Showing posts with label ATaleOfTwoCitiesProject. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ATaleOfTwoCitiesProject. Show all posts

16 January 2019

Chapter Two: A Sight: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Book Two: The Golden Thread
Chapter Two: A Sight

“You know the Old Bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of clerks to Jenny the messenger.

“Ye-es, ma’am,” returned Jenny, in something of a dogged manner. “I do know the Bailey.”

“Just so. And you know Ms. Lorry.”

“I know Ms. Lorry, ma’am, much better than I know the Bailey. Much better,” said Jenny, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment in question, “than I, as a honest tradeswoman, wish to know the Bailey.”

“Very well. Find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the door-keeper this note for Ms. Lorry. She will then let you in.”

“Into the court, ma’am?”

“Into the court.”

09 January 2019

Chapter One: Five Years Later: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Book Two: The Golden Thread
Chapter One: Five Years Later

Tellson’s Bank by Temple Bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty. It was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious. It was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the House were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness. They were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable. This was no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places of business. Tellson’s (they said) wanted no elbow-room, Tellson’s wanted no light, Tellson’s wanted no embellishment. Noakes and Co.’s might, or Snooks Partners might; but Tellson’s, thank Heaven--!

05 June 2018

Chapter Six: The Shoemaker: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Six: The Shoemaker

“Good day!” said Madame Defarge, looking down at the white head that bent low over the shoemaking.

It was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance:

“Good day!”

“You are still hard at work, I see?”

After a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the voice replied, “Yes--I am working.” This time, a pair of haggard eyes had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.

The faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful.

31 May 2018

Chapter Five: The Wine-shop: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Five: The Wine-shop

A large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street. The accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.

All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them, had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some people kneeled down, made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help others, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from heads, which were squeezed dry into infants’ mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran; others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street, if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous presence.

29 May 2018

Chapter Four: The Preparation: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Four: The Preparation 

When the mail got successfully to Dover, in the course of the forenoon, the head drawer at the Royal George Hotel opened the coach-door as her custom was. She did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from London in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous traveller upon.

By that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective roadside destinations. The mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a larger dog-kennel. Ms. Lorry, the passenger, shaking herself out of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.

“There will be a packet to Calais, tomorrow, drawer?”


16 April 2018

Chapter Three: The Night Shadows: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

I have the next chapter ready and I think instead of waiting for Wednesdays to roll around I will post chapters as I finish them. 

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Three: The Night Shadows

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry in mine to my life’s end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?

11 April 2018

Chapter Two: The Mail: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter Two: The Mail

It was the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November, before the first of the persons with whom this history has business. The Dover road lay, as to her, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter’s Hill. She walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coach person and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to their duty.

Chapter One: The Period: A Tale of Two Cities with Women

It's getting ready! I have a number of chapters to post. Since there's not much difference in the first chapter, I'll be posting the first two chapters today. More will follow in the coming weeks, probably every Wednesday. 

For background on the project and to see all the chapters at once, go to the tag A Tale of Two Cities Project.

Chapter One: The Period

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have her hands cut off, her tongue torn out with pincers, and her body burned alive, because she had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of nuns which passed within her view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodworker, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be her tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodworker and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.

In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed people, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers’ warehouses for security; the road agent in the dark was a City tradesperson in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by her fellow-tradesperson whom she stopped in her character of “the Captain,” gallantly shot her through the head and rode away; the mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got shot dead herself by the other four, “in consequence of the failure of her ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green, by one road agent, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all her retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble ladies at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles’s, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the executioner, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer’s girl of sixpence.

All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the Woodworker and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures--the creatures of this chronicle among the rest--along the roads that lay before them.

Chapter Two will be available shortly.

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13 March 2018

I Feel Compelled to Discuss Literature and Menstruation

Since I’ve been going through A Tale of Two Cities and changing the genders, I can’t help but keep rolling my eyes at how Lucie (who will become Lucas, I believe) is treated like a child, yet I’m sure that a male character of the same age and experience would be treated like a an adult (a male adult). I keep thinking about how women have been displayed as weak, silly, and unable to face danger, or even mild unpleasantness in literature, and then movies and television, since forever.

And here’s where there might be too much information for some readers: When I last got my period I started thinking about how women have been menstruating since the dawn of humans. Menstruation is messy and can be painful. Anyone who says women can’t handle pain or who accuses them of being squeamish must not be aware of the discomfort, and sometimes pain, of menstruation, not to mention the managing of all the blood. No matter what a woman is doing to manage her period, whether it’s pads, tampons, or cups, there is blood involved.

So, squeamish my ass.

It doesn’t matter if she gets up and goes to work in an office, a school, a factory, with her period or if she goes running or if she parents all day. The next time you’re tempted to think of women as weak or silly, remember that they get their periods. And they go to work, and they workout, and they parent through all the discomfort and blood.

When women are in situations where a man is pressuring them into sexual activity or else he’ll get “blue balls,” I’d like women to start saying, “Well I get menstrual cramps once a month and I manage to survive.”

We still have this societal notion of women being “the weaker sex.” And it’s nonsense. Women shouldn’t have to talk about their periods of they don’t want to. But men are not going to understand what actually goes on down there unless some women do because we’ve relied on pop culture for too long and pop culture hasn’t educated people properly on menstruation.

I’m almost done with my first full edit of A Tale of Cities. I think I might post chapters here on my blog as I finalize each one.

31 January 2018

What Happens When You Switch the Genders?

Image from Wikipedia
A few months ago I had an idea. I wanted to take some classic works of literature and change the genders of all the characters to see how it changes the story.

So for the last few months I’ve been working my way through Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities doing just that.

I find it fascinating, the changes it makes to the story. All of a sudden, women are lawyers, doctors, carriage-drivers, and innkeepers. Some of the behavior that was attributed to female characters in the original is downright silly when attributed to male characters now, which highlights to me the silliness of accepting or expecting that behavior from women in the first place. Crowd scenes are suddenly populated with men and women, not just men.

I’m hitting some road bumps, though. I’m trying to decide what to do with historical figures such as the kings and queens, George Washington, and God. Changing the genders of the general population changes some of the history, of course, but part of me wants to keep the story in a realistic historic period. I’m not doing a simple search and replace of all the pronouns and calling it a day. I’m going through line by line, making decisions about changing genders or making certain terms gender neutral to be all inclusive rather than all female. Do I change the genders of the horses pulling the carriages? I’m changing some of the clothing references (but I like the idea of keeping women in trousers and frock coats) and removing facial hair for the most part.

I’d like to share this eventually. Maybe chapter-by-chapter here on my blog. But I still have a lot of work to do before I’m at that point. Hopefully in the next month or two I’ll be ready. Even if no one else is fascinated by this idea, I am and it’s keeping me going.

I know that this is still going to be a very white and very cis/straight and very British story. Here’s the thing, though. If you want to read a Black version, or a trans or gay version, or a version that takes place in India and Pakistan rather than London and Paris, or any other version, go ahead and write it. And share it with me and I’ll read it, too. We are limitless in our possibilities. (I downloaded a copy for free from Project Gutenberg. I’m not a copyright expert, though. It’s up to you to read the fine print when it comes to sharing it if you’re going to do something.)

There will be more to come on this.