…senaryo kızı. Bu son moda genç evli kadınları tanırım. Belli belirsiz bir meslekleri vardır, zihinlerini kullandıklarını iddia ederler, spor yaparlar, iyi giyinirler, evlerini kusursuzca yönetirler, çocuklarını mükemmel yetiştirirler, sosyal bir hayat sürdürürler, kısacası her düzeyde başarılıdırlar. Ve aslında hiçbir şeye derinden önem vermezler. Kanımı dondururlar.
…a script-girl. I know these with-it young married women. They have some vague kind of a job, they claim to use their minds, to go in for sport, dress well, run their houses faultlessly, bring up their children perfectly, carry on a social life—in short, succeed on every level. And they don't really care deeply about anything at all. They make my blood run cold.
Tim had so often replayed his abortive confession to Father Davett that he could now recite his own part from memory. But Father LeTour seemed to be working from a different script, or none at all. To each admission that emerged from Tim’s lips, the priest replied, merely, Mmm-hmm.
“I intend to stop. I have stopped.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“But I can’t say ‘I’m sorry.’ I can’t give that to God. It’s too much. I’ve already returned to Him the best gift He ever gave me.”
Father LeTour at last came to soft-spoken life. “And what was that?”
“The man I loved.”
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Post Script - Miyazaki's Words
This story was based off of a folk tale from Tibet called "The prince who became a dog". The story was about a prince of a certain country who, distressed over the lack of grain that his poor citizens had, after a difficult journey, stole some barley seeds from the dragon king. For doing that, he was changed into a dog by means of magic but was saved by the love of a girl and was finally able to bring the barley back to his country.
Currently, Tibet is the only country in the world which has barley as their staple food. It is said that barley spread from Asia to the rest of the world. That is why the content which says that the Prince headed west in his journey coincides with history. Rather than saying that this folk tale was something which really happened it is better to think of it as the people of Tibet created this story out of thanks towards their crops. Since I read this story ten years ago my only dream was to make this an animation, but in modern day Japan, a simple story like this would not pass at all. Not only that but I gave up trying to get it animated in China as well. Still, this time I had the support of the publishers and I thought up my own sort of version of the story.
The first active interchange which the Greeks had with any near-eastern people was with people who were politically unimportant – Phoenicians and Levantines. The Phoenicians were extremely eclectic. They were more often the intermediaries than the originators of cultural exchange. Theirs was the script that formed the basis not only of Greek, as we shall see (pp. 101–5), but also of Aramaic, but they have left little in the way of literature or written records.
The point is: All the world’s a stage. Creative work is a kind of theater. The stage is your studio, your desk, or your workstation. The costume is your outfit—your
painting pants, your business suit, or that funny hat that helps you think. The props are your materials, your tools, and your medium. The script is just plain old time. An hour here, or an hour there—just time measured out for things to happen.
Fake it ’til you make it
Sayfa 34
Could it be him?
Evangeline wondered why he would have two brides-to-be. What
could have happened to the first?
She flipped the page again, hoping for more information about
Vengeance or the rest of the Slaughterwoods, but there was just another,
unrelated portrait: The dutiful daughters of House Darling.
The page after that showed a group of young noblemen.
It seemed this book wasn’t just about the Slaughterwoods after all. It
was just some sort of portrait book.
Disappointed, Evangeline considered returning to her packing. But on
the next page, she came across a picture of three young men standing near a
tree that had a bullseye board tacked onto it. One young man looked
friendly, one looked highborn, and one looked exactly like Jacks.
The hairs on her arms rose up. Jacks’s clothes were different, an older
style that made her think of days when roads weren’t mapped and much of
the world was still unexplored, but his handsome face was unmistakable.
Her eyes shot to the bottom of the page.
She found herself holding her breath as she searched for Jacks’s name,
but the caption just said: The Merrywood Three.
The word Merrywood flickered to Bitterwood, and suddenly,
Evangeline remembered that she’d seen another reference to this trio. It had
been in the book that had disappeared after she’d dropped it.
The book had described the members of the Merrywood Three as
scoundrels. They were Prince Castor Valor, Lyric Merrywood—son of Lord
Merrywood—and a nameless archer who she suspected could have been the
same Archer from The Ballad of the Archer and the Fox.
Evangeline studied the picture again, attempting to figure out which
one of these three young men Jacks could have been.
The young man beside Jacks looked the friendliest—with brown skin,
the warmest smile she’d ever seen, and an arrow in
