the moor above Market Chipping, and that moving it to red-down opens the door onto Kingsbury.
(There are four colors on the knob in all, just as there are four sides with a door each on the castle’s facade. In this sense the castle’s interior and its one door can be said to “revolve” to each of its four locations.)
Howl stonewalls, refusing to be pinned down or to answer Sophie’s questions other than to explain that he designed the castle this way because “I’ve reached that stage in my career when I need to impress everyone with my power and wickedness. I can’t have the King thinking well of me. And last year I offended someone very powerful and I need to keep out of their way.” 
In this statement I hear Howl warning Sophie (in case she is an enemy) that he is powerful and wicked, so don’t try anything, and that if she is an enemy she won’t get to the King through him. Owing to the wondrous ambiguity which DWJ is able to build into her dialogue, I also detect that he does not believe she is the very powerful someone he offended, and that he is warning her that he is a coward and that this is no safe haven.
Sophie merely wonders inwardly (and quite sensibly, I think) why, if you’re trying to avoid someone, you would call attention to yourself with a large hulking smoke-throwing illusion. “[She] supposed wizards had different standards from ordinary people.”
We also learn that the King pays extremely well for the two thousand pairs of seven-league boots he ordered, and that Michael is watchful and anxious about money. Nor does he trust Howl to manage it well.
We get a brief glimpse of the splendor of Kingsbury, the capital, and learn that our three portal cities Porthaven, Market Chipping, and Kingsbury are impoverished, middle-class, and wealthy respectively.
Then Howl is off to the bathroom to get ready for whatever it is he does all day, leaving Sophie — and the reader — completely up in the air as to whether she is going or staying.