Lan Wangji (蓝忘机) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lightbearinglord) wrote2024-01-16 06:15 pm
lightbearinglord) wrote2024-01-16 06:15 pm
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[ interlude: Emma, the first ten chapters ]
In careful, small brushstrokes, written thus so as to not use up excessive paper, Lan Wangji compiles a series of notes for the appointed discussion of Emma by a writer named Jane Austen.
Emma is appealing at the outset. She reminds me of more than one person whose fanciful and troublesome ways are dear to me. The social gatherings described evoke dreadful tediousness. Many of the details of the world within are unfamiliar to me, but I can imagine any of several discussion conferences to summon the correct mood.
The author, and Emma, both linger over descriptions of Miss Smith. Perhaps this is not one of those stories, but it is striking. Emma determines that she will love Harriet as an expression of utility, because for Mrs. Weston there is nothing to be done.
Here Lan Wangji pauses, grinding fresh ink, and thinks about the inevitable entanglement between duty and love. He glances over at Wei Ying, reading some cheap and frivolous volume of torrid romance from the library, his hair loose around his shoulders and his robe open to show the dip of his collarbones. He understands Emma, he thinks then, in the way that his fingers itch immediately to find some way to demonstrate his love. He could bring Wei Ying a cup of tea, pull his hair back into a fresh ponytail so that it would not bother him, adjourn to the kitchen to make another attempt at Jiang Yanli's soup.
Then again, duty cannot be everything to love, as closely-entwined as they are. Lan Wangji shirked his duty to his family because he loved Wei Ying so irrevocably. He's disappointed his uncle more than once, in tremendously painful ways, but his uncle loves him still. He nearly sighs, but not quite, and returns to his writing, with a slightly lighter observation:
Everyone in this story talks so much that it is seemingly without end. Is this the fashion of the world depicted?
Emma's careful approach to painting Miss Smith is, again, striking. She may be unaware of her own feelings. Such things are possible, to hear Wei Ying tell it.
Lan Wangji smiles, just a little, down at his paper. To hear Wei Ying tell it, Lan Wangji's own initial desire for him was entirely reciprocal. The trouble was only in Wei Ying's ability to recognize it. He's complained more than once about all the time they wasted.
The nature of Emma's feelings about Miss Smith seems clear. Does Mr. Knightley feel similarly about Mr. Martin? One may be unaware of one's true desires, and seek to express them through the paths already worn by several travelers.
Again, those in this story are fixated on questions of birth and status, gentility and comportment. This mindset is mirrored in my own world, but offputting nonetheless. Wei Ying is the son of a servant, but was the head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang. His second body is that of a disgraced madman and a bastard. What calculations should I have done prior to our marriage? I only cared that I loved him and wanted him.
With one slowly-paced breath, he sets down his brush. Perhaps this is why stories do not come in this particular form in his own world. It is too easy to get caught up in their fictions.
Emma is appealing at the outset. She reminds me of more than one person whose fanciful and troublesome ways are dear to me. The social gatherings described evoke dreadful tediousness. Many of the details of the world within are unfamiliar to me, but I can imagine any of several discussion conferences to summon the correct mood.
The author, and Emma, both linger over descriptions of Miss Smith. Perhaps this is not one of those stories, but it is striking. Emma determines that she will love Harriet as an expression of utility, because for Mrs. Weston there is nothing to be done.
Here Lan Wangji pauses, grinding fresh ink, and thinks about the inevitable entanglement between duty and love. He glances over at Wei Ying, reading some cheap and frivolous volume of torrid romance from the library, his hair loose around his shoulders and his robe open to show the dip of his collarbones. He understands Emma, he thinks then, in the way that his fingers itch immediately to find some way to demonstrate his love. He could bring Wei Ying a cup of tea, pull his hair back into a fresh ponytail so that it would not bother him, adjourn to the kitchen to make another attempt at Jiang Yanli's soup.
Then again, duty cannot be everything to love, as closely-entwined as they are. Lan Wangji shirked his duty to his family because he loved Wei Ying so irrevocably. He's disappointed his uncle more than once, in tremendously painful ways, but his uncle loves him still. He nearly sighs, but not quite, and returns to his writing, with a slightly lighter observation:
Everyone in this story talks so much that it is seemingly without end. Is this the fashion of the world depicted?
Emma's careful approach to painting Miss Smith is, again, striking. She may be unaware of her own feelings. Such things are possible, to hear Wei Ying tell it.
Lan Wangji smiles, just a little, down at his paper. To hear Wei Ying tell it, Lan Wangji's own initial desire for him was entirely reciprocal. The trouble was only in Wei Ying's ability to recognize it. He's complained more than once about all the time they wasted.
The nature of Emma's feelings about Miss Smith seems clear. Does Mr. Knightley feel similarly about Mr. Martin? One may be unaware of one's true desires, and seek to express them through the paths already worn by several travelers.
Again, those in this story are fixated on questions of birth and status, gentility and comportment. This mindset is mirrored in my own world, but offputting nonetheless. Wei Ying is the son of a servant, but was the head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang. His second body is that of a disgraced madman and a bastard. What calculations should I have done prior to our marriage? I only cared that I loved him and wanted him.
With one slowly-paced breath, he sets down his brush. Perhaps this is why stories do not come in this particular form in his own world. It is too easy to get caught up in their fictions.