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lol, tumblr
Not even f-locking this.
Okay, another anti-woobification rant popped on my dash, of the 'I just don't understand stupid shallow fangirls acting like their woobies are just misunderstood, why do they have to ruin the characters for the rest of us' variety. So I responded with, well, that'd be because they think they ARE misunderstood, at least to some extent, and fandoms often focus on dark characters' softer sides because it's what conflicts with the general villainy and makes them interesting in the first place, and come on, other people interpreting characters differently doesn't ruin the characters, even if we think the other interpretations make no sense. We can disagree and point out problematic trends and all that without going all STOP HAVING FUN, GUYS at swaths of fandom.
(Or: If you think Darcy is a hot-tempered, impulsive, fiercely authoritarian, debonair, alpha male, sex god who constantly broods over the torment of his soul, I think you're wrong. I don't, however, think that you're stupid, immoral, or somehow wrecking Darcy as I see him in the book, I just disagree. And probably don't like your fic. That's okay.)
I was unprepared, however, for the OP's brilliantly persuasive rebuttal:
go away i don't care
Wow, I'm crushed. Of course, then other people were responding to me, and she complained about that, then deleted her posts, and now she's complaining that those people just don't understand, she was talking about woobies and not just liking villains, her username is a villain, some people just have no reading comprehension, GOD. Because, clearly, we weren't talking at all about woobification, just about enjoying evil characters being evil. Getting a kick out of Palpatine's machinations and MUAHAHAHAHAHA ULTIMATE POWAH!!! is the only proper way to like villains.
Okay, another anti-woobification rant popped on my dash, of the 'I just don't understand stupid shallow fangirls acting like their woobies are just misunderstood, why do they have to ruin the characters for the rest of us' variety. So I responded with, well, that'd be because they think they ARE misunderstood, at least to some extent, and fandoms often focus on dark characters' softer sides because it's what conflicts with the general villainy and makes them interesting in the first place, and come on, other people interpreting characters differently doesn't ruin the characters, even if we think the other interpretations make no sense. We can disagree and point out problematic trends and all that without going all STOP HAVING FUN, GUYS at swaths of fandom.
(Or: If you think Darcy is a hot-tempered, impulsive, fiercely authoritarian, debonair, alpha male, sex god who constantly broods over the torment of his soul, I think you're wrong. I don't, however, think that you're stupid, immoral, or somehow wrecking Darcy as I see him in the book, I just disagree. And probably don't like your fic. That's okay.)
I was unprepared, however, for the OP's brilliantly persuasive rebuttal:
go away i don't care
Wow, I'm crushed. Of course, then other people were responding to me, and she complained about that, then deleted her posts, and now she's complaining that those people just don't understand, she was talking about woobies and not just liking villains, her username is a villain, some people just have no reading comprehension, GOD. Because, clearly, we weren't talking at all about woobification, just about enjoying evil characters being evil. Getting a kick out of Palpatine's machinations and MUAHAHAHAHAHA ULTIMATE POWAH!!! is the only proper way to like villains.
no subject
OKAY HERE HAVE COMMENT-FIC!
The physics department mid-year party (no one dared call it a “Christmas” party, at least not in Dr. Bennet-Darcy’s hearing, unless that someone wished their ears to ring not with silver bells but with chastisements for cultural insensitivity) was (despite this caveat), one of the most popular and well-attended at the university. The graduate students (not normally considered the cream of the dating crop at a school which also boasted both a Division I football team and a nationally recognized cheerleading squad, though some of the latter were male as well) often found themselves besieged with romantic propositions at this time of year, solely for the purpose of the propositioners’ acquiring an invitation to said gathering. (Physics students are human: the gambit often worked, at least to an extent, and sometimes enduring, if not perhaps altogether successful, relationships even sprang from these unlikely beginnings.)
The success of the party was due to several factors. In the first place, Dean Bingley and his wife Jane were nothing if not gracious and genial hosts, able not merely to converse with everyone from his faculty and students to their dates (including the sort acquired through the above process, which one biology professor, the spouse of one of the physics department’s members, was heard to opine defeated the concept of assortive mating), and what was far more challenging the occasional would-be financial backer from the private or government sector; they made them feel at home. While Jane freely admitted that she was no kind of cook, she also had no shame in hiring the best of caterers to provide the backbone of the repast, and then those in the department who did have culinary talents were encouraged to provide as well. The alcohol was of equal quality and equal abundance, and--- due no doubt to the diversity of the guest list--- it was possible for nearly everyone in attendance to find some form of congenial company, if they so wished.
If they so wished; but the congeniality and largesse of their hosts nor that of their fellow guests formed the greatest attraction of the party. No; that honor belonged to the annual dispute between the members of the department’s star research team--- who happened not only to be husband and wife, but the best friend of the dean and his wife’s younger sister, respectively.
“And here we go again,” Jane Bennet-Bingley sighed to her husband as the noise of this year’s argument reached their ears from a room away.
“They got a late start this year, don’t you think, dear?” Dean Bingley agreed, sipping comfortably from his pilsner. (Early in the evening he always tried to drink beer to put the graduate students at ease, or so he said; his intimates knew it was as much to discourage the corporate backers, should there be any in attendance, from drinking him into debt. This year was mercifully free of same at present; several captains of industry had made an appearance and then a disappearance, leaving all and sundry free to amuse themselves as they would. It was likely that the annual edition of the Bennet-Darcy dispute had begun shortly thereafter.)
“They’ve made up for it; can you understand one word in five they’re saying, darling? Because I can’t.” Jane’s background was in the humanities; such a perfect fit was she as the dean’s wife, however, that even the more parochial and insular of the physicists in her husband’s domain were charitable enough to allow that even the best of souls (which Mrs. Bingley assuredly was) might be permitted a character flaw or two.
Since attaining the heights of academic administration, Dean Bingley had not set foot in a lab (and missed it but occasionally); he kept just current enough with the trends in his field (and more to the point those of his more junior colleagues) to ensure that any research to be conducted, any grant proposals to be written, or indeed any courses to be taught--- all reflected well on the department’s reputation for excellence in both research and teaching. (Though a capable administrator himself and hardly insensible to the exigencies of funding in higher education, Dean Bingley never did forget that the primary of function of an institution of learning was precisely that, an attitude that endeared him to the student body even as it occasionally vexed his more ambitious faculty.) He smiled benignly at his wife. “Is that due to the content, or the frequency? Because at that pitch the signal-to-noise ratio is problematic, to say the least.”
“Oh, dear,” Jane sighed, for another reason entirely. “Do you think it’ll affect this year’s pool?”
“Oh, hardly,” said her husband cheerfully, turning his head in the general direction from which the sounds of the argument could be heard. “So many of the graduate students brought football players this year, and Anne Winthrop--- your sister’s TA--- has the captain of the cheering squad with her; I should think they’ll be used to the volume at any rate.” He patted her hand. “It’ll more than cover expenses, dear.”
It was common knowledge that the betting pool on which of the Bennet-Darcy team would emerge victorious in this year’s argument went a ways to defray the expenses of the party (hence the willingness of many in the department to contribute). Less commonly known was the fact that any left over went to defray the expenses of a certain type of student: those young women of great scientific potential whose parents’ ability to contribute to their education as assessed by FAFSA obscured entirely the unwillingness of said parents to further their daughters’ education in a “traditionally male” field. Elizabeth Bennet-Darcy had fought that battle on her own; she was determined that no other student of quality should be forced to.
Jane smiled benignly. “Shall we go and observe, then?”
“As long as you don’t ask me to referee,” said her husband with a shudder that was only slightly feigned. Jane settled her hand on his arm companionably (an old-fashioned gesture to be sure, but her background was in the humanities) and they made their way from the more formal front room toward the rec room.
As expected, the wide-screen television (which depending on the crowd could end up showing anything from a current football game to an obscure science-fiction series, though with a rather more heavy loading toward the latter) was being ignored in favor of the annual argument. (Dean Bingley suspected his old friend of choosing the venue for precisely that purpose; Bill Darcy had been heard to complain more than once about the vapid quality of most televised entertainment, though he was willing to allow for the merit of perhaps one or two series, fictional or otherwise, in which the science was not wholly inaccurate. Lizzie laughed at him and promised to use headphones when marathoning Firefly.)
Jane’s attention, on the other hand, was taken up, at least momentarily, by yet another of her brothers-in-law.
It was a running joke that the Bennets had colonized the department. Mary, the middle sister, was the most efficient secretary the department had ever known despite a certain pomposity--- forgiven by all except the most oversensitive of the new hires and graduate students, in the name of having their paperwork handled with perfect dispatch if not always perfect courtesy. Kitty was generally considered to have the potential to be as brilliant as Elizabeth, if she would simply settle down and pick a major--- and cease to be distracted quite so much by each season’s crop of handsome young athletes.
And then there was Lydia. And quite to the point, her husband. George Wickham, at least, could be counted upon to make a quite salutary contribute to the annual betting pool, always in his sister-in-law’s favor; Jane knew that Elizabeth was of the opinion that this stemmed less from any familial feeling (or even fond memories of their undergraduate days, when everyone had expected them to become “an item”) than from his passionate loathing of Bill Darcy. (Jane supposed the old adage about how gratitude could sour a person held true in that case; only a select few on campus knew that Bill had been instrumental in obtaining George his present position in the campus ROTC command.)
Abruptly the room fell silent; Dean Bingley looked about him to be certain that the combatants (and their handicappers) hadn’t felt quashed by his presence--- but no, Lizzie and Bill had simply moved to expressing their debate with their tablet PCs, with the result that the members of the department crowded round them, jockeying for position over their shoulders, while the others began to drift away.
“Oh, please,” said Dean Bingley mock-scoldingly, “do go back to screaming; it’s much better entertainment for those of our guests who aren’t members of our arcane little family.”
“If they aren’t physicists, I don’t see why they should be here,” said Bill Darcy with his usual lack of tact. “And quite to the point I don’t see that I owe them any entertainment at all.”
“Think of it as education,” said Lizzie cheerfully. “I certainly consider it my professional duty to make certain that none of our graduate students leave the room without knowing how thoroughly wrong you are about---“
And they were off again. The Bingleys, satisfied that all was well, moved on to see to the comfort of the rest of their guests.
It was a typical department party, indeed; Wickham and Lydia stayed to the last, and the latter insisted on helping Jane “clean up”, mostly as a means of cadging leftovers (Jane never was sure how they managed to go through Wickham’s salary so quickly, but then Lydia’s inability to hold down a job might have contributed to the problem.) She left Lydia under Mary’s capable supervision (thus ensuring that they would at least have something worth taking to the local food bank the next day--- or rather later that morning, technically) and went to see to her other two sisters.
Kitty was asleep on the couch; her presence, to say nothing of the absence of her present amour, suggested that Bill had sent him packing with a few well-chosen words; it was understood that he considered one George Wickham in the family to be quite enough, thank you very much. Lizzie and Bill were leaning contentedly against one another by the fireplace. “Did you two have fun?” Jane said, contemplating the collection of the last few plates, then foregoing the pleasure of a clean(er) house for that of her sister’s company.
“Always.” Lizzie slipped her hand into Bill’s, and he smiled down at her, more obviously relaxed than he’d been all evening.
“Of course; you’ve persuaded the grad students of your thoroughly wrong-headed notions about---“
”The fact that a couple can argue, and more to the point, a woman argue with a man, and not only be his work partner but his life partner?” Lizzie asked archly, and kissed the tip of his nose.
“No,” said Bill Darcy, “on that subject, my love, you are entirely correct.”
Re: OKAY HERE HAVE COMMENT-FIC!
Jane settled her hand on his arm companionably (an old-fashioned gesture to be sure, but her background was in the humanities)
<3
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this icon is strangely relevant for Charlotte
Re: this icon is strangely relevant for Charlotte
...um, my reaction to that was actually to want to make a cup of tea, possibly with spirits therein, for Darcy? Which is a very concrete way of saying, "Oh, dear."
Re: this icon is strangely relevant for Charlotte
Re: OKAY HERE HAVE COMMENT-FIC!
Re: OKAY HERE HAVE COMMENT-FIC!