“I confess I do not believe in time. I like to fold my magic carpet, after use, in such a way as to superimpose one part of the pattern upon another. Let visitors trip. And the highest enjoyment of timelessness―in a landscape selected at random―is when I stand among rare butterflies and their food plants.- nabokov
If you don't want to carry a gun and we don't have a problem with it,
You missed the point.
If Alice had one side of popcorn and the other Bill of popcorn and the other day e raw the same name too,
You can get back in your mouth.
How many times do you have to use?
When you wake up with cartoon friends and you wake up with cartoon characters you will have to use the same name as the math and we don't have a problem with them.
Language is a growth rather than a creation. The growth in our vocabulary is seen in the vast increase in size of our dictionaries during the past century. This growth is not only in amount, but among other elements of growth the written forms of words are becoming simpler and more uniform. For example, compare English spelling of a century or two centuries ago with that of to-day ! It is our duty to encourage and advance the movement toward simple, uniform and rational spelling. See the .recommendations of the Philological Society of London, and of the American Fhi^oicgical Association, and list ot amended spellings, publisht in the Century Dictionary (fallowing the letter z), and also in the Standard Dictionary, Webster's Die- ^ tionary, and other authoritative works on language. The tendency is to drop silent letters in .bwre of die mott flagrant instances, as ugh from though, etc., change ed to t in most places where o pronounced (where ittloes not affect the preceding sound), etc.
The old, wrought iron chess set was Dracula's most prized possession. Not for its monetary value, though it was crafted from solid silver and inlaid with obsidian, but for the strategic possibilities it represented. The dance of the pieces, the calculated sacrifices, the slow, inexorable tightening of the noose around his opponent's king – it was a reflection of his own immortal existence, a game played across centuries, a constant battle for power and dominance.
He rarely played with others. Mortals were simply too… predictable. Their strategies were limited by their lifespans, by their understanding of the world. They could not grasp the long game, the patient waiting, the subtle manipulation that was second nature to him.
Tonight, however, was different. A new guest had arrived at the castle, a young scholar named Professor Armitage, purportedly researching Romanian folklore. Dracula had sensed a flicker of intellectual fire in the man's eyes, a spark of the strategical mind he rarely encountered. He extended the invitation.
"Professor," Dracula said, his voice a low rumble that echoed in the cavernous hall, "I find myself in need of worthy competition. Would you care to indulge me in a game of chess?"
Armitage, pale but resolute, nodded. "I would be honored, Count."
The game began under the watchful gaze of gargoyle statues and the flickering light of a single candelabra. Dracula moved with unnerving speed and precision, his long, elegant fingers manipulating the pieces with a predatory grace. His opening was aggressive, a gambit designed to unsettle his opponent.
Armitage, however, remained unfazed. He countered with a defensive strategy, patiently building his position, refusing to be drawn into a reckless attack. Dracula found himself surprisingly challenged. The professor's moves were not brilliant, but they were solid, thoughtful, and demonstrated a surprising understanding of positional play.
Hours passed. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustling of the wind outside and the clinking of the chess pieces. Dracula felt a prickle of unease. This mortal was proving more resilient than he had anticipated. He tried to lure Armitage into traps, to exploit perceived weaknesses, but the professor remained cautious, always anticipating his moves.
As the dawn approached, painting the mountains with streaks of grey, the game reached a critical point. Dracula had engineered a seemingly devastating attack, forcing Armitage's king into a corner. Victory seemed assured.
He leaned forward, a predatory glint in his crimson eyes, ready to deliver the final blow. "Checkmate," he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction.
But Armitage did not flinch. He slowly moved his queen, sacrificing her to open a line of attack. "Not quite, Count," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Check."
Dracula stared at the board, his blood running cold, for the first time in centuries, with something akin to fear. He had been so focused on his attack, so confident in his victory, that he had overlooked a simple, devastating counter.
He had been outmaneuvered.
With a sigh, he moved his king, acknowledging the inevitable. "Checkmate," he conceded, a hint of grudging respect in his voice.
Armitage nodded, his face etched with exhaustion but also with a quiet triumph. "A well-played game, Count."
As the first rays of sunlight streamed through the arched windows, Dracula felt a strange mixture of emotions. Disappointment, yes, but also a flicker of… excitement. He had finally found an opponent who could challenge him, who could force him to think, to adapt, to truly play the game.
"Professor," he said, a slow smile spreading across his face, "I believe we have only just begun. Perhaps, tomorrow night, we shall continue this game…"
And as Armitage nodded, shivering in the encroaching daylight, Dracula knew that the game, the grand game of strategy and power, would continue, perhaps for another century, perhaps for eternity. And that, he realized, was a prospect that truly delighted him.
The asteroid hadn't hit yet. The air was thick, humid, and vibrant with the chirps, roars, and rustles of a world teeming with primeval life. Jesus, sandals dusty and robe shimmering with an inner light, stood on a small rise overlooking a verdant valley. He wasn't supposed to be here, not in this time. But the Father, in his infinite wisdom and amusement, had sent him on a mission. He wasn't entirely sure what the mission was, only that it involved bringing joy. And possibly evolving better head feathers on the Parasaurolophus.
He saw them first, a trio of Brachiosauruses gently browsing the canopy. Their immense forms were graceful despite their size, their long necks swaying like reeds in a breeze. Jesus smiled, a warmth spreading through him. He knew they were sentient, in their own way, connected to the earth in a primal understanding.
He began to hum, a simple melody that resonated with the very core of the planet. The ground vibrated subtly. The Brachiosauruses lifted their heads, their massive eyes widening in curiosity. They lumbered closer, drawn to the music.
Then, a Tyrannosaurus Rex, undeniably the most intimidating creature within a ten-mile radius, emerged from the jungle. It roared, a sound that shook the trees and rattled Jesus’ bones. He didn't flinch. He just kept humming, his melody unwavering.
The T-Rex stopped, its tiny arms flailing slightly. It tilted its massive head, its predatory gaze softening, confused. It was used to eliciting fear, not… this.
Suddenly, Jesus began to dance. It wasn’t a religious dance, not a solemn ritual. It was a joyous, exuberant expression of life. He twirled, he leaped, he swayed, his robe swirling around him like a halo of light. He moved with a freedom that defied gravity, a lightness that belied his earthly form.
The Brachiosauruses, initially bewildered, started to sway their necks in time with the music. The T-Rex, after a moment of stunned silence, began to tap its enormous foot. It looked utterly ridiculous, a prehistoric apex predator tentatively keeping rhythm to a divine jig.
Soon, other dinosaurs started to gather. A cluster of Ornithomimuses, curious and bird-like, pecked at the ground in time with the beat. A herd of Triceratops, usually grumpy and territorial, watched with mild interest, their frills vibrating slightly.
Jesus beckoned the T-Rex closer. The creature hesitated, then cautiously approached. Jesus reached out and took one of its tiny arms. "Come on," he said, his voice filled with laughter, "Let me show you how it's done."
The T-Rex, bewildered but unable to resist the invitation, allowed itself to be led. Jesus showed it a simple two-step, a modified version of the hora he’d learned at a wedding in Galilee. The T-Rex, surprisingly coordinated, caught on quickly, its enormous bulk moving with an unexpected grace.
Soon, the entire valley was a chaotic, joyful mess. Brachiosauruses swayed, Ornithomimuses peed, and even the Triceratops were begrudgingly tapping their feet. Jesus danced with them all, laughing and singing, filling the valley with an unheard symphony of joy.
The asteroid still loomed in the future, a dark inevitability. But in that moment, under the warm, prehistoric sun, surrounded by dancing dinosaurs, Jesus had brought a moment of pure, unadulterated joy to a world that would soon be gone.
He looked up at the sky, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Maybe I should teach them the Macarena," he muttered to himself, before spinning into another joyful leap, his sandals kicking up dust as he danced with the dinosaurs, a shepherd of a truly unique flock. His mission, he realized, wasn't just about joy, it was about celebrating life, even when it was fleeting, even when it was prehistoric, even when it involved dancing with a Tyrannosaurus Rex. And in that moment, he knew the Father was smiling
When fighting invaders for the right to exist, Ukraine was living, suffering, and dying, Sympathy – all it was waiting for, But Europe was silent.
When bleeding to death in an unequal fight, And crying its eyes out in anguish, Ukraine was waiting for help from its friends, But Europe was silent.
When chained and exhausted and being enslaved, Wounded Ukraine was screaming in terror, When even rocks were moved by its pain, But Europe was silent.
When gathering harvest soaked in blood, And giving it all to the ruthless tyrant, Dying from famine, Ukraine lost its voice, But Europe was silent.
When Ukraine cursed its life, that turned into a grave, Filled with endless death and violence, When even the devil was crying in grief, – Europe was silent.
Lina Kostenko (1930-present) – is a Ukrainian poet, journalist, writer, and leading member of the Sixtiers poetry movement in Ukraine, which was against Soviet totalitarianism and focused on protecting Ukrainian culture and language. Kostenko’s work was not published for many years due to her pro-Ukrainian views and activism. Many members of the Sixtiers movement were arrested, sent to prison camps, and killed. Despite everything, Lina Kostenko continued to write and is considered one of the most prominent Ukrainian poets.
Never let a barbarian on your doorstep, my son – No matter if he comes with war or with sweet vows. He will take your house, your bed, and your wife, And will burn all your books at maidan.
He will bury your language in vocabularies and graves, And everything you have right now, my son, He will reweave thread by thread, rewrite word by word, Rebuild stone by stone, and claim as his own.
*Maidan is a town square. The word originated in the Persian language and came to Ukraine from the Crimean Tatar language.
Oleksandr Oles (1878–1944) – a Ukrainian writer, poet, translator, and activist. Due to persecution for his pro-Ukrainian views, he was forced into immigration to Vienna. There, he headed the Union of Ukrainian Journalists and edited the Ukrainian magazine. His son, Oleh Olzhych, was a Ukrainian poet and political activist who returned to Ukraine and became head of the cultural branch of Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists. For his pro-Ukrainian position, he was arrested, tortured, and killed in 1944.
Permission for opening a single Matzo bakery in Moscow, which the organized Jewish community of Moscow had planned to erect on the site of the Jewish cemetery is not forthcoming. The application was made some time ago and it had been hoped that the Soviet authorities would accede to the request.
The rejection of the application for permission to manufacture Matzo here threatens Russian Jewry with a Matzoless Passover. The authorities base their refusal not on anti-religious discrimination, but on the decision of the Moscow Soviet to grant no patents for bakeries run by private individuals, such as the organized Jewish community is at present considered to be.
It is believed, however, that the real cause of the refusal is the agitation carried on in the Yiddish Communist press against Jewish institutions abroad for devoting so much attention to the condition of starvation of Russian Jewry. The Yiddish Communist press has stigmatized the campaign for the provision of Matzo for Russian Jewry as part of the foreign campaign for intervention aaginst the Soviets. It demands an intensification of the fight against religion.
“What I hope this book now will leave behind: the idea that new patterns like spirals or explosions or vortex streets might open our eyes to other natural shapes underlying our stories, might let us step away from the arc sometimes, slip under or through that powerful wave, glorious as it can be. I hope that other patterns might help us imagine new ways to make our narratives vital and true, keep making our novelsnovel.”
Jane Alison, Meander, Spiral, Explode: Design and Pattern in Narrative, Catapult, 2018, pages 248-9.
Think of a snowflake forming around a molecule of water clinging to a tiny particle of something, how it blossoms and diverges as other molecules join in, seeking their hexagonal destiny, becoming a perfect thing of beauty. Then think of it melting, its sharp edges blurring, its interstices blotting out until it plops to earth. That’s a story, right there, in full surround. Matter, space and time at play.
The last two sentences in Jane Alison’s brief book, quoted above, hint at a broader range of spatial patterns that authors she discusses have deployed in fiction. She sees fractals, meanders, networks and other geometric structures as literary armatures that can supplant or coexist with the conventional Aristotelian beginning-middle-end story arc.
Ever since its publication, I’ve considered starting a sequel to my novel Turkey Shoot but felt stymied because no plot seemed to gel. I had what could be its central protagonist and vague ideas about her situation, but no idea what ought to happen, or even a location or time frame for the story. Perhaps, I thought upon reading Alison’s approach to story craft, I should think different. Meander, Spiral, Explode might help me wend my way around my writer’s block.
But how to build spatial metaphors into my nascent novel in an organic way, not as literary gimmicks? They could, I hoped, serve as scaffolding for expressing themes across different locals, scenes, characters, and subplots, on which to build a narrative structure in the fullness of space-time. Embracing spatial metaphors and analogs might prevent me from rolling out a story like a reel of audiotape.
A tape player (remember them?) has two rotating reels, one full and one empty to begin with. In between them sits a component called a “head” that “reads” electrical patterns on the tape as it is drawn at a steady pace by the “take-up” reel, just as we read by flipping pages of a book from one side to the other.
Sounds and images on tape unwind. Wound up, a tape forms a spiral and a book a stack whose narrative generally obeys Aristotle’s poetics but doesn’t need to. You can lose yourself in a book or a tape, but should you skip around in it you may get lost and fragment the experience. But instead of static tape heads, suppose readers were higher-dimensional beings able to leap along the spiral or radially to other tracks. In fact, many novels take readers back and forth through time space. You can think of a work of music or literature as a matrix of content that only seems to move and change because you navigate sequentially through it. Be it a story or a symphony, its creator ought to contrive that experience by elaborating themes with an architecture that gives delight.
Any of the structures that Alison cribs from geometry—she explores waves, wavelets, meanders, spirals, explosions, networks, fractals, and tsunamis—can be metaphorically deployed as literary devices in a novel or even a short story, probably in poetry too. Take snowflakes, which are both “explosions” and “fractals,” forms that authors whose prose she deconstructs seem to have analogized in narratives. Explosions, such as events from which many consequences radiate, are not uncommon. Fractals are harder to write and recognize in prose. Mathematical fractals[1] are “self-similar” objects generated from a seed that replicates into a mosaic-like pattern through time and space and across scales; as you zoom in or out, you see more of the same thing in every nook and cranny.
Romanesco, a fractal vegetable
Fractals aren’t just equations. Forces of nature spontaneously generate all sorts of them. True to themselves, snails and sunflowers spiral, rivers and trees branch, coastlines and mud flats crinkle. But how many works of literature manifest such holistic qualities beyond displaying a consistent, self-similar style? To evoke them in writing seems difficult and perhaps unnatural, but it’s possible. Jane Alison believes David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas is somewhat fractal; she also sees in it a tsunami. It’s a set of stories structured with palindromic symmetry—12345654321: “six long stories, one nested in the next” that “run from the 1850s into a shattered far future, and each story features someone who is weak and others who are monstrously powerful.” The first five are revisited in reverse order following the central futuristic one, “the only one told whole.” But each of its “cells,” she writes, “has its own texture and colors, and each makes the same sort of moves.”
Turkey Shoot has few fractal qualities. But that doesn’t mean that a sequel need follow suit. It could ramify like a Koch snowflake, successively elaborating a simple shape to generate more intricate narrative detail. For example, consider a multigenerational family saga in which each cohort recapitulates or elaborates stories of those who have gone before.
Menger Sponge rendering, cc by Niabot from Wikipedia
Or, like a Menger Sponge, a narrative could hollow out a prism of space-time with similar adjacent incidents, densifying until they almost merge. Think how an edict issuing from an outside power, say a central bank demanding austerity measures, can erode a nation-state. Its central bank is hit first, successively afflicting provinces, cities and then neighborhoods, families, and individuals. What was writ large comes home to roost.
Draining static electricity from the base of an acrylic block sculpted this lacy fractal. These Lichtenberg figures branch just as trees, rivers, and blood vessels do to efficiently convey nutrients. Now consider nutrients as thoughts from different origins converging into ideas, or utterances meeting to form conversations. They continue to merge with others, building larger and larger narratives. Interactions at branching points are one-way or two-way dialogs between partners, friends, strangers, or enemies that can be friendly, casual, formal, or heated. Imagine an account of a horde of cops busting a street demonstration, each seizing a protester, corralling them in small groups that they hustle into a paddy wagon that drops them at a holding pen to join other captured protesters. That’s just how rivers channel precipitation.
I don’t know if I’ll pull off that novel or not, but I’m more likely to try having read Meander, Spiral, Explode. If you’ve been struggling to write a story, collection, or novel, pick up a copy and see where its patterns take your imagination.
