05-10-2017, 12:31 AM
As the night wears on, the fact that I'm being made to wait, that the Duke's repose is considered more important than my immediate desires, is a source of irritation. If the implied insult were given a chance to fester undisturbed, I'd probably tear the building down, but fortunately for my designs, the room which Chatterly has given me keeps we entertained until well after the sun has risen.
I spend an hour on the tapestries alone. The first one I simply tear to shreds, reveling in the sensation of grasping and control - for all their hideousness, hands have turned out to be a great deal of fun - but then I notice the frayed ends of the broken threads, and I get a better idea. The others I unravel, one thread at a time, picking and pulling. I watch as intricate scenes of nature and city life, battle and wealth, woven in gold and red and black grow fuzzy and then dissolve into a formless mass of loosely knit fibers. It's like melting a tiny world.
When the last of the wall-hangings is reduced to a tangled mess, I move on to the carpets, little more than the flayed and cured skins of rams, easily rent asunder. After that, I destroy the cabinetry and smash the chairs, pulling the hand-made furniture apart and listening to the wood as it squeals, groans and pops. Leaving the fractured timber in a pile on the floor, I rip into the bed, shredding the sheets and tearing open the mattress, pulling down the curtains and ripping them into pieces no larger than the palm of my hand.
The real treasure, though, the great discovery which changes everything, is the book.
I find it in the ruins of the bedside table - a volume of poetry and religious verse (which is an idea that confuses me. I'm familiar with the concept of gods, but religion? It seems like little more than begging). My first thought is to simply break its spine and tear out the pages, but on impulse I open it, and I read.
Such words!
I didn't know language could be used like this, to create such vivid pictures, to open such mental vistas. Much of what the book contains makes no sense, appealing to emotions or ideals that I have no use for, but even so I can see the structure of it, fit to evoke great depth of feeling, great sorrow and anger. This isn't simple communication - it speaks to something more fundamental than mere collections of syllables.
Every page I finish, I tear from its binding and eat. The act lacks scale, but in the destruction of words, especially words of such quality (and more importantly, words that I have just read) there's a subtle declaration which calms me. It fills me with peace and contempt.
I spend an hour on the tapestries alone. The first one I simply tear to shreds, reveling in the sensation of grasping and control - for all their hideousness, hands have turned out to be a great deal of fun - but then I notice the frayed ends of the broken threads, and I get a better idea. The others I unravel, one thread at a time, picking and pulling. I watch as intricate scenes of nature and city life, battle and wealth, woven in gold and red and black grow fuzzy and then dissolve into a formless mass of loosely knit fibers. It's like melting a tiny world.
When the last of the wall-hangings is reduced to a tangled mess, I move on to the carpets, little more than the flayed and cured skins of rams, easily rent asunder. After that, I destroy the cabinetry and smash the chairs, pulling the hand-made furniture apart and listening to the wood as it squeals, groans and pops. Leaving the fractured timber in a pile on the floor, I rip into the bed, shredding the sheets and tearing open the mattress, pulling down the curtains and ripping them into pieces no larger than the palm of my hand.
The real treasure, though, the great discovery which changes everything, is the book.
I find it in the ruins of the bedside table - a volume of poetry and religious verse (which is an idea that confuses me. I'm familiar with the concept of gods, but religion? It seems like little more than begging). My first thought is to simply break its spine and tear out the pages, but on impulse I open it, and I read.
Such words!
I didn't know language could be used like this, to create such vivid pictures, to open such mental vistas. Much of what the book contains makes no sense, appealing to emotions or ideals that I have no use for, but even so I can see the structure of it, fit to evoke great depth of feeling, great sorrow and anger. This isn't simple communication - it speaks to something more fundamental than mere collections of syllables.
Every page I finish, I tear from its binding and eat. The act lacks scale, but in the destruction of words, especially words of such quality (and more importantly, words that I have just read) there's a subtle declaration which calms me. It fills me with peace and contempt.
Quote:Post 3: 529 words according to wordcounter.net
Post 4: 1425 words according to wordcounter.net
This Post: 475 words acccording to the usual.
2429+1094 = 3523 words total.