I dreamed last night that we had a girl, but the girl was about the size of a June bug, small enough to cradle in my palm. The problem was that we were with Mary’s family, and all the women were horrified that I was holding the baby. They kept trying to take her away. Irritated but not wanting to offend, I started hiding behind things when the women came around. Then my alarm went off.
I finished my little abridged Malory last night, and I was right–not even Gawain, who becomes fiendishly strong as the sun rises, could beat Launcelot. Instead, the flower of knighthood fasted himself to death upon the death of Guinevere. By the end of things, all the knights were either dead (mostly by the hand of Launcelot), monks, or fighting in the Crusades (no mind that they were six hundred years away when the Welsh warlord Arturus was alive). I have no doubt, now having read two hundred fifty pages of Malory, that he finds some clear faults with medieval chivalry, not just any given practitioner of it. In Malory’s world, might truly makes right, and a knight who denies a crime narrated mere pages before as clearly committed by said knight is innocent in the final sum of things so long as he can kill his accuser in a joust. By the end of my little abridged version, Launcelot has slept with Guinevere at least four times, but because he’s so good in a fight, he stands innocent on all counts.
I’ve got an eight hour shift at the library today, so I’m going to wait until the eleven o’clock lull to start reading over at the Ooze. Between that and Niebuhr, it ought to be a good day.