~~ collars. it's all about the collars.
Dec. 5th, 2004 02:46 amI've had an odd realization-- which is probably only interesting to me, seeing as it's a bit of quibbling on my internal terminology, but ah well. That's what I'm here for, right. Right.
I've thought that one of my archetypal interests was the journey & transformation of 'The Monster'-- whatever/whoever is feared and loathed and made into a symbol of the Dark within a particular story/legend. This kind of archetype could manifest as a vampire or a murderer or even someone 'alien' like the present day prejudice against the queer, for instance. And while it's true that's an interesting subject, I think what I'm really fascinated with is 'The Beast'-- or rather, everything beastly and dark and dangerous (for it is untamed) within any and all characters.
I don't know if I'm particularly happy with dwelling on characters that are already labelled 'dark' or frightening, which is probably one reason I've never been particularly attracted to villains in fiction. I'm much more drawn to ambiguity and the inner struggle with one's darkness than the outer struggle with others' perception of that darkness. So 'the Beast' seems a more apt metaphor-- because, indeed, we all have the shadow of the Beast within us, since it's basically the Id. It's a difference of direction.
Really, I'm obsessed with the workings of the Id in every which way, but it's especially delicious when that unknown Dark within has an outer manifestation-- as in Remus, for instance, because it's especially stark when one's 'other' self is subdued, closed-in, maybe even kind in a way. That's why, perhaps, I've always loved The Beast (in Beauty and the Beast) and it's been a favorite type of fairy-tale for as long as I remember, along with The Frog Prince (which has a similar theme, actually) and The Snow Queen (yet again, with the redemption of the beastly little boy by pure devotion, though none of these boys were truly monstrous).
When I was little, the idea of love making the impossible possible was what most fascinated me about the romances in in the stories I read. That transformation, perhaps, is the very definition of the sublime-- to convert, to render finer, to elevate. And in making the transformation literal, the story acquires a sort of mythic resonance-- in making the Beast into a Man, of course Beauty learns to love truly, where love isn't blindness unless blindness is forgetting to see and learning to see past.
( Oh my god, I'm a sap. )
I've thought that one of my archetypal interests was the journey & transformation of 'The Monster'-- whatever/whoever is feared and loathed and made into a symbol of the Dark within a particular story/legend. This kind of archetype could manifest as a vampire or a murderer or even someone 'alien' like the present day prejudice against the queer, for instance. And while it's true that's an interesting subject, I think what I'm really fascinated with is 'The Beast'-- or rather, everything beastly and dark and dangerous (for it is untamed) within any and all characters.
I don't know if I'm particularly happy with dwelling on characters that are already labelled 'dark' or frightening, which is probably one reason I've never been particularly attracted to villains in fiction. I'm much more drawn to ambiguity and the inner struggle with one's darkness than the outer struggle with others' perception of that darkness. So 'the Beast' seems a more apt metaphor-- because, indeed, we all have the shadow of the Beast within us, since it's basically the Id. It's a difference of direction.
Really, I'm obsessed with the workings of the Id in every which way, but it's especially delicious when that unknown Dark within has an outer manifestation-- as in Remus, for instance, because it's especially stark when one's 'other' self is subdued, closed-in, maybe even kind in a way. That's why, perhaps, I've always loved The Beast (in Beauty and the Beast) and it's been a favorite type of fairy-tale for as long as I remember, along with The Frog Prince (which has a similar theme, actually) and The Snow Queen (yet again, with the redemption of the beastly little boy by pure devotion, though none of these boys were truly monstrous).
When I was little, the idea of love making the impossible possible was what most fascinated me about the romances in in the stories I read. That transformation, perhaps, is the very definition of the sublime-- to convert, to render finer, to elevate. And in making the transformation literal, the story acquires a sort of mythic resonance-- in making the Beast into a Man, of course Beauty learns to love truly, where love isn't blindness unless blindness is forgetting to see and learning to see past.
( Oh my god, I'm a sap. )