Claudia almost smiles.
“Truly excellent, Miss Jolicoeur.” Olivier turns back to the rest of the class. “Let us focus on epic poetry for the moment. We will discuss the Comedy and Tragedy, for the Dithyramb is best left in the hands of our Musices students.”
A few soft laughs sound through the room.
“We’ve already discussedOedipus Rex, which Aristotle claims as the greatest Tragedy ever written. Now, let’s talk about Comedy. Can anyone tell me which group claims invention for both of these modes?”
“The Dorians,” Cassius says. The name sends a shiver down Claudia’s spine. She hasn’t heard it or said it since she unmasked Dorian as Sidarphion. She almost forgot his given name.
“Correct. And what distinguishes Comedy and Tragedy?”
“Their representation of man,” Cassius says. “I am of the belief in complete opposition to Plato. Poets are not and have never been liars. They are forthright in their mimetic approach, and their imitation is not impassively colored by biases. A poet actively chooses to depict man as better, worse, or real. And by the declaration of their mode, be it Tragedy or Comedy, we suspend our disbelief accordingly to understand the truths being told. Tragedies depict man as better, for a man must be good in order for ill fate to be tragic. If the man is not good, then ill fate is not tragic; it is just. As for Comedies, they depict man as worse than real life, for the only way we can stomach our own faults is through exaggeration. We cannot laugh at honest faults that are too true to the self.”
“Is that why we create poetry? To view man from a gods’-eye view?”
“We do it because it’s instinctive,” Florence says. “Even as children, we engage in mimesis. We play pretend, play dress-upand the like.” She tosses her blond hair over her shoulder. “It’s how we first come to engage in the act of learning. Through play.”
Her rival, George, clearly can’t help but interject. “But poetry is not always playful, is it? Think back to Oedipus Rex. He gouges out his own eyes when confronted with the truth that he is the one who murdered his father and married his mother. That alone is evidence that poetry can be grotesque and painful.”
“And yet we find beauty in it, even in Tragedies. Through art, even grief and gore can be delightful. Poetry turns pain into metaphor. It makes it mean something.”
“Precisely.” Olivier returns to her desk and stands behind it. “Nothing is more persuasive, or as potent, as poetry. It’s powerful and dangerous and thus excellent for spellwork. Now that we’re closing in on the end of term, I want to prepare you for what will come next. In your second year, you will be able to commune with Malevimus without supervision, and you will begin to exercise your power. As Rhetoric scholars, you are gifted with linguistic magic. This comes in many forms—poems, essays, even one simple sentence can be a spell if built with the right words.”
“Is it dangerous?” someone asks from the back of the room.
Olivier arches a brow. “Of course it is. That’s why we have an entire year of instruction separate from magic. But so long as you have a strong understanding of the academic discipline that serves as the medium of your magic, you’ll be fine.” She casts a smile over the room. “I have faith in every single one of you.” Her stare lingers for a moment on Claudia.
“Could you show us an example?” Claudia asks, ever curious.
Judging by Olivier’s pause and pinched face, Claudia assumes she’ll say no. But to her surprise, the professor smirks and shrugs. “Why not?” Leaning against her desk, Olivier says, “Obviously, poetry has grown since ancient times. It doesn’t have to be epic. It can be something as simple as…” She ponders, turning toward the board and tapping the chalk against her chin. “Ah!” On the board, she writes:
The sun meets the moon
Where I wed a spill of gold
To my silver spoon
Holding up a cup of tea in one hand and a tiny teaspoon in the other, she reads the poem aloud. A golden light shines in the dip of the silver. When the light leaves, honey is left in its wake. Olivier stirs it into her tea. She sips, moans, and smiles. “There. Nice and sweet.”
The class applauds. Awestruck murmurings sound through the room, but Olivier waves away all praise. “You’ll be able to do much grander things than that. But you’ll start with much simpler. Physical manifestations like that are no easy feat. Next semester, we’ll first focus on…”
Claudia can hear nothing over the hot blood rushing in her ears.
While everyone else is taking notes and listening closely, she can’t take her eyes off the poem on the board. She’s enraptured by a sudden storm of realization.
This is what Odette was trying to do in her diary.
Poetry in the shape of constellations. Magic at the intersection of Rhetoric and Astrologia.
The final pages in her diary are not signs of madness at all.
They are spells.
WAKE UP
He who learns must suffer. And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.
Aeschylus,Agamemnon
