Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta deaths. Mostrar todas las entradas
Mostrando entradas con la etiqueta deaths. Mostrar todas las entradas

martes, 17 de octubre de 2017

HOW TO SUCCESSFULLY KILL A CHARACTER

Authors are always being advised to be mean to their characters. Often, that meanness involves killing them off. And even as we may bawl over our beloved characters’ deaths, most of us get a strange sort of fulfillment out of it. We gotta play tough and do whatever best serves the story, right?
But that, of course, begs the question: Is killing off a character really the best way to serve your story?
Before we answer that question, let’s take a look at some reasons that may justify our decision to end a character’s life—along with some not-so-good reasons.

Good Reasons to Kill a Character

We can find many good reasons for snuffing even important characters, including:
  • It advances the plot. (Melanie in Gone With the Wind.)
  • It fulfills the doomed character’s personal goal. (Obi-Wan in A New Hope, Oberyn Martell, anyone who has mentored Harry Potter, Baron Zeppeli in JoJo, Éponine Thénardier/the original Little Mermaid, Juliet Capulet/Hélène de Chandroz/Shirin...)
  • It motivates other characters. (Sirius Black, Mercutio, Ophelia, all of the Amis sans Marius -the sole survivor-, Renly, Drogo, Ygritte...)
  • It’s a fitting recompense for the character’s actions up to this point. (Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. Oberyn. Cú Chulainn. Also, Éponine Thénardier/the original Little Mermaid, Juliet Capulet/Hélène de Chandroz/Shirin...)
  • It emphasizes the theme. (Everybody in Flowers of War, all the dwarves in The Hobbit, and so many star-crossed lovers across cultures and historical periods.)
  • It creates realism within the story world. (Everybody in Westeros)
  • It removes an extraneous character. (Danny in Pearl Harbor.)

Bad Reasons to Kill a Character

Some less worthy reasons for doing our characters dirty include:
  • Shocking readers just for the sake of shocking them. (Shock value isn’t without its, well, value, but not every author is Alfred Hitchcock and not every story is Psycho.)
  • Making readers sad just for the sake of making them sad. (An old saw says, “If they cry, they buy.” But readers never appreciate being tortured without good reason.)
  • Removing an extraneous character. (I know, I know. I just said that was a good reason. But you have to double-check this one. If the character is extraneous, then you better verify if s/he really belongs in this story in the first place.)

A Final Consideration Before You Kill a Character

Now that we have a grip on what makes a character’s death work within a story—and what’s sure to make it fail—we next have to consider what could end up being a crucial reason not to kill your character.
Every character in a story should be there for a specific reason. He’s there to enact a specific function (as we discussed in recent posts about archetypes and roles). If he doesn’t enact that function, then you have to question his purpose in the story. And if he does fill a role within your story, well, then ask yourself this: Who’s gonna fill that role if you kill him off?
Dramatica authors Melanie Anne Phillips and Chris Huntley explain:
Unless the functions represented by the discontinued player reappear in another player, however, part of the story’s argument will disappear at the point the original drops out. In the attempt to surprise an audience by killing off a major player, many an author has doomed an otherwise functional storyform.

How to Kill a Character: A Checklist

Lucky for our sadistic little souls, roles and archetypes can shift from character to character or be shared by several characters. In short: when a character dies off, his death doesn’t have to mean his role will be left vacant for the rest of the story.
With all this knowledge in mind, here’s a quickie checklist for figuring out if you can get away with murder:
  • You have scrutinized the list of good reasons to kill off a character.
  • You have identified one of the reasons as being present in your plot (or come up with a new good reason).
  • You have identified what role and archetype your character fills in your story.
  • You have created and positioned another character(s) to fill the hole left in your story by the doomed character’s death.
–or–
  • Your story ends in a thematically satisfying way that doesn’t require the character’s role to be perpetuated.
Sometimes the death of a character can raise an ordinary story into something special. If you can justify a character’s death, then go for it! Special may be just around the corner.

viernes, 15 de abril de 2016

LA FLOR DEL LLIRI BLAU

VICTOR IRANZO SIMÓN 

La flor del lliri blau 

Rondalla 

La meua àvia me dia 

quan m'adormia: 
"Vols oïr la rondalla? 

puix dorm i calla. 
Tres fills un rei tenia, 

i als tres volia 
com se volen les coses 

meravelloses.

Los tres eren com nobles 

hereus dels pobles 
i lo més xiquet era 

blanc com la cera. 


Un jorn a sos fills crida 

lo Rei d'Armida 
a la cambra daurada 

i enjoiellada. 
Lo Rei pren la corona 

i així raona: 
— Si voleu ser tan savis 

com vostres avis, 
i que jo vos corone, 

lo ceptre dóne 
al que me porte el lliri 

de mon deliri. 

Tres cavalls, amb les brides 

d'argent guarnides 
amb paraments i selles, 

cinges novelles, 
relliguen a la porta 
que dona a l'horta 
com tot aquell que espera 

i se desespera. 
Lo pare als fills abraça 

dintre de casa; 
cavalguen e ixen fora 

tots a una hora. 

Camina que camina, 

van tots aixina 
per una terra estranya 

i una muntanya. 
El cami té tres vies: 

— Tu, quina tries? 
— Jo (lo major contesta) 

me'n vaig per esta. 
— Jo vaig en deretura 

de la planura. 

— Jo, puix, prenc la dreta, 
la més estreta. 

Lo major acamina 

i hostal no atina; 
un pobret se li acosta 

ja la llum posta. 
— Una almoina, per Déu, 

que sóc romeu. 
— No tinc moneda solta; 

una altra volta. 
Digam, digam on para 

la flor més rara, 
la que busque amb deliri, 

la flor de lliri. 
— Sempre, sempre a la esquerra 

creua la serra. 

Lo mitjà no es detura 

per la planura. 
Un vellet se li acosta 

ja la llum posta: 
Al pobre una almoineta, 

bona animeta. 
— No tinc moneda solta; 

una altra volta. 
Diga'm, diga'm on para 

la flor més rara, 
la que busque amb deliri, 

la flor del lliri. 
— Sempre, sempre a la esquerra 

creua la serra. 

Lo més xiquet camina 

ran d'una mina. 
— Una almoina, per Déu, 

diu un romeu. 


Prenga, germà, i no ho diga. 

— Beneït siga! 
— Per favor, no em diria 

on trovaria 
lo que busque amb deliri, 

la flor del lliri?  
— En la cova encantada 

la té una fada. 
Camina que camina,

troba una nina,
la nina és tan flairosa

com n'és d'hermosa, 
— Eixerida donzella:

per meravella, 
de la cova encantada

sou vós la fada? 
— Jo sóc, mel i ambrosia, 

què me volia? 
— Lo que busque amb deliri,

la flor del lliri.

Lo donzell ja se trova

dins de la cova.
La cova es d'or i marbre 

i al mig hi ha un arbre, 
les verdes branques plenes

d'aus i assutsenes: 
lo lliri al mig rumbeja, 

lluu i espurneja.
-- Pren la flor blava i bella, 

diu la donzella, 
pero jura voler-me 
sens fi ni terme.

Lo donzell sent reviure
lo dolç mig-riure,



porta en lo si la fina

flor peregrina 
i en lo cor la bellesa 

de sa promesa. 
Torna a la casa seua, 

creua que creua. 
Lo cavall sembla a l'aire

la pols o el flaire;
i, com lo llamp que udola,

no corre, vola.

Al mig de sa carrera; 

veu polseguera;

de cavalls allunyades 

sent les patades; 

ja son a prop les dures 

cavalcadures: 

ja se veuen les selles

d'argent novelles,
los tres germans pareixen,

se reconéixen, 
cadascun fa una cara;

cosa més rara! 



Els dos majors se miren, 

pensen, deliren, 
per sos esguards flameja

la negra enveja;
les mans van a les dagues 

i al cor les llagues.
De sang està tenyida 

la flor polida! 

Lo bon donzell ressolla, 

la sang li brolla,  
mira a dreta i esquerra;

i cau en terra.



Ja li han furtat lo lliri 

flor del martiri. 
Ja fugen amb feresa 

com aus de presa. 
Si el pare preguntara, 

qui sap on para? 
«A los tres jorns que ixquerem 

despareguerem; 
ell pujà a la muntanya 

que lo sol banya; 
nosaltres per la serra 

vérem la terra.»


Ha nascut en la fosa 

vermella rosa, 
la flor de les muntanyes, 

llorers i canyes, 
canyes blanques, vermelles, 

lliris, roselles. 
Passa un pastor i arranca 

la canya blanca; 
posant.li una llengüeta 

fa una flauteta, 
i assentat en la roca 

toca que toca. 

Al so de lo cant lliure 

tot torna a viure; 
les flors se bambolegen, 

les aus parlegen, 
lo flabiol canta i xiula, 

piula que piula, 
lo pastor sent rialla, 

balla que balla, 
fins canta l'oreneta

la cançoneta:
«Pastoret, deixa'm en pau: 


calla, calla, no em nomenes, 
que m'han mort en riu d'Arenes 
per la flor del lliri blau.» 

Lo pastor cap al poble 

va del rei noble; 
per les timbes devalla 

balla que balla, 
per los carrers s'enfila 

de l'ampla vila; 
succeeix que quan passa 

voltant la plaça, 
se veu al rei alhora 

plora que plora 
la mort del fill que n'era 

blanc com la cera! 

A lo palau la dida 

lo pastor crida, 
i en la cambra daurada 

li dóna entrada. 
Volten al rei dels pobles 

sos fills i els nobles, 
sos fills, que es tremolegen 

i es bambolegen 
i la mort en la cara 

porten ben clara. 
Lo flabiol al fill dóna 

i així pregona: 
«Mal germà, deixa'm en pau; 
calla, calla, no em nomenes, 
que m'has mort en riu d'Arenes 
per la flor del lliri blau.» 

Lo Rei a sos fills mira, 

sanglota d'ira, 
sos llavis tremolegen, 


sos ulls purnegen, 
«prompte! cavalls i espases, 

llances i maces! 
Pastor! tu pren la via; 

seràs lo guia; 
anem al riu d' Arenes, 

riu de mes penes. 
Vull plorar en la fosa 

on ell reposa!» 


Quart el estol arriba 

a l'ampla riva,
lo sol el camp aclara 

amb sa llum clara. 
L'aucell per l'espai vola, 

l'aigua mormola. 
Lo rei besa la terra 

que al fill soterra; 
la besa i al cel crida 

per dar-li vida; 
i així, com una rosa, 

s'obrí la fosa. 


S'obrí la fosa i d'ella, 

per meravella, 
surten estols d'aucelles 

d'ales vermelles, 
papallones daurades, 

boires rosades, 
un rei molt ric en tratges, 

cavalls i patges, 
una nina agraciada, 

sembla la fada! 
i lo donzell que n'era 

blanc com la cera.

Lo pare al fill abraça,

tornen a casa; 

al aplegar li dóna 

ceptre i corona, 

per muller estimada 
la bona fada;

dóna al pastor noblesa, 
joies, riquesa, 

als roïns germans desterra 
lluny de sa terra, 

i el flabiol canta i xiula, 
piula que piula: 

«Bons donzells, viscau en pau, 

obreu bé per vostra glòria 
que és vera virtut l'història 
de la flor del lliri blau.» "

jueves, 27 de agosto de 2015

THE DEATHS OF NIOBE'S SONS

THE DEATHS OF NIOBE'S SONS
From Ovid's Metamorphoses

139 Niobe's sons were out there
140 Astride gaudy saddle-cloths,
141 Their gold-studded reins bunched in their fingers,
142 Managing muscular horses.

143 Ismenus, Niobe's eldest,
144 Was reining his horse hard,
145 Bringing it round in a tight circle
146 When his spine snapped
147 And a bellow forced his mouth open
148 As a broad-headed bright-red arrow
149 Came clean through him.
150 The reins fell loose. For a moment
151 He embraced the horse's neck, limply,
152 Then slid from its right shoulder.

153 Sipylus looked wildly upward.
154 He heard a quiver rattle high in the air
155 And urged his horse to a full gallop---
160 But it was no good.
161 The god's arrow was already there,
162 The feathers squatting in the nape of his neck,
163 The long shaft sticking from his Adam's apple.
164 He bowed
165 Over the horse's mane and simpl
 166 Rolled on forward and down
167 Under the hooves
168 That churned his limbs briefly, scattering the blood.

169 Phaedimus was no luckier.
170 With his brother---, Tantalus---
173 He had left the horses. These two
174 Were doing what they loved best---
175 Wrestling together, with oiled bodies,
176 And were locked chest to chest,
177 Each straining to fold the other backwards
178 When the arrow
179 From the unerring bow of Apollo
180 Slammed through both, and nailed them together.
181 Each thought his backbone broken by the other.
182 With a single groan they collapsed,
183 Crumpling sideways
184 A monster with eight limbs, clawing for life,
185 Dying a single death from the one wound.

186 Alphenor could not understand
187 What was happening.
188 He hammered his chest with his fists and tore at it
189 With his fingers. He tried
190 To lift his two brothers back on their feet---
191 But as he struggled there, with all his strength
192 Braced under their dead weights,
193 A forked barb of Apollo
194 Touched him beneath his left shoulder-blade.
195 It came out under his ribs, on the right,
196 With a rag of his liver.
197 He felt his heart kicking against the shaft
198 As he dropped into darkness
199 Beneath his brothers.

200 Long-haired Damasichthon was n
ot so lucky
201 To escape so smoothly.
 202 The arrow that brought him down
203 Had gone in behind the knee.
204 He flung back his head,
205 Showing heaven a mask of agony
206 As he made one huge effort to wrench
207 The barbs from their anchorage
208 Behind his tendons.
209 The second arrow found him in that posture.
210 It went in
211 At the base of his throat, in the fork
212 Of his clavicle---
213 And drove straight down through the aorta.
214 A column of blood
215 Ejected it and he fell
216 Like a broken fountain---
217 The blood jetting in twisting and showering arcs
218 From his flailing body.

219 Ilioneus was last.
 220 He dropped to his knees and lifted his arms---
 221 'You gods,' he cried, 'all of you, hear me,
222 Spare me, protect me.'
223 But ignorant of his mother's folly
224 He was ignorant
225 Which gods to appeal to.
226 Apollo the Archer, touched with pity,
227 Regretted the arrow
228 That his eye was following.
229 But the wound was instantly fatal,
230 Surgical, precise, minimal---
231 It stopped his heart before he felt the impact.

viernes, 25 de abril de 2014

REPOSTING ON MY WRITING STYLE

I have written more than ten original tales (not to mention fandom and translations), set between the Thirty Years' War and the 1848 revolutions.
When it comes to detailing the influences I have received, I must mention Hans Christian Andersen, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, and Julio Cortázar as my masters.
Sometimes, I retell plots by other authors in the public domain: Chaucer's Knight's Tale transposed to eighteenth-century Prussia, or "magical flight" folktales, featuring active and dynamic heroines, between Czarist Russia and 1710s Sweden.
In some of my stories, the influence of one author is more patent than that of the rest."The Story of Katinka" (Arc II of The Ringstetten Saga) reads without much detail, quickly, like a folktale. On the other hand, more Andersenian attention to detail is paid in "Les Enfants de la Patrie". "Kristina's Decision" has the rhythm of a French chanson and Dickens's characters' quirks and psychological depths reflected in the heroine.

My stories often feature young aristocratic people of at least average attractiveness, who have to cope with feelings like loneliness, feeling left out, star-crossed love, regret, and dissappointment, in rural and semi-urban communities (royal courts, fortresses and barracks, outposts, military camps, the itinerant life of minstrels and performers). In the past few years, most of my stories ended with both leading characters together in death (the exception being "Ludwig and Károly", with a bittersweet ending: one of the titular rivals dies of his wounds and the other marries the heroine). Since the summer of 2012, I have changed these endings to "happily ever afters" embittered by the loss of one leading character, yet light and rife with hopes for the future (compare the cast, themes, and settings in The Ringstetten Saga or The Countess of Toggenburg).

One of the leitmotifs in my fictional works: there is always a character whose internal state is described in more or less detail when injured or drugged.