Just sitting here with my mouth open, thinking: somebody opened that book, and took a pen and ink and wrote those words. And they were there-- on the actual Indy. They put their left hand on the page on the left, and the sweat and salt from their palm soaked into the paper, and they used their right hand to make the words that are there now, so much later.
And their unique, never-again brains were full of memories and thoughts we will never know. And they were dressed in wool, from forgotten sheep, and somebody made their clothes by hand. Somebody with a never-again brain, pulled the needle through the cloth over and over, and we will never know what they knew.
And they were irreplaceable. And so are we all.
Well there. I have made myself cry-- and it is not even 9 am. And anyway, you hardly need me to say any of this. This is where fiction intersects with history.
And wouldn't they be horrified to think some silly woman is weeping over muster books and dead men and sheep!
That is why you can write fabulous fanfiction and others can't - that evocation of detail. "... sweat and salt from their palm...", " ... never-again brain", "... forgotten sheep..." Brilliant. Weep away - it is appropriate.
I have exactly the same reaction to this book. Although nodbear is intimately acquainted with it, I've only had the privilege of seeing it once. I couldn't quite believe it was sitting there on the desk, right in front of me. All those names, all those lives, it's hard to comprehend. Also it was all I could do not to rub my face on it. I think that kind of behaviour is very much frowned on in The National Archives though :}
I'm sure you're right, they would think us very silly women indeed, but I also think they'd understand.
And their unique, never-again brains were full of memories and thoughts we will never know. And they were dressed in wool, from forgotten sheep, and somebody made their clothes by hand. Somebody with a never-again brain, pulled the needle through the cloth over and over, and we will never know what they knew.
And they were irreplaceable. And so are we all.
Well there. I have made myself cry-- and it is not even 9 am. And anyway, you hardly need me to say any of this. This is where fiction intersects with history.
And wouldn't they be horrified to think some silly woman is weeping over muster books and dead men and sheep!
Reply
"... sweat and salt from their palm...", " ... never-again brain", "... forgotten sheep..."
Brilliant.
Weep away - it is appropriate.
Reply
I have always felt this way about the past. I can remember weeping over the same thoughts when I was five or six, and not having the words to explain.
It is only the internet that has allowed me to find kindly people who know what I mean.
Reply
Reply
I'm sure you're right, they would think us very silly women indeed, but I also think they'd understand.
Reply
Leave a comment