#last thoughts

My last thoughts on Chapter 11 are about Mrs. Frederick and the rest of this cursed family as they deal with the aftermath of Valancy's new IDGAF era. What stuck with me from the following exchange is how Mrs. Frederick, Cousin Gladys, and even Uncle Herbert immediately made Valancy's outburst all about themselves:

Mrs. Frederick was openly in tears. All her defences were down. “I must tell you,” she sobbed, “that Valancy has been acting very strangely for over two weeks now....” “This is bringing on my neuritis again,” said Cousin Gladys, putting her hand to her head. “Don’t cry, Amelia,” said Herbert kindly, pulling nervously at his spiky grey hair. He hated “family ructions.” Very inconsiderate of Doss to start one at his silver wedding. Who could have supposed she had it in her?

And then we get into the Wansbarra lore:

“Everything she said today showed an unbalanced mind. That question—‘Was it a vital part?’ Was there any sense at all in that remark? None whatever! There never was anything like that in the Stirlings. It must be from the Wansbarras.” Poor Mrs. Frederick was too crushed to be indignant. “I never heard of anything like that in the Wansbarras,” she sobbed. “Your father was odd enough,” said Uncle Benjamin. “Poor Pa was—peculiar,” admitted Mrs. Frederick tearfully, “but his mind was never affected.” “He talked all his life exactly as Valancy did today,” retorted Uncle Benjamin. “And he believed he was his own great-great grandfather born over again. I’ve heard him say it. Don’t tell me that a man who believed a thing like that was ever in his right senses."

Consider me intrigued. 👀 I wonder if Pa's peculiarity was rooted in a fascination with reincarnation and Eastern religion in general, the occult, or just a vague sense of mysticism? Possibly all three?

Uncle Herbert, in turn, seems to be intrigued by this new side of Valancy, even if it reflects negatively on the family to some degree:

“I should never have dreamed it of Doss,” said Uncle Herbert. “She has always seemed such a quiet, sensible girl. A bit backward—but sensible.”

It’s something like that. This is supposed to be an elegant metaphor, but my concern for the integrity of the train isn’t entirely abstract. Those collaborative human wonders: the trains, the bridges, the skyscrapers, the toddlers not dead from smallpox all seem less reliable, less substantial— and I want to blame someone for that.

I could. But, that seems like waste of my very limited time.

Shouldn’t I spend these last moments in a more positive way? Reflecting on family or on love? Shouldn’t I say something about the gift of living? It seems unjust, cruel, that I will never have the chance to make sense of any of this. I will never know why other people have worked so hard together to make a complex and beautiful world or why people, the same kind of people, have allowed parts of this world to self-destruct— and like a footnote, I will never arrive at my destination.

I'm treating this love think like I own you,

Expecting nothing but faithfulness and loyalty,

That you have my back as strongly as I got yours,

Expecting you to reciprocate my love just enough,

And not give me words to placate me,

While all the while you go behind my back,

Sending them photos of what you want to do to them.

I guess I'll leave you to your devices,

Then, I'd be sure that am as on my own as I feel right now.