entry the second
[someone has found the library! oh, sure, eventually he and Thors found his room up in Gaudium, but as soon as he heard about the library from ... Death, of all people, he went scurrying off to find it. and now he's occupying a very comfortable chair at one of the large reading tables, the journal at one side and a notepad he found lying about at the other, taking down notes on the nature of the castle.
after a while of reading and scribbling, he fishes around in his briefcase and finds a tattered length of black ribbon, marks his place in the journal, and flips forward to an empty page to write an addendum of his own]
It is a commonly held belief, particularly among most members of American culture, that a castle is a place of wonder and magic where fairy tales happen and grand courts and feasts are held. This is because Americans have no castles to call their own, save for a few whose exteriors are covered in brightly colored plastic and host to several musical numbers a day.
I myself, though of American citizenship, know from extensive personal experience that a castle is generally a place of crumbling stone, mildew, and several strange, possibly unidentifiable creeping horrors that slink - a phrase which here means "move silently and in an untrustworthy fashion, so as to frighten reporters taking shelter in their vicinity" - through the shadows. This castle seems a strange, odd balance between the two: there is certainly no small amount of wonder and magic, but it is tempered - and by tempered, dear readers, I mean strengthened throughout, not given to bursts of irrational anger and flailing - with the same sort of slinking unidentifiable creeping horrors.
This is a place where one might feel able to make themselves comfortable upon that one large, overstuffed settee with a cup of strong, bitter tea and a good book ... as long as they curl their feet up under themselves, on the odd chance that something many-legged and sinister should scurry out from underneath.
[and with that, he goes back to reading and note-taking. but things being what they are, and he being who he is, he can't help but expect to be interrupted somehow, at some point...]
after a while of reading and scribbling, he fishes around in his briefcase and finds a tattered length of black ribbon, marks his place in the journal, and flips forward to an empty page to write an addendum of his own]
It is a commonly held belief, particularly among most members of American culture, that a castle is a place of wonder and magic where fairy tales happen and grand courts and feasts are held. This is because Americans have no castles to call their own, save for a few whose exteriors are covered in brightly colored plastic and host to several musical numbers a day.
I myself, though of American citizenship, know from extensive personal experience that a castle is generally a place of crumbling stone, mildew, and several strange, possibly unidentifiable creeping horrors that slink - a phrase which here means "move silently and in an untrustworthy fashion, so as to frighten reporters taking shelter in their vicinity" - through the shadows. This castle seems a strange, odd balance between the two: there is certainly no small amount of wonder and magic, but it is tempered - and by tempered, dear readers, I mean strengthened throughout, not given to bursts of irrational anger and flailing - with the same sort of slinking unidentifiable creeping horrors.
This is a place where one might feel able to make themselves comfortable upon that one large, overstuffed settee with a cup of strong, bitter tea and a good book ... as long as they curl their feet up under themselves, on the odd chance that something many-legged and sinister should scurry out from underneath.
[and with that, he goes back to reading and note-taking. but things being what they are, and he being who he is, he can't help but expect to be interrupted somehow, at some point...]