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Le Cygne

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    More Beauty and the Beast on my About Me

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  1. Le Cygne

    Outlander II: Sing me a Song...

    Sure is! Here's more on the locations: Showrunner Ron Moore reveals that the producers did initially investigate shooting the new season in the United States as many other TV shows do, but ultimately decided against it. “We looked into it, and it just didn't make sense to us for a lot of reasons, both financial and also we have this enormous infrastructure and this amazing team of artisans and craftspeople and crew in Scotland, and ultimately we just didn't really want to let go of and start all over again," Moore says. “So we will shoot Scotland for America. We will also travel to eastern Europe to do some exterior work to sort of sell the mountains of North Carolina the rivers and things like that.” https://mashable.com/2017/12/10/outlander-season-4-america-spoilers-season-3-finale-recap/
  2. Le Cygne

    Outlander II: Sing me a Song...

    Cool, you started a thread! They will keep filming in Scotland.
  3. Le Cygne

    U.S. Politics: The Flood Shall Wash Away The Cobbs

    Perfect! It's all playing out before our eyes.
  4. Le Cygne

    U.S. Politics: The Flood Shall Wash Away The Cobbs

    He sure did. It's shocking even today. Wow.
  5. Le Cygne

    BIRDS (and how to look at them)

    Fabulous! I wonder sometimes if birds know how fabulous they are and how much joy they bring us. I hope so!
  6. A good quote from Jamaica Inn, by Daphne du Maurier, about that push and pull that is typical of the romances in this series. "Falling in love was a pretty name for it, that was all. Jem Merlyn was a man, and she was a woman, and whether it was his hands or his skin or his smile she did not know, but something inside her responded to him, and the very thought of him was an irritant and a stimulant at the same time. It nagged at her and would not let her be."
  7. I added those! Kept finding more.
  8. Glad you liked it! For the purposes of this thread, the term "romance" is used in terms of the overall story. With romance as a genre, the story often begins when the characters are younger, to show character development that leads to the eventual romantic conclusion. The seeds are planted, then grow, it's all part of the "romance" as a story. Adding this video I found, just to show an example from another story, starting the story when they are young to set up the connection, like with George and Mary in It's A Wonderful Life:
  9. Ah, that's beautifully said, and very true. She gets to decide, and that's what makes it so special.
  10. Oh, that's a good one! There's also a name Geillis as a "seer of the future" uses, Melisande! And lots more, like Jamie saying to Claire, like Sandor says to Sansa, whether you will it or no, which is about strong feelings on an instinctual level, something deep and true. I like that DG says Marsali's strength is her own inner feelings, and knowing what she wants. That's something no one can ever take from her, not even a cruel world, that strength that comes from within.
  11. He's got some nice Jane Eyre ones going on, too. Right down to the wording, I'll add that later.
  12. Nice points, and a great find of the cedar hope chest mention in GRRM's other story! These were commonly used by young women to prepare for married life. I found some ads here and here. Love stories are about hope, and this one is beautifully so. Found a nice quote from Diana Gabaldon in Voyager, Marsali reminds me of Sansa. She wants to marry the man she loves, Fergus, who, like Sandor, has only his heart to offer, and he's older, too (Marsali is 15, Fergus is 30), but she knows what she wants: So she had done it. One fifteen-year-old girl, with nothing but stubbornness as a weapon. “I want him,” she had said. And kept saying it, through her mother’s objections and Jamie’s arguments, through Fergus’s scruples and her own fears, through three thousand miles of homesickness, hardship, ocean storm, and shipwreck. She raised her face, shining, and found her mirror in Fergus’s eyes. I saw them look at each other, and felt the tears prickle behind my lids. “I want him.”
  13. Great points! And this is what it comes down to, she wants to make her own choices! (I put my comment above.)
  14. Sandor showed love for Sansa from the start, I think the turning point in their story is that Sansa shows her love for Sandor. Now it's her turn to show her love for him, and I think she will in a big way, it's the next beat of the Beauty and the Beast story. In Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Darcy showed his love for Elizabeth Bennet by looking out for her sister, and she was very moved by that. I think we will see a similar scene in this series, Sandor showed his love for Sansa by looking out for her sister.
  15. Extra -- Sansa and Sandor ~ Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester (Charlotte Bronte) Parallels -- A little bird: Jane/Mr. R: "I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close-set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high." ... "Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you: but kiss me before you go - embrace me, Jane." Sansa/Sandor: "You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite." ... "You promised me a song, little bird. Have you forgotten?" ... "The little bird flew away, did she? Well bloody good for her." A beast: Jane/Mr. R: "Am I hideous, Jane?" "Very, sir: you always were, you know." "Have you a pocket-comb about you, sir?" "What for, Jane?" "Just to comb out this shaggy black mane. I find you rather alarming, when I examine you close at hand: you talk of my being a fairy, but I am sure, you are more like a brownie." Sansa/Sandor: "Look at me. Look at me!" Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. "There's a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to." ... She found his massive shoulder with her hand. "He was no true knight," she whispered to him. The Hound threw back his head and roared. He gives her his cloak: Jane/Mr. R: "Not at all: just be still. You have a shawl on. If you are not warm enough, you may take my cloak yonder; wrap it about you, and sit down in the arm-chair: there, -- I will put it on." ... "Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloak round you." Sansa/Sandor: Sandor Clegane unfastened his cloak and tossed it at her. Sansa clutched it against her chest, fists bunched hard in the white wool. The coarse weave was scratchy against her skin, but no velvet had ever felt so fine. ... She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire... She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it on the floor, shivering. She compares him to other men, and prefers his beastliness: Jane/Mr. R: I compared him with Mr. Rochester. I think (with deference be it spoken) the contrast could not be much greater between a sleek gander and a fierce falcon: between a meek sheep and the rough-coated keen-eyed dog, its guardian. Sansa/Sandor: I wish the Hound were here... When the appointed night arrived, another of the Kingsguard came for her, a man as different from Sandor Clegane... as... well, as a flower from a dog. ... and his ferocity: Jane/Mr. R: And, reader, do you think I feared him in his blind ferocity? -- if you do, you little know me. Sansa/Sandor: And yet, some part of her wished that Ser Dontos had a little of the Hound's ferocity. Harsh as he was: Jane/Mr. R: And was Mr. Rochester now ugly in my eyes? No, reader: gratitude, and many associations, all pleasurable and genial, made his face the object I best liked to see... I believed that his moodiness, his harshness, and his former faults of morality (I say former, for now he seemed corrected of them) had their source in some cruel cross of fate. Sansa/Sandor: I would be gladder if it were the Hound, Sansa thought. Harsh as he was, she did not believe Sandor Clegane would let any harm come to her. ... I wish the Hound were here... But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder: Jane/Mr. R: He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with some stress, limped to his horse. Sansa/Sandor: The Hound laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. ... From the way he moved, it was plain to see that he was lame. Innocence and experience: Jane/Mr. R (he's 20 years older than her): "Then, in the first place, do you agree with me that I have a right to be a little masterful, abrupt, perhaps exacting, sometimes, on the grounds I stated, namely, that I am old enough to be your father, and that I have battled through a varied experience with many men of many nations, and roamed over half the globe, while you have lived quietly with one set of people in one house?"..."I don't think, sir, you have a right to command me, merely because you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I have; your claim to superiority depends on the use you have made of your time and experience."... "Mr. Rochester was about forty, and this governess not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen of his age fall in love with girls, they are often like as if they were bewitched. Well, he would marry her." Sansa/Sandor (he's 15 years older than her): "You look almost a woman... face, teats, and you're taller too, almost... ah, you're still a stupid little bird, aren't you? Singing all the songs they taught you... sing me a song, why don't you? Go on. Sing to me. Some song about knights and fair maids. You like knights, don't you?... Do you like wine, little bird? True wine? A flagon of sour red, dark as blood, all a man needs. Or a woman." ... As they were winding their way up the steps, she said, "Why do you let people call you a dog? You won't let anyone call you a knight." A climb and a view from the roof: Jane/Mr. R: Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then, when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the gates and looked through them along the road; or when, while Adèle played with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom, I climbed the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attic, and having reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and hill, and along dim sky-line -- that then I longed for a power of vision which might overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, regions full of life I had heard of but never seen -- that then I desired more of practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind, of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my reach. Sansa/Sandor: Sansa could go where she would so long as she did not try to leave the castle, but there was nowhere she wanted to go. She crossed over the dry moat with its cruel iron spikes and made her way up the narrow turnpike stair, but when she reached the door of her bedchamber she could not bear to enter. The very walls of the room made her feel trapped; even with the window opened wide it felt as though there were no air to breathe. Turning back to the stair, Sansa climbed. The smoke blotted out the stars and the thin crescent of moon, so the roof was dark and thick with shadows. Yet from here she could see everything: the Red Keep's tall towers and great cornerforts, the maze of city streets beyond, to south and west the river running black, the bay to the east, the columns of smoke and cinders, and fires, fires everywhere. A black horse (and a black dog): Jane/Mr. R: Mr. Rochester's black horse: Mesrour, named for the Arabian Nights executioner (and he has a black dog, Pilot): I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct object against the trees... I put down my muff on the stile, and went up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and would not let me come near its head; I made effort on effort, though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of its trampling fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last he laughed. Sansa/Sandor: Sandor's black horse: Stranger, named for the death aspect of the Seven: Stranger, the Hound called him. Arya had tried to steal him once, when Clegane was taking a piss against a tree, thinking she could ride off before he could catch her. Stranger had almost bitten her face off. He was gentle as an old gelding with his master, but otherwise he had a temper as black as he was. She had never known a horse so quick to bite or kick. Look at me: Jane/Mr. R: I both wished and feared to see Mr. Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night: I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eye. ... "Tell me now, fairy as you are - can’t you give me a charm, or a philter, or something of that sort, to make me a handsome man?" "It would be past the power of magic, sir;" and, in thought, I added, "A loving eye is all the charm needed: to such you are handsome enough; or rather your sternness has a power beyond beauty." Sansa/Sandor: "The little bird still can't bear to look at me, can she?" The Hound released her. "You were glad enough to see my face when the mob had you, though. Remember?" ... The Hound leapt at them, his sword a blur of steel that trailed a red mist as it swung. When they broke and ran before him he had laughed, his terrible burned face for a moment transformed. Kissed by fire: Jane/Mr. R: Tongues of flame darted round the bed: the curtains were on fire. In the midst of blaze and vapour, Mr. Rochester lay stretched motionless, in deep sleep... "It is a pity to see it; and a pity to see your eyes—and the scar of fire on your forehead: and the worst of it is, one is in danger of loving you too well for all this; and making too much of you." Sansa/Sandor: But Sansa understood. She knew the secret of his burned face. It was only the fire he feared. That night, the wildfire had set the river itself ablaze, and filled the very air with green flame. Even in the castle, Sansa had been afraid. Outside... she could scarcely imagine it. A caress, and manly tears: Jane/Mr. R: I caressed, in order to soothe him. I knew of what he was thinking, and wanted to speak for him, but dared not. As he turned aside his face a minute, I saw a tear slide from under the sealed eyelid, and trickle down the manly cheek. My heart swelled. Sansa/Sandor: Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. "Little bird," he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. A sexually charged parting: Jane/Mr. R: Suddenly he turned away, with an inarticulate exclamation, full of passionate emotion of some kind; he walked fast through the room and came back; he stooped towards me as if to kiss me; but I remembered caresses were now forbidden. I turned my face away and put his aside... “Jane! will you hear reason?” (he stooped and approached his lips to my ear); “because, if you won’t, I’ll try violence.” His voice was hoarse; his look that of a man who is just about to burst an insufferable bond and plunge headlong into wild license. I saw that in another moment, and with one impetus of frenzy more, I should be able to do nothing with him. The present—the passing second of time—was all I had in which to control and restrain him—a movement of repulsion, flight, fear would have sealed my doom,—and his. But I was not afraid: not in the least. I felt an inward power; a sense of influence, which supported me. The crisis was perilous; but not without its charm: such as the Indian, perhaps, feels when he slips over the rapid in his canoe. I took hold of his clenched hand, loosened the contorted fingers, and said to him, soothingly— “Sit down; I’ll talk to you as long as you like, and hear all you have to say, whether reasonable or unreasonable.” Sansa/Sandor: "I could keep you safe," he rasped. "They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them." He yanked her closer, and for a moment she thought he meant to kiss her. He was too strong to fight. She closed her eyes, wanting it to be over, but nothing happened. "Still can't bear to look, can you?" she heard him say. He gave her arm a hard wrench, pulling her around and shoving her down onto the bed. "I'll have that song. Florian and Jonquil, you said." His dagger was out, poised at her throat. "Sing, little bird. Sing for your little life." ... Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. "Little bird," he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. Then he rose from the bed... When she crawled out of bed, long moments later, she was alone. She found his cloak on the floor, twisted up tight, the white wool stained by blood and fire... She shook out the torn cloak and huddled beneath it... Dreams of him: Jane/Mr. R: At this period of my life, my heart far oftener swelled with thankfulness than sank with dejection: and yet, reader, to tell you all, in the midst of this calm, this useful existence - after a day passed in honourable exertion amongst my scholars, an evening spent in drawing or reading contentedly alone - I used to rush into strange dreams at night: dreams many-coloured, agitated, full of the ideal, the stirring, the stormy - dreams where, amidst unusual scenes, charged with adventure, with agitating risk and romantic chance, I still again and again met Mr. Rochester, always at some exciting crisis; and then the sense of being in his arms, hearing his voice, meeting his eye, touching his hand and cheek, loving him, being loved by him - the hope of passing a lifetime at his side, would be renewed, with all its first force and fire. Then I awoke. Then I recalled where I was, and how situated. Then I rose up on my curtainless bed, trembling and quivering; and then the still, dark night witnessed the convulsion of despair, and heard the burst of passion. Sansa/Sandor: That night Sansa scarcely slept at all, but tossed and turned just as she had aboard the Merling King... And she dreamed of her wedding night too, of Tyrion’s eyes devouring her as she undressed. Only then he was bigger than Tyrion had any right to be, and when he climbed into the bed his face was scarred only on one side. “I'll have a song from you,” he rasped, and Sansa woke and found the old blind dog beside her once again. "I wish that you were Lady," she said. ... As the boy's lips touched her own she found herself thinking of another kiss. She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak. Missing her: Jane/Mr. R: "Who can tell what a dark, dreary, hopeless life I have dragged on for months past? Doing nothing, expecting nothing; merging night in day; feeling but the sensation of cold when I let the fire go out, of hunger when I forgot to eat: and then a ceaseless sorrow, and, at times, a very delirium of desire to behold my Jane again." Sansa/Sandor: The Hound no longer troubled to hide his face. He no longer seemed to care who knew him. ... His eyes opened. "You remember where the heart is?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.... He made a queer sound, and it took her a moment to realize he was sobbing. "And the little bird, your pretty sister..." A quiet island: Jane/Mr. R: "My little friend!" said he, "I wish I were in a quiet island with only you; and trouble, and danger, and hideous recollections removed from me." Sansa/Sandor: "Why do they call it the Quiet Isle?" asked Podrick. "Those who dwell here are penitents, who seek to atone for their sins through contemplation, prayer, and silence." ... On the upper slopes they saw three boys driving sheep, and higher still they passed a lichyard where a brother bigger than Brienne was struggling to dig a grave. An elder brother: Jane/Mr. R: "He lost his elder brother a few years since." "His elder brother?" "Yes. The present Mr. Rochester has not been very long in possession of the property; only about nine years." "Nine years is a tolerable time. Was he so very fond of his brother as to be still inconsolable for his loss?" "Why, no—perhaps not. I believe there were some misunderstandings between them." Sansa/Sandor: "A woodcarver set up shop in the village under my father’s keep, and to buy favor he sent us gifts. The old man made marvelous toys. I don’t remember what I got, but it was Gregor’s gift I wanted. A wooden knight..." ... "He is at rest." The Elder Brother paused. "You are young, child. I have counted four-and-forty name days … which makes me more than twice your age, I think." An irreligious dog: Jane/Mr. R: "Jane! you think me, I daresay, an irreligious dog: but my heart swells with gratitude to the beneficent God of this earth just now." Sansa/Sandor: The gravedigger lowered his head. When Dog went to sniff him he dropped his spade and scratched his ear. ... "Wolves are nobler than that... And so are dogs, I think." No ruin, but a safe prop for new life: Jane/Mr. R: "I am no better than the old lightning-struck chestnut-tree in Thornfield orchard," he remarked ere long. "And what right would that ruin have to bid a budding woodbine cover its decay with freshness?" "You are no ruin, sir—no lightning-struck tree: you are green and vigorous. Plants will grow about your roots, whether you ask them or not, because they take delight in your bountiful shadow; and as they grow they will lean towards you, and wind round you, because your strength offers them so safe a prop." Sansa/Sandor: On the upper slopes they saw three boys driving sheep, and higher still they passed a lichyard where a brother bigger than Brienne was struggling to dig a grave. From the way he moved, it was plain to see that he was lame... When Dog went to sniff him he dropped his spade and scratched his ear. I heard a voice... Where are you?: Jane/Mr. R: The craving to know what had become of him followed me everywhere... I sought my bedroom each night to brood over it. ... I saw nothing, but I heard a voice somewhere cry - "Jane! Jane! Jane!" - nothing more.. And it was the voice of a human being - a known, loved, well-remembered voice - that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe, wildly, eerily, urgently. "I am coming!" I cried. "Wait for me! Oh, I will come!"... "Where are you?" I exclaimed. Sansa/Sandor: A dog can smell a lie, you know, the Hound had told her once. She could almost hear the rough rasp of his voice. Look around you, and take a good whiff. They're all liars here, and every one better than you. She wondered what had become of Sandor Clegane. ... "Singer," a rough voice said, "best go, if you want to sing again." The light was dim, but she saw a faint glimmer of a blade... It was Lothor Brune's voice, she realized. Not the Hound's, no, how could it be? Of course it had to be Lothor. An heiress staying with cousins under an alias: Jane/Mr. R: "My name is Jane Elliott." Sansa/Sandor: "Alayne... Stone, would it be?" An unwanted suitor who wants another woman: Jane/Mr. R: St. John: "fair, blue eyes, a Grecian profile" Sansa/Sandor: Harry: "sandy blond hair, pale blue eyes, an aquiline nose" She wants to marry for love: Jane/Mr. R: "Marry! I don't want to marry, and never shall marry... No one would take me for love; and I will not be regarded in the light of a mere money speculation." Sansa/Sandor: She did not want to wed again, not now, perhaps not ever. ... It is not me she wants her son to marry, it is my claim. No one will ever marry me for love.
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