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i_read_whatSo one thing that tends to happen a lot in Drizzt books is a multi-page monologue from Drizzt that intersperses the text.
And we've reached one here. This little interlude doesn't have a chapter number, though it's listed as "Part Two - The Weapons Master", indicating that we're reaching a new portion of the book.
And well, it's Drizzt.
Actually as Drizzt monologues go, this one isn't so bad. Probably because, for once, Drizzt actually has something to complain about. His upbringing was awful, legitimately. And therefore I sympathize with Drizzt this time.
And I won't say the man doesn't have moments of eloquence:
Minutes blended into hours, hours into days, and so on, until the whole of it seemed one long and barren moment. Several times I managed to sneak out onto the balcony of House Do’Urden and look out over the magical lights of Menzoberranzan. On all of those secret journeys, I found myself entranced by the growing, and dissipating, heatlight of Narbondel, the timeclock pillar. Looking back on that now, on those long hours watching the glow of the wizard’s fire slowly walk its way up and down the pillar I am amazed at the emptiness of my early days.
This is quite nice. As is this:
Whenever I hear the crack of a whip, another memory—more a sensation than a memory actually—sends a shiver through my spine. The shocking jolt and the ensuing numbness from those snake-headed weapons is not something that any person would soon forget. They bite under your skin, sending waves of magical energy through your body, waves that make your muscles snap and pull beyond their limits.
Yet I was luckier than most. My sister Vierna was near to becoming a high priestess when she was assigned the task of rearing me and was at a period of her life where she possessed far more energy than such a job required. Perhaps, then, there was more to those first ten years under her care than I now recall. Vierna never showed the intense wickedness of our mother—or, more particularly, of our oldest sister, Briza. Perhaps there were good times in the solitude of the house chapel; it is possible that Vierna allowed a more gentle side of herself to show through to her baby brother.
The uncertain language is because, as noted in the beginning of the monologue, Drizzt has few conscious memories of his first sixteen years of life. Anyway, Drizzt notes that Vierna is the kindest of his sisters, but her words still "drip in the venom of Lolth" and that she was unlikely to risk her ambition for his sake.
I really do like the matter of fact way that Drizzt relates the trauma of his backstory.
Whether there were indeed joys in those years, obscured in the unrelenting assault of Menzoberranzan’s wickedness, or whether that earliest period of my life was even more painful than the years that followed—so painful that my mind hides the memories—I cannot be certain. For all my efforts, I cannot remember them.
I have more insight into the next six years, but the most prominent recollection of the days I spent serving the court of Matron Malice—aside from the secret trips outside the house—is the image of my own feet.
A page prince is never allowed to raise his gaze.
Really, given the length of this interlude, I should probably move onto the next chapter. But to be honest, it's a longer one and fairly plot significant, so I'm going to hold off for next week.
See you then!
And we've reached one here. This little interlude doesn't have a chapter number, though it's listed as "Part Two - The Weapons Master", indicating that we're reaching a new portion of the book.
And well, it's Drizzt.
Actually as Drizzt monologues go, this one isn't so bad. Probably because, for once, Drizzt actually has something to complain about. His upbringing was awful, legitimately. And therefore I sympathize with Drizzt this time.
And I won't say the man doesn't have moments of eloquence:
Minutes blended into hours, hours into days, and so on, until the whole of it seemed one long and barren moment. Several times I managed to sneak out onto the balcony of House Do’Urden and look out over the magical lights of Menzoberranzan. On all of those secret journeys, I found myself entranced by the growing, and dissipating, heatlight of Narbondel, the timeclock pillar. Looking back on that now, on those long hours watching the glow of the wizard’s fire slowly walk its way up and down the pillar I am amazed at the emptiness of my early days.
This is quite nice. As is this:
Whenever I hear the crack of a whip, another memory—more a sensation than a memory actually—sends a shiver through my spine. The shocking jolt and the ensuing numbness from those snake-headed weapons is not something that any person would soon forget. They bite under your skin, sending waves of magical energy through your body, waves that make your muscles snap and pull beyond their limits.
Yet I was luckier than most. My sister Vierna was near to becoming a high priestess when she was assigned the task of rearing me and was at a period of her life where she possessed far more energy than such a job required. Perhaps, then, there was more to those first ten years under her care than I now recall. Vierna never showed the intense wickedness of our mother—or, more particularly, of our oldest sister, Briza. Perhaps there were good times in the solitude of the house chapel; it is possible that Vierna allowed a more gentle side of herself to show through to her baby brother.
The uncertain language is because, as noted in the beginning of the monologue, Drizzt has few conscious memories of his first sixteen years of life. Anyway, Drizzt notes that Vierna is the kindest of his sisters, but her words still "drip in the venom of Lolth" and that she was unlikely to risk her ambition for his sake.
I really do like the matter of fact way that Drizzt relates the trauma of his backstory.
Whether there were indeed joys in those years, obscured in the unrelenting assault of Menzoberranzan’s wickedness, or whether that earliest period of my life was even more painful than the years that followed—so painful that my mind hides the memories—I cannot be certain. For all my efforts, I cannot remember them.
I have more insight into the next six years, but the most prominent recollection of the days I spent serving the court of Matron Malice—aside from the secret trips outside the house—is the image of my own feet.
A page prince is never allowed to raise his gaze.
Really, given the length of this interlude, I should probably move onto the next chapter. But to be honest, it's a longer one and fairly plot significant, so I'm going to hold off for next week.
See you then!