HPP: Reflections

I attempted Masha's recipe for butterbeer with chocolate wine because chocolate stout wasn't available at my local liquor store.  Delicious, but not beery enough to be butterbeer.  Safe to say Jenna did better for that.  Oh well.  Here're the pics!

Two drinks of chcolate-infused red wine with melted vanilla gelato.
And one frothy, creamy drink for the little house elf.

Serve with Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone and enjoy!

Two chapters, back to back, like night and day.  One full of intrigue and humor, the other with profundity and emotion.  That's Chapters 11 and 12 in Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

If we didn't get the explanation of quidditch in previous chapters, we are allowed to witness a game.  And in typical Rowling efficiency, several things are accomplished.  Hermione shows her mettle and saves her friend; Dean is the Muggle representative rallying behind ordinary soccer/football; if we ever doubted it before it becomes clear that someone has a death wish out on Harry; and Snape looks suspect in it all once again.

But the "Mirror of Erised" outdoes everything that has come before.  Without this substance, one could argue Harry Potter is only a pretty, action-filled, clever and creative adventure.  And I'm not talking about the fact that Harry sees his parents and loving family, his heart's truest desire.  (Spell out "desire" backward.)  It's the conversation with Dumbledore on the third night of Harry's visit to the mirror.

Catherine Ann Hiley, Walking Tree, source

Rowling does well to place moments of great significance in sync with the yearly cycle, lending them a sort of natural impact, like gravity--whether readers are conscious of it or not.  Harry officially receives his invitation to Hogwarts on his birthday, he bonds with Hermione and Ron over the troll on Halloween, and he first discovers the Mirror of Erised on Christmas evening.

It is Harry's first personal, one-on-one conversation with Dumbledore, and it happens in a very vulnerable moment for young Harry, in the sort of privacy only a haunted castle in the dead of night can give.  Dumbledore speaks to Harry without introduction (of course, we know that he has known Harry all his life, but Harry doesn't).  Harry is an innocent.  It suits his personality, the way he has handled the enormous challenges and changes in his life, and also serves not to distract from the bittersweet impact of seeing his parents.

Catherine Anne Hiley, Erised, source

Harry recognizes that he could sit in this fabricated, temporal heaven for the rest of his life if he wanted.  So absorbed is he in his desire, he doesn't notice that Professor Dumbledore had been sitting there all the while.  The passage merits quoting in full,, with all the meaningful phrases that reached out to me bolded obnoxiously by yours truly:

"I--I didn't see you, sir." 

"Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," said Dumbledore, and Harry was relieved to see that he was smiling. 

"So," said Dumbledore, slipping off the desk to sit on the floor with Harry, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirrors of Erised." 

"I didn't know it was called that, sir." 

"But I expect you've realized by now what it does?" 

"It--well--it shows me my family--" 

"And it showed your friend Ron himself as head boy." 

"How did you know--?" 

"I don't need a cloak to become invisible," said Dumbledore gently.  "Now, can you think what the mirror of Erised shows us all?" 

Harry shook his head. 

"Let me explain.  The happiest man on earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror, that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is.  Does that help?" 

Harry thought.  Then he said slowly, "It shows us what we want . . . whatever we want . . ." 

"Yes and no," said Dumbledore quietly.  "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts.  You, who have never known your family, see them standing around you.  Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them.  However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth.  Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible." 

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again.  If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared.  It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.  Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

Now, for an examination of the bold phrases:

Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you.

I don't have any specific plot-moments at this point that directly relate to this, but it's arresting.  I'm going to hold onto that sentence for future books.  It's too profound not to be meaningful.

I don't need a cloak to become invisible.

A forward statement, probably the closest we've come so far to Dumbledore revealing anything about himself.  It's so vague and avoids commitment, which in and of itself tells us much about him.  But it also confirms my earlier instinct that there is much about Dumbledore that remains unknown.  And the juxtaposition of this revelation with his lighthearted and pleasant reply to Harry's question about what he sees in the mirror--a pair of woolen socks!  Dumbledore might be one of the best characters I've ever met.

It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.

I suspect everybody gets wrapped up in their hearts' desires from time to time.  But the danger lies in sacrificing or neglecting the good we do have to a potential or a might-have or a might-be.

This mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth.

When I read this sentence, it was a writing-in-the-margins kind of revelation.  On a different level, the mirror becomes a metaphor for magic in general, for anything that gives man power over his lot in life and tempts him to discontent: it gives neither truth nor knowledge.  Magic is just a tool.  It isn't The Answer.  It won't heal real wounds like heartbreak and loneliness, and it isn't the answer to the meaning of life or the criteria by which a person's courage, loyalty, and goodness is measured.

The end of this chapter is an encapsulation of one of those experiences that manage to break through the insistent rush and the familiarity-to-the-point-of-staleness that characterize modern being, those moments in which we are touched with clarity, little intrusions of grace.  An almost-instant when the clouds clear and we see the Point, or at least a point, and the rest emerges as shallow and fleeting.  You can't search for these moments or try to grasp them; that's not how it works.  The best you can do is be prepared to recognize one for what it is when it arrives.

Attention!

Attention fairy tale writers!  Enchanted Conversation, one of the best known fairy tale publications online, is hosting a big writing contest with a $200 prize.  The journal is edited by Ms. Kate Wolfold, whom I interviewed here, and is being held in celebration of the release of her book Beyond the Glass Slipper from Worldweaver Press.  The deadline is August 15th, so consider reading up on the rules and entering.

Ms. Wolfold is also looking for regular paid columnists for EC.  Earn a little extra cash doing something you would absolutely be doing anyway.  Am I right?

HPP: Absolutely Normal Danger

Pumpkin pasties are no longer a literary invention (were they ever?  I've never come upon them 'til now, but I will devour a Cornish pasty if you put it in front of me).  Jenna's mastered the art of wizard cooking with a delicious recipe.  I love pasties, and I love pumpkin.  I may just have to attempt this.  If I do, I promise pictures!

My offering this week is much less crafty and productive, and much more fiddling-around-on-the-internet.  Behold!  The three hostesses as Hogwarts students:

Christie

Masha

Jenna

I made Masha Gryffindor, since Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are already spoken for!  (Slytherin's reputation seems too evil for sweet Masha.)  I do wish there were a better variety of dolls, as the three of us probably represent three totally different female body types.  Try it out for yourself at Doll Divine.  There are male doll bases too, obviously.

In Chapters 8, 9, and 10 we pan over the first two months at Hogwarts and get an imaginative introduction of what life is like for schoolwizards and schoolwitches.  Rowling does this while easily advancing the plot.  That's not something a casual reader would probably stop to observe, but it's skillful authoring.

What stood out to me most in these three chapters is something Jenna nailed on the head, so I hardly need repeat myself: the lack of safety and permanent-state-of-potential-danger present for all residents of Hogwarts.  All parties treat it as a matter of course, hardly batting an eyelash.  Passwords, forbidden forests, hell-dog guarded hallways, and poltergeists are among the perils, to start with.  This is a huge part of what makes the world of Harry Potter delightful.  And the fact that Harry just takes it all in stride, I think, helps the reader to as well, and is part of the character of the novel.  The "oh, you know, all of the sudden I'm a wizard and there's this whole new world I've never known of 'til now and I'm actually kinda famous" premise.  Look, the lady keeps topping herself.  You gotta hand it to her.  It's what's meant by the word "page-turner."

Harry's days of being bullied are far from left behind with the Dursleys, but this time around he has friendship, adult affection, and a reputation to put steel in his spine.  Plus, he loves what he's learning, and that makes all the difference.  The broom-flying is delightful.  I like that Harry is a natural at that but that Hermione excells in magic.  It'd be too much if Harry were good at everything.  And I appreciated the conception of the Halloween ball.  Halloween is my favorite holiday--oh to have an invitation to Hogwarts for All Hallows' Eve!

artist unknown, source

Poor Neville continues to develop as the character most often confined to the infirmary, and Hermione . . . while being a nosy, over-achieving, know-it-all, she is really a fantastic character.  I like her immensely, though I don't know how much I'd be able to take if she were my real life classmate.  I like that she knows the rules and wants to follow them.  I like that she is unapologetic about her intelligence and that she speaks her mind.  So when she lied for the boys after they saved her from the troll, I was a bit boggled.  She didn't need to make up a story to McGonagall to explain why she was in the bathroom.  They would have got off the hook just the same if she was honest.  But, I understand that Rowling needed a fair trade, something Hermione would do for them in exchange for their sacrifice for her.  Yet an ominous feeling remains that friendship with Ron and Harry are going to lead her down the rule-breaking road more and more.

Other things are coming together, tightening the knots, trimming the fat.  Harry has reason to believe that the package Hagrid picked up from Gringotts is in Hogwarts, and that what is in it is dangerous and/or valuable.  The fist midnight romp through the castle makes me feel positively festive and like wandering around with a lit candle to look for secret passageways.  One can always hope. . .

Jenna mentions a fair amount of discomfort at Harry's immorality at taking pleasure from his enemies' pain.  I agree that it's a vice, but I'm glad Harry has one.  Otherwise, he'd be a Larry Stew (the male equivalent of a Mary Sue), and this gives him the potential for growth.  The only way I would seriously dislike his depiction thusly is if it came off to the reader in such a way that he or she didn't even notice the wrongness of it, and took it as a matter of course that those who mistreat us deserve their comeuppance.  I don't know if this will be the case.  We'll have to sit tight and read much further before we can say for certain.

As for quidditch: ouch!  It goes right along with the rest of Hogwarts in the way of gleeful violence and casual danger.  The best part of it to me seems to be the flying.  I'm rather a soccer fan, myself.

HPP: Hats and Houses

I've held my peace as long as I could, but it's time to declare House loyalties.

Herzfield of dA, source

That's right, I'm a Ravenclaw!

Well, okay, so this sorting hat quiz classified me as Hufflepuff, with Ravenclaw as a close second.  I dug that up today to be your treat of the week.  If you've never donned the sorting hat before, give it a whirl, and tell me where you're sorted!

Sort!

Warning: it takes a bit of time.  If you know of any better of more accurate quizzes, do tell.

The whole concept of sorting and school houses in Chapter 7 is challenging.  We get right off the bat that each house is a caricature--there's the hero, the friend, the scholar, and the prince (Machiavelli style).  But we're not told the exact methodology of sorting.  The sorting hat senses much of Slytherin in Harry (which is the stereotypical Bad Guy house), but Harry begs for Gryffindor, and his request is granted.  Since I've always identified as a Ravenclaw up until today, I wonder how I would fare.  How much of the sorting has to do with what you aspire to be or hope to accomplish, your values as it were, and how much of it depends on the reality of things, the way you are now?

Throw into that recipe that all the houses (except apparently Slytherin, which is, again, reserved for baddies) have a good mixture of all the personalities.  What we've seen so far from Hermione shows Ravenclaw.  Ron is an aspiring Gryffindor whose goofiness suits him to Hufflepuff.  Harry too would fit well with the modest, fair-minded, friendly crowd, though he's shown moments of courage in standing up for his friends.

Tetsuya Nomura, source

Masha observes that, excepting the badger for Hufflepuff, the patron animals of the Hogwarts houses together make up a Chimera.  This brings to the forefront of my mind the idea that the houses of Hogwarts are actually four different aspects of one person.  Though more developed in some than in others, most characters--and all real people--have to some extend the daring of Gryffindor, the loyalty of Hufflepuff, the cleverness of Ravenclaw, and the potential for power that is in Slytherin.  It would do very well to explain the stereotyping of the houses because each house is not a complete personality, but an aspect of one boiled down to its essence (oooh, alchemy terminology--totally unintentional!).  It also eases my discomfort in the houses' selective virtues.

From my limited knowledge of the English public school (equivalent to American private schools), the house system is a tradition used as a built-in social structure, which allows for inter-student regulation and keeps the adults' arms free of disciplinary duties.  My expectation is that we won't see a whole lot of authority figure intervention in the formation of morals and in peacemaking.  Hogwarts even has prefects, which is taken straight from the English fagging system.  The fagging system is extremely controversial because of how it put power into the hands of unsupervised children and often led to bullying and abuse.  People like C.S. Lewis--and my father-in-law for one--remember the public school system with a resigned kind of horror, or at least extreme distaste.  On the positive side, division into houses is meant to foster loyalty and give incentive for upright behavior and academic success.  So I'm alert for potential complications to arise from the Hogwarts housing system.

source

Now to state the obvious, in Chapter 7 we're introduced to Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape, men who will become the angel and the demon on Harry's shoulder, respectively.  The association with Snape and the pain in Harry's scar is too (intentionally) tactless for me to take at face value.  Dumbledore, whose reserved charm lured me in the first chapter, secures loyalty in my heart forever with the following:

Albus Dumbledore had gotten to his feet.  He was beaming at the students, his arms opened wide, as if nothing could have pleased him more than to see them all there. 

"Welcome!" he said.  "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts!  Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words.  And here they are: Nitwit!  Blubber!  Oddment!  Tweak! 

"Thank you!" 

He sat back down.  Everybody clapped and cheered.  Harry didn't know whether to laugh or not. 

"Is he--a bit mad?" he asked Percy uncertainly. 

"Mad?" said Percy airily.  "He's a genius!  Best wizard in the world!  But he is a bit mad, yes. . ."

I see why these students idolize him!

In addition to professors and houses, we meet a crypt-full of ghosts in this chapter.  It seems suitable in the order of fantasy creatures that after witches we get ghosts.  And while they too are caricatures, they are residents and former students of the Hogwarts houses, which begs the question . . . what happens to witches and wizards when they die?  Or anybody?  Because these ghosts aren't a species in themselves but formerly living persons.  To me, that odd bit of absence at the beginning is jarring.  However, I can hardly see how Rowling would incorporate an explanation without ruining the pace and light-heartedness of the narrative.

This glaring absence may be key to a larger silence in the novels.  Spirituality is left out of the story entirely.  Masha notes that Rowling's magic is materialist.  It deals only with the physical realm.  Magic is the inherited ability of wizards to exert influence on the world around them.  A spiritualist backdrop would come with a lot of baggage Rowling was wise do avoid.  But I don't believe for a minute that this means the question of right and wrong, good and bad, the just and the wicked, is nonexistent.  Only that the avoided complications smooth the path for a clear-cut story, with obvious and inarguable views of right and wrong.  Harry Potter is, after all, a fairy tale.

The Horns of Elfland

Following up on Masha's excellent guest post of the experience of unnamed beauty as a strange country:

“In speaking of this desire for our own faroff country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness.  I am almost committing an indecency.  I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you—the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both.  We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience.  We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name.  Our commonest expedient is to call it beauty and behave as if that had settled the matter. Wordsworth’s expedient was to identify it with certain moments in his own past.  But all this is a cheat.  If Wordsworth had gone back to those moments in the past, he would not have found the thing itself, but only the reminder of it; what he remembered would turn out to be itself a remembering.  The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing.  These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshippers.  For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.”--C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

This thin, clear note is a common thread running through all fairy tales.  It's the shudder felt when a poet mentions "the horns of Elfland," or the familiar longing--what a conundrum! how can you so know something you've never possessed--that rises like smoke and freezes at the mention of "glass mountain," or  "seven miles of steel thistles."

Pawel Matys, New Day, source

It's what makes them resonate with us and pause and say, "I've heard of you before . . . but where?"  It exists not in three dimensions, but in loose ties to this mortal realm, with overlapping every now and then, which we label beauty and magic and enlightenment.  But, I think, it is truer to call it Faerie.  Faerie does not disclose itself.  Fairy tales recognize its amorphous nature; they make it almost a living thing, with fickle whims, extreme devotions, a fast temper, and unspeakable benevolence.  It's what makes Faerie, in so many traditions, a blessed isle.  A place so near yet separated from us by a brooding, impenetrable mystery.

We cannot go to that land together.  At least not in this life.  But we can find consolation in meeting the traveler on the road, making a friend of a stranger, and saying, "I, too, have heard them sound the horns of Elfland."