Lymond. How you make me swoon.
Jun. 14th, 2006 10:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dangermousieBatten down the hatches, here comes Hurricane Lymond.
Reading Freedom and Necessity, whose hero is a bit on the Lymond-light side is making me reread the entire Lymond Chronicles, a series of six novels, by Dorothy Dunnett, set in 16th century and following the protagonist, Francis Crawford of Lymond, who is brilliant and beautiful and fucked up beyond any measure and who has been my standard for fictional men ever since the age of 20. Also, polyglot, suicidal and bisexual. And my liking for blondes? Because of him. Myself and BFF lost our sophomore years to Lymond fever and still quote random passages at each other, many years later. If I describe a book, all I need to tell her is "so and so is Lymondish." Or "she is such a Philippa." Or "he would make Gabriel seem a Saint" and we are all set (when I told her that Farscape's John Crichton was like Lymond in space, she went "oh yes, that so fits!") Lymond and Philippa remain my all-time favorite OTP.
Lymond Chronicles remain, many hundreds of books later, my favorite works of fiction ever, and basically the only books I cannot be rational about, so I am afraid I'll be posting about them a bit voluminously in the coming week(s).
Anyhow, a very long quote behind cut. It's from the sixth and final book, and ergo it's quite spoilery. But it's my favorite passage in my favorite book. And if it doesn't make you think this is an OTP, I despair of you.
He had at some time pushed his hands unseen into his hair. Threads of it spangled the dampness on his brow, and his open eyes were without light. He went on with difficulty, "My birth is the least of my troubles. The rest you must allow me to support by myself. I shall try to be what you wish me to be, and do what you wish me to do and if I fail, you must believe that I have tried. Philippa, it is so late. Let me call Adam to take you home." And then suddenly, his voice raw with desperation. "Here is non hoom. Here nis but wyldernesse."
And at last, the pain was more than she could bear.
"It's Kate. It's Kate, isn't it?" Philippa said. "Not Guzel. Not Mariotta and Midculter, whatever Richard may think. It's Kate and because of the blindess you never would tell her. You wouldn't take Gideon's place. But your music, your verse was for my mother. And when I showed on the steps at Lyon what I felt for you the breakdown came next, and the blindness. How I must sicken you," Philippa said; and put both hands over her face, and sat, choking.
There was no response. After a long while she dropped her hands, and opened her eyes.
He was standing quite still, his eyes resting on her. All the violence that had driven him from her side seemed to have left him. His hands were steady and his voice, when he spoke, was clear also, although not at all loud.
"Music, the knife without a hilt," he said. "But for Piero, I suppose none of this would have happened. Since it has..."
He hesitated for the last time, his voice dying away. Then he said, "Do you know, Philippa, what an unsuitable match is? It isn't the kind I shall have with Catherine d'Albion, or even the kind you will make with young Allendale. When one human being is trapped in the net of another's grand passion: then it comes about; and it is a tragedy. It happened to Gavin and Sybilla. It is happening to Jerott and Marthe..."
"I had no expectations," Philippa said. The tears stood still on her face. "This is one lesson I know by heart already."
"You are young," said Lymond gently. "You will change. I don't take lightly what you feel for me, but it wasn't the kind of passion I was speaking of. You asked me a question , and I think we have come to the place where I must answer it. For one thing, you are being hurt. And for another... as you see... I seem to be losing the knack of concealing things from you."
She said, "I was wrong. Don't tell me."
"No. You were right," he said. And as the chill spread through her nerves and her flesh, he said, "Tant que je vive...I said too much that evening, didn't I? It was not, of course, Guzel. Or Mariotta."
"Kate loves you," Philippa said. "It's all right. She has always..."
"Philippa, no," he said. He stood in an island of space, as isolated as he must have been directing his forces in Guines or in Calais. "You were right to ask, and wrong only in your conjecture. Kate is my friend. That is true. But the songs were for her daughter. And the passion, for ever. That is why we are parting."
The words reached her, without bringing the sense any nearer. He would think her very slow: even in the middle of the night; even with undried tears bloating her eyes and her cheeks. She appeared to be on her feet, facing him. "But I am her daughter," Philippa said.
Like some obscure and difficult text, the look in his eyes was too complex to be read at a distance. She said, "You can't mean...?" And then, as he did not speak, answered herself. "No."
He was as pale as the sheened marble mask on the chimney-piece, but a ghost of the old self-derision pulled his mouth, as she saw, at the corner. "No? Then let us leave things as they are," he said; and moved to the table. There, he poured two glasses of wine. One he laid where she could and did take it. Bearing the other he turned and dropped into the chair he had once already occupied. He lifted the goblet. "To marriage," he said.
She stood where he had left her, wine disregarded in her cramped fist. Kate is my friend. But my songs were for her daughter. And the passion, forever.
This was not true. So why should he say it?
She scanned him as he leaned back, the wine in his ringed hand, watching her. He looked nearly prostrate with tiredness, but with no trace of malice about him. Yet he was trained to disssemble. He had spent an evening acting, downstairs.
"Think, Yunitsa," he said abruptly.
He had called her that once before, back in London. Her legs were trembling. There was a chair just behind her. She sat in it, and tried to see where, through the years, had grown the cruelty which would inflict this upon her; or the signs which would stand witness to what he was trying to tell her.
For of course, she had began by detesting him. Loathing the arrogant horseman, discussing a corpse in the ditch outside Boghall; the enemy who had defeated her father; who had forced his way into her mother's house, where, as a child of ten, she had baulked and betrayed him.
And he knew it, and had not retaliated. Lying drenched by the whipping-post at St Mary's he had said "You had good reason to hate me. Don't build another false image." He had not been acting, then.
That was when, discovering his quality, she had set out to redeem all the damage she had done. When, blundering, she had helped him retrieve Kuzum, the child who now lived with her mother. At Algiers it had been her fault when, losing his temper, he had knocked her proffered cup into the ocean. She had been sixteen. He had sent her home then, or had tried to.
He had not been acting in Stamboul, when, expecting to die, he had said, "I am offering you my name. Then, as you choose, you may divorce me."
That was after he had slept, drugged with opium, sharing the same great crystal bed in Topkapi, and in his nightmare cried out the words she did not follow then, but all too clearly understood now. Poor Eloise. Tell me. I can't understand. Why did you do it?
But Sybilla had not told him yet.
Sybilla. Struck by a sudden thought, she looked at him. He was still watching her. "Go on," he said; as if she had been speaking, not thinking of him.
As she had thought of him so often, as he was absent. As, sleeping, she had dreamed of him making just such an avowal, only to wake up to desolation and anger, that the cruel impossible should have so taunted her.
And still, it was both cruel and impossible. What evidence was there to suggest otherwise? Think...Of what? The time in London, for instance, when he had upbraided her for meddling once again in the history of his origins? This matter is mine, and not yours or Kate's, do you hear me?
That had been the voice of fear and of pride, not of love. Love did not make for long absences, the abrupt avoidals, the lack of all physical contact, except where wine, or excitement, or gaiety made him forget...the Hall of the Revels at Blackfriars Monastery; the flight through the fog at Lyons; the banquet at the Hotel de Ville and after...
The truth is...
That was where she had heard him quote those words, without realizing then what they were. The truth is that thy body is free of all shadow. To soul and brain from thy abode comes the perfume of Paradise...
He had spoken them to her, and broken off when he remembered. And after, when Marthe had tried to force him to embrace her, he had used, in his need, the only weapon which would stop both Marthe and send herself, quickly, out of danger.
Love did not require to act like that.
But hunger did. Hunger, decently denied, accounted for everything. Looking back, her eyes unsealed and open, she saw proved over and over what she should have observed long before but for her dazzlement. He wanted her. And as he had just said, had determined to spare her the net.
He did not know, but could be told, that to her, his reasons for abstaining were baseless. That nothing mattered, but this: that the moon was here, in her fingers.
Through the jolting in her ribs and the agony in her throat Philippa said, "I am not crying, I would have you understand, because I am sad; but because I believe you. I also have a little...sermon of my own to deliver."
His wine glass was empty. He set it down carefully, its foot between two slender fingers. A little colour had come to mark his cheekbones, but his eyes remained on the goblet. "I know," he said. "You are not either Sybilla or Marthe; and you know better than they do. But I am Gavin in everything but name...Indeed, I am his brother." He looked up. "How long did Marthe's love last, I wonder? A few months; a year or two at the most. Perhaps it would take you a little longer to find out you wanted a different husband, nearer your own age and interests. But since you have loyalties, unlike Marthe, the conflict then would be unsupportable. It might do you great harm: it is certainly more than I could contemplate...And there are other factors against me, that you know of."
She would have spoken; and then saw, rather than felt, that he did not want her to.
He said, "I opened this door so that, understanding each other, we might shut it together. There are many men who feel about you as I do. When there is time and distance enough between us you will choose one, or be chosen, and have a life as good as Kate's was with Gideon. Meanwhile...we have very few meetings left, and those all in public. It should not be too impossible. And at least you know...that it is not Kate; and that you do not sicken me."
He paused to breathe, and to smile; and ended with the same persistent steadiness. "And we shall manage very well, as long as we are sensible. Restraint is the remedy. Restraint, and not exaggerated gestures of self-abnegation."
"And that, I see, disposes of my future," said Philippa. Her chest was heaving. "So let's take yours, and see what we can do for it. The blinding headaches, for example?"
He said, still steadily, "Perhaps marriage to Catherine will cure them."
"Until April, you are married to me," Philippa said. "Perhaps four weeks of matrimony would cure us both."
She saw his breath leave him silently. There was a space. Then he said, "We should simply lose our annulment. I have had eleven months to think of all this.There is no basis for marriage between us. And that is quite final, Philippa."
She was breathing almost as quickly as he was. But she kept her voice calm. "As you say, I'm inexperienced. On the other hand, you are not always right. Please listen. Please think. Are you sure, when it matters so much, that you know my feelings better than I do?"
"No," he said. "I'm not infallible. You might, without my crediting it, fall deeply in love and for ever, with some warped hunchback whelped in the gutter. I should equally stop you from taking him."
She couldn't speak. Her breath wheezed in and out. With extreme deliberation, and indeed restraint and moderation as well, Philippa raised her glass and dashed it on the parquet. Crystals frosted the carpet between them, and the wine lay like blood.
Speech came back. "God in heaven," Philippa said. "Do you think that I care?'"
He looked up from the mess. "I know you don't," Lymond said. His eyes were black, not blue; and there were red splashes on the white velvet. 'But you must excuse the hunchback, who does."
Reading Freedom and Necessity, whose hero is a bit on the Lymond-light side is making me reread the entire Lymond Chronicles, a series of six novels, by Dorothy Dunnett, set in 16th century and following the protagonist, Francis Crawford of Lymond, who is brilliant and beautiful and fucked up beyond any measure and who has been my standard for fictional men ever since the age of 20. Also, polyglot, suicidal and bisexual. And my liking for blondes? Because of him. Myself and BFF lost our sophomore years to Lymond fever and still quote random passages at each other, many years later. If I describe a book, all I need to tell her is "so and so is Lymondish." Or "she is such a Philippa." Or "he would make Gabriel seem a Saint" and we are all set (when I told her that Farscape's John Crichton was like Lymond in space, she went "oh yes, that so fits!") Lymond and Philippa remain my all-time favorite OTP.
Lymond Chronicles remain, many hundreds of books later, my favorite works of fiction ever, and basically the only books I cannot be rational about, so I am afraid I'll be posting about them a bit voluminously in the coming week(s).
Anyhow, a very long quote behind cut. It's from the sixth and final book, and ergo it's quite spoilery. But it's my favorite passage in my favorite book. And if it doesn't make you think this is an OTP, I despair of you.
He had at some time pushed his hands unseen into his hair. Threads of it spangled the dampness on his brow, and his open eyes were without light. He went on with difficulty, "My birth is the least of my troubles. The rest you must allow me to support by myself. I shall try to be what you wish me to be, and do what you wish me to do and if I fail, you must believe that I have tried. Philippa, it is so late. Let me call Adam to take you home." And then suddenly, his voice raw with desperation. "Here is non hoom. Here nis but wyldernesse."
And at last, the pain was more than she could bear.
"It's Kate. It's Kate, isn't it?" Philippa said. "Not Guzel. Not Mariotta and Midculter, whatever Richard may think. It's Kate and because of the blindess you never would tell her. You wouldn't take Gideon's place. But your music, your verse was for my mother. And when I showed on the steps at Lyon what I felt for you the breakdown came next, and the blindness. How I must sicken you," Philippa said; and put both hands over her face, and sat, choking.
There was no response. After a long while she dropped her hands, and opened her eyes.
He was standing quite still, his eyes resting on her. All the violence that had driven him from her side seemed to have left him. His hands were steady and his voice, when he spoke, was clear also, although not at all loud.
"Music, the knife without a hilt," he said. "But for Piero, I suppose none of this would have happened. Since it has..."
He hesitated for the last time, his voice dying away. Then he said, "Do you know, Philippa, what an unsuitable match is? It isn't the kind I shall have with Catherine d'Albion, or even the kind you will make with young Allendale. When one human being is trapped in the net of another's grand passion: then it comes about; and it is a tragedy. It happened to Gavin and Sybilla. It is happening to Jerott and Marthe..."
"I had no expectations," Philippa said. The tears stood still on her face. "This is one lesson I know by heart already."
"You are young," said Lymond gently. "You will change. I don't take lightly what you feel for me, but it wasn't the kind of passion I was speaking of. You asked me a question , and I think we have come to the place where I must answer it. For one thing, you are being hurt. And for another... as you see... I seem to be losing the knack of concealing things from you."
She said, "I was wrong. Don't tell me."
"No. You were right," he said. And as the chill spread through her nerves and her flesh, he said, "Tant que je vive...I said too much that evening, didn't I? It was not, of course, Guzel. Or Mariotta."
"Kate loves you," Philippa said. "It's all right. She has always..."
"Philippa, no," he said. He stood in an island of space, as isolated as he must have been directing his forces in Guines or in Calais. "You were right to ask, and wrong only in your conjecture. Kate is my friend. That is true. But the songs were for her daughter. And the passion, for ever. That is why we are parting."
The words reached her, without bringing the sense any nearer. He would think her very slow: even in the middle of the night; even with undried tears bloating her eyes and her cheeks. She appeared to be on her feet, facing him. "But I am her daughter," Philippa said.
Like some obscure and difficult text, the look in his eyes was too complex to be read at a distance. She said, "You can't mean...?" And then, as he did not speak, answered herself. "No."
He was as pale as the sheened marble mask on the chimney-piece, but a ghost of the old self-derision pulled his mouth, as she saw, at the corner. "No? Then let us leave things as they are," he said; and moved to the table. There, he poured two glasses of wine. One he laid where she could and did take it. Bearing the other he turned and dropped into the chair he had once already occupied. He lifted the goblet. "To marriage," he said.
She stood where he had left her, wine disregarded in her cramped fist. Kate is my friend. But my songs were for her daughter. And the passion, forever.
This was not true. So why should he say it?
She scanned him as he leaned back, the wine in his ringed hand, watching her. He looked nearly prostrate with tiredness, but with no trace of malice about him. Yet he was trained to disssemble. He had spent an evening acting, downstairs.
"Think, Yunitsa," he said abruptly.
He had called her that once before, back in London. Her legs were trembling. There was a chair just behind her. She sat in it, and tried to see where, through the years, had grown the cruelty which would inflict this upon her; or the signs which would stand witness to what he was trying to tell her.
For of course, she had began by detesting him. Loathing the arrogant horseman, discussing a corpse in the ditch outside Boghall; the enemy who had defeated her father; who had forced his way into her mother's house, where, as a child of ten, she had baulked and betrayed him.
And he knew it, and had not retaliated. Lying drenched by the whipping-post at St Mary's he had said "You had good reason to hate me. Don't build another false image." He had not been acting, then.
That was when, discovering his quality, she had set out to redeem all the damage she had done. When, blundering, she had helped him retrieve Kuzum, the child who now lived with her mother. At Algiers it had been her fault when, losing his temper, he had knocked her proffered cup into the ocean. She had been sixteen. He had sent her home then, or had tried to.
He had not been acting in Stamboul, when, expecting to die, he had said, "I am offering you my name. Then, as you choose, you may divorce me."
That was after he had slept, drugged with opium, sharing the same great crystal bed in Topkapi, and in his nightmare cried out the words she did not follow then, but all too clearly understood now. Poor Eloise. Tell me. I can't understand. Why did you do it?
But Sybilla had not told him yet.
Sybilla. Struck by a sudden thought, she looked at him. He was still watching her. "Go on," he said; as if she had been speaking, not thinking of him.
As she had thought of him so often, as he was absent. As, sleeping, she had dreamed of him making just such an avowal, only to wake up to desolation and anger, that the cruel impossible should have so taunted her.
And still, it was both cruel and impossible. What evidence was there to suggest otherwise? Think...Of what? The time in London, for instance, when he had upbraided her for meddling once again in the history of his origins? This matter is mine, and not yours or Kate's, do you hear me?
That had been the voice of fear and of pride, not of love. Love did not make for long absences, the abrupt avoidals, the lack of all physical contact, except where wine, or excitement, or gaiety made him forget...the Hall of the Revels at Blackfriars Monastery; the flight through the fog at Lyons; the banquet at the Hotel de Ville and after...
The truth is...
That was where she had heard him quote those words, without realizing then what they were. The truth is that thy body is free of all shadow. To soul and brain from thy abode comes the perfume of Paradise...
He had spoken them to her, and broken off when he remembered. And after, when Marthe had tried to force him to embrace her, he had used, in his need, the only weapon which would stop both Marthe and send herself, quickly, out of danger.
Love did not require to act like that.
But hunger did. Hunger, decently denied, accounted for everything. Looking back, her eyes unsealed and open, she saw proved over and over what she should have observed long before but for her dazzlement. He wanted her. And as he had just said, had determined to spare her the net.
He did not know, but could be told, that to her, his reasons for abstaining were baseless. That nothing mattered, but this: that the moon was here, in her fingers.
Through the jolting in her ribs and the agony in her throat Philippa said, "I am not crying, I would have you understand, because I am sad; but because I believe you. I also have a little...sermon of my own to deliver."
His wine glass was empty. He set it down carefully, its foot between two slender fingers. A little colour had come to mark his cheekbones, but his eyes remained on the goblet. "I know," he said. "You are not either Sybilla or Marthe; and you know better than they do. But I am Gavin in everything but name...Indeed, I am his brother." He looked up. "How long did Marthe's love last, I wonder? A few months; a year or two at the most. Perhaps it would take you a little longer to find out you wanted a different husband, nearer your own age and interests. But since you have loyalties, unlike Marthe, the conflict then would be unsupportable. It might do you great harm: it is certainly more than I could contemplate...And there are other factors against me, that you know of."
She would have spoken; and then saw, rather than felt, that he did not want her to.
He said, "I opened this door so that, understanding each other, we might shut it together. There are many men who feel about you as I do. When there is time and distance enough between us you will choose one, or be chosen, and have a life as good as Kate's was with Gideon. Meanwhile...we have very few meetings left, and those all in public. It should not be too impossible. And at least you know...that it is not Kate; and that you do not sicken me."
He paused to breathe, and to smile; and ended with the same persistent steadiness. "And we shall manage very well, as long as we are sensible. Restraint is the remedy. Restraint, and not exaggerated gestures of self-abnegation."
"And that, I see, disposes of my future," said Philippa. Her chest was heaving. "So let's take yours, and see what we can do for it. The blinding headaches, for example?"
He said, still steadily, "Perhaps marriage to Catherine will cure them."
"Until April, you are married to me," Philippa said. "Perhaps four weeks of matrimony would cure us both."
She saw his breath leave him silently. There was a space. Then he said, "We should simply lose our annulment. I have had eleven months to think of all this.There is no basis for marriage between us. And that is quite final, Philippa."
She was breathing almost as quickly as he was. But she kept her voice calm. "As you say, I'm inexperienced. On the other hand, you are not always right. Please listen. Please think. Are you sure, when it matters so much, that you know my feelings better than I do?"
"No," he said. "I'm not infallible. You might, without my crediting it, fall deeply in love and for ever, with some warped hunchback whelped in the gutter. I should equally stop you from taking him."
She couldn't speak. Her breath wheezed in and out. With extreme deliberation, and indeed restraint and moderation as well, Philippa raised her glass and dashed it on the parquet. Crystals frosted the carpet between them, and the wine lay like blood.
Speech came back. "God in heaven," Philippa said. "Do you think that I care?'"
He looked up from the mess. "I know you don't," Lymond said. His eyes were black, not blue; and there were red splashes on the white velvet. 'But you must excuse the hunchback, who does."
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Lymond!Love!
Date: 2006-06-15 03:05 am (UTC)However, I am very strong, so my eyes are averted from the spoilery crack. I just started Book 5 and OMG the last book was horribly painful (in the best kind of way). I loved it and it broke my heart. Just when you think that things can't possibly get any worse...they do.
So this is me being soooo good and NOT reading the crack you posted. Damn you.
;)
Re: Lymond!Love!
Date: 2006-06-15 03:14 am (UTC)Pawn is probably one of the most painful books I've ever read. The scenes near the end, with Lymond begging Philippa to let him kill himself? Just horrible. And the chess game? I remember bawling. Especially when he kills Gabriel and someone points out that there is blood on his clothes and Lymond says "but he didn't reach me" and I realize that Gabriel is utterly insignificant and all he is seeing and thinking about is Khaireddin running to him. That is just horrifying. I am afraid I never could care for historical Roxelana after the book (just as when I was in Westminster and saw Margaret Lennox's grave, I felt a bit off, even though I know the Chronicles are fiction).
And that scene where Lymond and Philippa share the bed and he has the nightmares and when he touches her accidentally he flips. I remember having discussion with a friend about which particular monster that made him think about and came to the conclusion that it was probably a whole combo of Khaireddin actually reaching him, and Eloise, and Aga and every single person who's fucked with his head or his body or his soul. The fact that he can een be coherent by Book 5 is pretty amazing.
I love Ringed Castle a lot, though. It's bleak but not as much as Pawn, and Dunnett is one of the very few non-Russian authors who, when she writes about Russia, doesn't make me want to either laugh or throw things but gets it authentic.
I want to discuss Lymond with someone so badly. Argh.
Pawn is my second favorite though, after Checkmate (where the quote is from).
no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 09:34 am (UTC)Ringed Castle, I must admit, has been a positive surprise for me. Ok, I don't want to sound ridiculously prejudiced, but I was very doubtful about Russia as a setting for Lymond. But my gosh, I'm so glad I was wrong with my doubts. The post of Voevoda Bolshoia fits him perfectly. And as you said, Russia sounds authentic, not poorly written or utterly depressing.
And Pawn? O-m-g. It so hurts to read about Lymond's chess games with the Tsar after having read the previous book. *shudder*
I'm so glad my friends recommended the Chronicles for me. They are a challenging read, but every bit enjoyable. Dunnett's characters are so multifaceted (oh, how I loved Gabriel for about quarter of a book - although with a certain premonition that nobody's that good, eh) that they become very believable psychologically. No fear of flat characters here.
I'm so going to have to get the books for myself. So far I've been loaning & reading
no subject
Date: 2006-06-15 06:04 pm (UTC)I love those books.
Lymond - Oh My!
Date: 2006-06-15 06:37 pm (UTC)I see a Dunnett re-read coming up very soon! Pawn just about killed me - I started the series when I was pregnant with my first kid - it was a difficult pregnancy, and I was on bedrest for a while, so I finished the first three books then, had the baby, and while on maternity leave, read Pawn - you can imagine the effect on a hormonal woman who had just had a baby boy....I still can't re-read the chess game scene, and that was 6 years ago.
I didn't read RC and Checkmate for almost 6 months after Pawn - it took me that long to recover from that...and I only read them because my husband bought me the whole set for my birthday - and now Checkmate is my favourite among the books...
Thank you for reminding me of the set again...
Bitterlemons from Bollywhat
Re: Lymond - Oh My!
Date: 2006-06-15 06:45 pm (UTC)Lymond and Phillippa are my all-time favourite couple ever (followed very very closely by Lord Peter and Harriet) -
Oh, that is exactly so for me as well (I just wrote a really long convoluted post comparing the two couples). Dunnett (and Sayers) is on of the few authors who can both convince me her character(s) are brilliant and that they are deeply suited for each other, however messed up they generally are.
I adore Gaudy Night. My favorite is Busman's Honeymoon though. Or maybe Murder Must Advertise, but I love them all.
read Pawn - you can imagine the effect on a hormonal woman who had just had a baby boy....I still can't re-read the chess game scene, and that was 6 years ago.
Wow. I cannot even imagine. That scene deeply horrifies me and I am not a mother yet. While I love Dunnett for following through: Lymond has an impossible choice and there is no way out, I hate it for what it makes me feel.
I didn't read RC and Checkmate for almost 6 months after Pawn - it took me that long to recover from that...and I only read them because my husband bought me the whole set for my birthday - and now Checkmate is my favourite among the books...
Oh yes. I actually took a little break between Pawn and RC myself. And Checkmate is my favorite as well. There is so much pain there, but also all that passion and hope.
Re: Lymond - Oh My!
Date: 2006-06-15 07:40 pm (UTC)Busman's Honeymoon - yes, LOVE it...but my favourites are Gaudy Night and 9 tailors...with MMA close behind. I actually walked all over Oxford on a Gaudy Night pilgrimage a few years ago...drove my husband nuts! :-) BUSM - though the book as a whole is not in my LP favourites, certain scenes/chapters are: all of the letters, the DD's diary, the description of the wedding and their getting away, and the first day (the day of the chimneysweep), and of course, the scene by the fire after their cocktails at the parsonage.
Oh Heck, I feel a reread coming on...
Bitterlemons, in agony!
Re: Lymond - Oh My!
Date: 2006-06-15 07:44 pm (UTC)I remember going to Oxford, years ago, and getting all excited because of the Lord Peter connection. Yeah.
I've only read Nine Taylors once, a long time ago. I remember liking it a lot, but it's due for a reread because I don't remember it so well.
all of the letters, the DD's diary, the description of the wedding and their getting away, and the first day (the day of the chimneysweep), and of course, the scene by the fire after their cocktails at the parsonage.
Oh yes. I love it all so much. I still giggle/sigh when she call him "My Lord."
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Date: 2006-06-29 07:38 pm (UTC)That passage... *sigh*
I want to reread them, but I also dread doing it, because I know that they will put me through an emotional wringer and I'll be a complete wreck after reading the books.
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Date: 2008-02-28 10:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-28 04:07 pm (UTC)There is another whole bit where she can't bear to have him touch her (for various very spoilery plot reasons etc etc), but yes, they end up having this amazing happy ending.
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Date: 2008-02-28 04:19 pm (UTC)IHmmm, if it is fine to ask more - which book does their romance start in? I think she is already in the first book but no romance, alas!
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Date: 2008-02-28 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 11:34 am (UTC)Lymond and Faramir. Both younger sons and misunderstood!
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Date: 2010-12-01 02:09 pm (UTC)Lymond
Date: 2011-03-29 06:17 pm (UTC)I've tried Niccolo and just can't seem to get into it. I had problems with The Game of Kings but now I understand how the story cycles back on itself. This will probably always be my favorite series of books.
Re: Lymond
Date: 2011-03-29 07:46 pm (UTC)worldwide,games,tremble,modish
Date: 2011-06-02 11:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-01-28 06:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-11 06:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-15 12:04 am (UTC)