𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒃, 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 ?

𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐬 :  the most stable elements on the periodic table lie between them.   this  blog  is  a  study  on   𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 ,  as  created  by  author  thomas  harris  for  the  𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐁𝐀𝐋 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬  and  here interpreted  by  𝓪𝓶𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪.  primarily  book-based but drawing inspiration from several sources — let  this  be  a  study  into  goodness  and  selfhood ;   in  purity  which  remains  through  hardship , forever stable. 

                    𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒎 𝒃𝒆.

⊱  𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒 :   pinterest  /  rules   /  dossier  /  wikipedia  /  sideblog

she tries to imagine   𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝 ,  not as in empty , but as in ruthless.     in which stars open up as eyes or mouth , even where they might not be watched by god or devils or fools.     the red hollow of his mouth , haunting the back of her memory , the strangest red , the strangest mouth.

𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ,  & clarice starling answers the phone by the window , under estranged stars , between the half-moment of a dream and the instant it ends.    a light passes through the window , & the grace of the moon transforming her face , if dr. lecter could see her now , he’d see her small white teeth against her pink mouth , the tip of her pink tongue against her lip  in uncannily ingénue picture , & maybe he’d draw it.       she wonders if he’d hang it upon his wall. 

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞 , 𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐜𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 ,     that haunts the tip of her fingers , lives at the edge of her tongue , the instinct of the body sensitized and intoxicated which is to say she likes it that he likes her , at the same time that it terrifies her — that , between an instant and another , when she had picked up her phone :     a shiver of the most ambiguous kind.

𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 , her voice matching the rain outside , as the futile light of her digital clock turns her face a darkening blue , modern aesthetics for long existing hauntings.      ❛  doctor ?  dr. lecter ... ?  aren’t we both a little too old for that ? aren’t you a little late too ? ❜ 

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 , 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐲 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 ,     in which not everything is either a boxing ring or a slaughterhouse , but it's just radiant normality , the ordinary within the ordinary.     two figures meet in tenderness in the ugly , colorless office of the bureau ,     & her fingers touch the fingers of agent fox mulder.     it is neither fire nor tempest , the world doesn't stop at the meeting of skin on skin , but it's good all the same ,     & it is easy enough to make her smile as she accepts the candy from him.   

you'll always have a place in my heart. ♡ 

𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐨𝐬 ,     the snake which cannibalizes itself , the keep the dark hollow of her belly full.     a girl in a half-dark room with half of her self , a girl who swallows her own silence to spit it back at her shadow.     a girl sits first upon a bed , not hers , just a bed , then she closes her eyes , to make it more dark  , until darkness becomes a place.     darkness is the bruise that spreads from inside-out , darkness is all she needs to enter herself.     

psychologically , metaphorically , the descent of girl into underworld , the underside of the body  , the girl inside her body , or the mind , then the mind rattles its cage , until the door opens , swiftly , but silently , as cages often do :     & 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲.     if the light changes , the hallway is the pathway to an altar — but clarice will leave the lights off , & she will follow down the hallway with silence in her mouth , the words losing their taste , until she finds a door.     in the next room , she finds herself. 

this is no mirror , just a memory ,   or  @conticuit​ ,   the tender-stained clarice fresh out of academy.     but a girl is a girl is a woman , or something else , depends on the story , or on the time of the day — a body is a prelude to a wound.      this is the inbetween thing which is the realm of dreams.     the thing which is the body remains in bed  , but the mind is a constant haunting.     the mind steps into itself , &  is both the palace and the creature which inhabits it.  

❛  well, look at you all self-righteous... don't look at me like that. i didn’t do the killing and... and he was kind of an ass, wasn’t he ? we never liked him, mr. krendler , that is. never liked him.  ❜ 

the  window  to  the  aberration  could  be  the  eyes ,     but  there  was  more  to  be  said  about  the  way  the  monster  kept  his  mouth  than  in  the  unblinking  gaze:   he’d  ascertained  that  agent  starling  needed  no  introduction  to  his  maw  and  the  fine  teeth  inside  and  so  did  not  dignify her  response  with  the  smirk  that  threatened  to  surface.   

 ❝   whose  to  say,      indeed .   ❞     there  is  cause  for  curiosity  in  nearly  all  journey’s  that  clarice  chooses  to  traverse,   none  more  enthralling  than  her  presence  here,  now,  with  him.         for  what  purpose  could  a  creature  of  light  &  love  find  herself  in  the  underworld ?         clarice  commands  his  consideration  with  little  more  than  a  lift  of  her  chin,   the  slight  curl  of  flaming  hair  that  fits  perfectly  between  the  collar  of  her  blouse  and  her  neck;   how  he  wishes  he  was  that  strand  of  hair,   how  perfectly  hannibal  would  fit  in  between  the  spaces  of  her  clothes  and  body     .

she  exists  here,   locked  away  with  hannibal,  in  the  chamber  of  his  mind  palace’s  dungeon   -    beautiful  and  lively,   still  smelling  of  avon  hand  creme  and  the  burnt  coffee  smell  that  all  dead  things  smelled  of   .          ❝    you’d  like  that,    wouldn’t   you,  agent  starling ?      to  be  my  jailer  .     ❞    

somewhere,   in  the  back  of  doctor  lecter’s  mind,   bach  begins  to  play .

❝    i  wonder ,    sometimes   .     had  our  first  meeting  been  in  an  office,   a  coffee  shop,  would  you  have  recognized  me  ?           could  you  have  done  what  will  graham  couldn’t  &  saved  lives  ?         or  will  you  end  up  scarred  and  flayed  open,   too  broken  for  any  meaningful  connection,   doomed  to  walk  the  beaches  with  your  daddy’s  face  looking  at  you  in  the  mirror  ?     ❞    

𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬.     the corridor had been a vast , dark mouth opening to her.     & speaking of mouths ,  there stands his ,  satisfied at the same time it is not , still hungry , still craving , even before the first bite.      the horror of it had been alluring :     the impulse of walking into the bottom of the world , metaphorical katabasis , which is violent and erotic , clarice starling too opening her mouth— 

𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.     one single , timid lighting spot hangs upon them , with light that is barely light , white on white , which does little for shadows.     it suits them both.     light , she thinks , serves little purpose if it does not carry warmth.      & clarice says :      ❛  i hardly think you and i would be found in the same sort of establishments, doctor.  ❜   , which is not an answer , which doesn’t mean it is not true.      & silence , like light , lingers upon her lips. 

𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧.      chapter 6 of the book of daniel , & i was found blameless before him , even when cast into the pit.       the lion looks rather smugly at her , and clarice starling too inclines her head , in the manner she had seen him do.     she had been enough at churches , she knew fallen angels — the raw ruthlessness of their red stare upon her , the shadow , always the shadow , before the flame. the monstrosity of it works by contrast , the divine wound is tragically humane. 

 ❛  perhaps we would have been friends. perhaps you would have liked me better than now, doctor.  ❜ 

𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒     𝐈𝐒      𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐋𝐘  .            the  underworld  is  cold ,    but  the  darkness  is  minimal  with  the  lights  that  never  seem  go  out  .       it  washes  the  doctor’s  flesh  translucent  &  as  he  faces  the  little  lion  he  tips  his  head  back  and  looks  down  his  nose  at  her   .         clarice   starling  settles  under  his  gaze as  if  preening  her  feathers,    lifting  her  shoulder  and  shrugging  .             a  gesture  that  was  both  rude  and  juvenile  enough  to  be  charming  . 

behind  the  glass  wall ,     doctor  lecter  looms  in  the  very  center  of  the  glass  box.    he  cannot  smell  clarice  yet ,    but  he  tries,  lifts  his  nose ;    makes  eye  contact  with  the  girl,  wanting  her  to  know  that  he’s  trying   .  

❝   CLEVER  GIRL .   ❞

the  only  splash  of  color  is  the  sleepy  gaze  of  the  monster,   red  and  inviting.   inside  the  shape  of  his  reflection,    clarice  fits  perfectly  inside  hannibal’s  outline.     like  a  chalk  outline  of  an  already - gone  victim,      ❝    this  human  zoo  will  surely  make  animals  of  us  all,    agent  starling  .     who  is  to  say  i   .  .  .   won’t  come  for  you  the  moment  these  glass   walls  come  down ?      ❞     

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐬 , 𝐲'𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐞 ?   they can smell your fear.

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲.     memory which juxtaposes , the meticulously crafted imagery of a fractured childhood.      there is daddy behind her , then his shotgun in her hands , the softness of a child's hands , star-shaped , against the dark cold barrel.     her finger against the trigger , her daddy's finger against hers and he says    ❝ clever girl  ❞    when she shots the quail , even when her eyes burn with tears.     this is the reminiscence of the first violence.     vestiges laced and bound and twisting into each other , the circular staircase of memory within memory :     she sees the superposition of bullet wounds , first upon the animal-quail , then on the animal-father.      clarice never went hunting again. 

& 𝐲𝐞𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 , or death , or a man — the word changes but the shape is vaguely the same.      he will find little to smell.     the rare organ of her fear , the body part which would have trembled or shivered had it belonged to someone else , remains indifferent.     clarice starling looks at him in the eye , the oddest shade between darkness which is dark and that which is red.    ❛  who is to say when the glass breaks , doctor ?  ❜

there is a transient feeling at the base of her throat ,   openly hardening , which she refuses to swallow.  ❛ who knows ?  i might be the one they send after you.  ❜

⊱ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐟𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐬 :     clarice starling creates her own haunting daily.     in most stories a woman is her own house ,     & both are haunted.      to wake up every morning touched by the backhand of fear , which then turns into anger , or a  the thing in between them , like a two-headed animal.       she feels both very lonely and very angry at it.     first she tastes the pale , bitter flavor of sarcasm , then she swallows it down.     ❛  where could people like us go ?  i'd keep seeing those girls here or in florida.  ❜

𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨, 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐞 ? , will graham asked. 

this is the lukewarm color of her hair in the unnatural light of the bathroom ,  the tiles painted red , & the red hurts her eyes , like her eyes red the day before from sleepless nights , & god , she hated the tiles and the red and the bathroom.     she hates her hands so pale , bone-white against the sink , clutching at the cold of it.   this is clarice starling staring at him through the mirror ... her eyes looking for his , his eyes staring back through the glass... clarice gets the metaphor , she just has little patience for it.   she thinks she’s too much of a lutheran to enjoy it.     ❛  but i can do something useful here. i like it better than quietness— i don't know how to do that.  ❜

⊱ 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞.    strayed light expanding into the hallway , & from the hallway into the room , white after white , unwilling light , she thinks , that makes everything so artificially clean , minimalistic bright and suffocating , when this is a place for darkness.     white is a thing her insides remember ; the white on white walls of a hospital room , then the white body of her father on white sheets , then death.     this is clarice starling carrying her body like an arrow , even when she feels like an insect called by the small red light of his eyes , the human-colored , human-shaped sillhouete of a man inside a room within a room , looking at her and saying— ❛ 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞. ❜

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 , if there was , she'd have kept it in the dark , lonely cabinet of her heart , where she only looks at it from time to time , to remind her it is there.     but she closes her hand around the idea of a life in which she does not fear him , only feels— this.     whatever this is , whatever layer of redness in a room of whiteness could be , the horrifying , yet straightforward feeling that she likes the stimulus of his rhetoric.      she has stepped into a strange half-world :     still-butchered girl , & yet a woman in endless renewal , who looks at him with unblinking eyes when no other man will , and shrugs with the plainness that comes from honesty alone.       ❛ well, doctor, there’s only need for a cage if there’s something to put inside. ❜