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209 pages, Kindle Edition
First published July 16, 2019
‘In the war they wage through time, what lasting advantage comes from murdering ghosts, who, with a slight shift of threads, will return to life or live different lives that never bright them to the executioner’s blade?...No death sticks but the one that matters.’
And we’ll run again, the two of us, upthread and down, firefighter and fire starter, two predators only sated by each other’s words.
Dearest, deepest Blue—
At the end as at the start, and through all the in-betweens, I love you.
Red
But when I think of you, I want to be alone together. I want to strive against and for. I want to live in contact. I want to be a context for you, and you for me.
I love you, and I love you, and I want to find out what that means together.
..."Red's letters were written entirely by Gladstone, and Blue's by El-Mohtar; although they wrote a general outline beforehand, "the reactions of each character were developed with a genuine element of surprise on receiving each letter, and the scenes accompanying [the letters] were written using that emotional response"."
I want to meet you in every place I have loved.
So in this letter I am yours. Not Garden's, not your mission's, but yours, alone.
It occurs to me to dwell on what a microcosm we are of the war as a whole, you and I. The physics of us. An action and an equal and opposite reaction. My viny-hivey elfworld, as you say, versus your techy-mechy dystopia. We both know it’s nothing so simple, any more than a letter’s reply is its opposite. But which egg preceded what platypus? The ends don’t always resemble our means. But enough philosophy.
We make so much of lettercraft literal, don’t we? Whacked seals aside. Letters as time travel, time-travelling letters. Hidden meanings.
I wonder what you see me saying here.
I veer rhapsodic; my prose purples.
Sometimes when you write, you say things I stopped myself from saying. I wanted to say, I want to make you tea to drink, but didn’t, and you wrote to me of doing so; I wanted to say, your letter lives inside me in the most literal way possible, but didn’t, and you wrote to me of structures and events. I wanted to say, words hurt, but metaphors go between, like bridges, and words are like stone to build bridges, hewn from the earth in agony but making a new thing, a shared thing, a thing that is more than one Shift.
Do you laugh, sea foam? Do you smile, ice, and observe your triumph with an angel’s remove? Sapphire-flamed phoenix, risen, do you command me once again to look upon your works and despair?
PS. I write to you in stings, Red, but this is me, the truth of me, as I do so: broken open by the act, in the palm of your hand, dying.
“She climbs upthread and down; she braids and unbraids history’s hair.Let’s try to make it sound simpler and linear. There are two sides in the neverending time war, waged upthread and downthread the countless braids of time by two opposing sides: the “viny-hivey elfworlds” of the Garden and “techy-mechy dystopia” of the Agency, so different in form but so similar in the oppressive singlemindedness. Blue and Red are the opposing agents, post-human, really, who secretly start what quickly becomes an epistolary romance building up to the scream of soul, written in letters and flowers and tea leaves and birds and rope knots and lava flows, a meeting of intertwined minds and souls, a longing for the other who is both different and yet the same.
Red rarely sleeps, but when she does, she lies still, eyes closed in the dark, and lets herself see lapis, taste iris petals and ice, hear a blue jay’s shriek. She collects blues and keeps them.
When she is sure no one is watching, she rereads the letters she’s carved into herself.”
“It's amazing how much blue there is in the world if you look. You're different colors of flame. Bismuth burns blue, and cerium, germanium, and arsenic. See? I pour you into things.”Surreal, febrile, lush - these are the words that spring to mind when I look for descriptors. To work as intended, it needs to have a dreamlike quality, and on that front it delivers determinedly and doggedly.
“So in this letter I am yours. Not Garden’s, not your mission’s, but yours, alone.And the prose, oh the prose… It’s almost mockingly self-aware - when you mix Red and Blue, you get purple. Oh yes you do. It states so outright, making sure you don’t miss it. It could have let it be more subtle, but then I would not have grinned in delight at this pun which my brain already had made a few times in this story of mixing Red and Blue:
I am yours in other ways as well: yours as I watch the world for your signs, apophenic as a haruspex; yours as I debate methods, motives, chances of delivery; yours as I review your words by their sequence, their sound, smell, taste, taking care no one memory of them becomes too worn. Yours. Still, I suspect you will appreciate the token.”
“You’ve whetted me like a stone. I feel almost invincible in our battles’ wake: a kind of Achilles, fleet footed and light of touch. Only in this nonexistent place our letters weave do I feel weak.This story reminds me of the fragments of those dreams you always seem to have just before waking, the dreams that you can’t quite fully recall but that are right there right at the brink of consciousness.
How I love to have no armor here.”
“I sought loneliness when I was young. You’ve seen me there: on my promontory, patient and unaware.I see what it’s doing. I see what it’s working hard to make you feel. I see the puppeteer strings designed to play with your emotions.
But when I think of you, I want to be alone together. I want to strive against and for. I want to live in contact. I want to be a context for you, and you for me.
I love you, and I love you, and I want to find out what that means together.”
“I don’t give a shit who wins this war, Garden or the Agency—towards whose Shift the arc of the universe bends.
But maybe this is how we win, Red.
You and me.
This is how we win.”
I want to meet you in every place I ever loved. Listen to me. I am your echo. I would rather break the world than lose you.
...
I want to chase you, find you, I want to be eluded and teased and adored; I want to be defeated and victorious—I want you to cut me, sharpen me. I want to drink tea beside you in ten years or a thousand. Flowers grow far away on a planet they’ll call Cephalus, and these flowers bloom once a century, when the living star and its black-hole binary enter conjunction. I want to fix you a bouquet of them, gathered across eight hundred thousand years, so you can draw our whole engagement in a single breath, all the ages we’ve shaped together.