Pendragons
“And I’m Tarquin,” the guy to my right interjects. He has a long, bony
nose and nostrils that seem to stay flared. “Tarquin Pendragon?”
He looks at me expectantly. He has smooth auburn hair, combed neatly
sideways, and thin lips pressed into a tight smile.
“Very nice to meet you,” I offer.
He clears his throat. “You know of Arthur Pendragon, I presume. King
Arthur of the Round Table?” He points at the towering portraits. “That’s
him and Queen Guinevere. I’m the spit of him, they say. The absolute spit
of him.”
He looks nothing like the chisel-jawed, tan man in the portrait.
Tarquin’s skin is the color of milk. “Quite.”
He grins uncertainly. “Yes. Arthur founded this place and built most of
Camelot. His blood runs in my veins.”
“I see. You’re a descendant of Arthur?” I can see he wants recognition
for this. “Very impressive.”
His grin fades. “Yes. Well, I’m descended from his sister, Morgause.”
His expression brightens. “But some say the Pendragons in those days had
incestuous relationships, so really I could be…” He clears his throat.
“Anyway, since you’re new here, I can show you around. As a Pendragon, I
feel it’s my duty to look after lost young women who are new to our
academy. Of course, I can show you around the rest of Camelot, too.
Outside the Tower. I’ve lived in the city my whole life.”
There’s something false about his smile that sets my teeth on edge, but I
murmur, “Thank you.”
So he’s one of those Pendragons that Viviane referenced, someone who
might cut me down just weeks into training.
But he doesn’t seem to hate me so far.
My stomach rumbles, and I turn to a platter of food. It looks like
something from a fairytale—fresh bread pudding, jams, fruit, cakes
decorated with dandelions, entire baked salmon and potatoes, all resting on
a bed of wildflowers.
Binswanger, in a 1936 essay commemorating Freud's eightieth birthday, makes this point by noting that Freud's personal stature and contributions were a marvelous example of the limitations of his deterministic theory:
The fact that our lives are determined by the forces of life is only one side of the truth; the other is that we determine these forces as our fate. Only the two sides together can take in the full problem of sanity and insanity. Those who, like Freud, have forged their fates with the hammer-the work of art he has created in the medium of language is sufficient evidence of this-can dispute this fact least of all.
Sayfa 270
Her çiçeğin bir mevsimi, her kitabın bir zamanı vardır. Haziranın tadını yeni hikâyelerle çıkarın.
You get used to marvelous things. You take them for granted. You can try not to, but you do. There’s too much wonder, that’s all. It’s everywhere.
Her şeyi mahvederken harika zaman geçirdim.
I had a marvelous time ruining everything
It’s a shame that the people who live here haven’t been able to hold such marvelous things in their hearts and minds.
Whom do you love best? do tell, you enigma: your father? your
mother, sister, brother?
— I have no father, no mother, neither sister nor brother.
— Your friends?
— That is a word I’ve never understood.
— Your country?
— I don’t know at what latitude to look for it.
— Beauty?
— Immortal goddess, I would gladly love her.
— Gold?
— I hate it as much as you hate God.
— Well then, you puzzling stranger, what do you love?
— I love clouds . . . clouds that go by . . . out there . . . over there
. . . marvelous clouds!
