It is amazing to me how much of “classic” literature is concerned with the theme of the particular perversion of transexuality.
I am dealing in this case with the character of the novel Rob Roy, Diana Vernon, or, as she is aptly nicknamed, “Die Vernon”, for she is the slaughter of her gender.
Now, I am not more than a third into the book, so I cannot say if the heretical aristocrat which wrote it might redeem himself for this character’s portrayal. What bothers me about it so far is that he is a very skilled and clever narrator. This denizen of a rustic paradise (considered by the perspective character as well as this vixen to be a cruel prison) might be so much better done. See my Madam Alice Hamilton in Splendor. See the saintly betrothed seamstress of Manzoni’s the Betrothed (the best novel I have ever read). But this woman is actually summed up this way:
She was born of a man and woman but orphaned by that man’s good courage and that woman’s good patience in sickness, her twelve years after him. She was lodged in the castle of her uncle, full of her cousins, who preserved that rough-beaten heresy of the north, where pure metal doctrine was wanting. These cousins and uncle were all of the same sort, as if overruling Providence had made them men of war, yet in a time of peace, and so continually engaged in violent and superfluous hunting, laboring, and revelry. No temperance was afforded them by their religion. And so she by environment considered herself more a man than a woman. She vented her venom upon the Name of God (in this regard being more honest than the usual specimen) rather than that of Society. But perhaps it were a false god. The line is blurry with heretics. Regardless, she suppressed what she could of femininity, and (this always being futile to all women) wept often in private.
I do not think Scott knew precisely how degraded the novelist’s occupation would be today, unless he was a Freemason ascendant. But it is important to remember that the art form began with biography, which is a ridiculous attempt by Protestantism at large to replace the hagiography, since “no one is perfect” anymore.
And perhaps it lends itself well to these fancies. The novelist is so devoid of a real experience with women, and so full of a desire for anyone to step into his life and assume the masculine role of providing direction to his wanton chaos (dealing as he is with the thread and cloth of human life, and this without the protection of Sacrament and Magisterium) that it is no wonder he does such violence to the nature of the gentler sex. He has no understanding of the Queen of Heaven because he is cut off from the Living Vine which sprang only from Her Immaculate Womb.
So far, I am experiencing similar pleasantries (with the skill of his craft) and disappointments (with the ignorance of his science) from reading this “greatest novel ever written” as I did in reading certain others, highly praised, which I cannot name for fear of promoting them to vulnerable souls. One of these had an army of genetic super lesbians (the most retarded idea ever to occur to the mind of man, so much so that I am ashamed to repen it!), while the other had a pregnant black lady (result of fornication) fighting off hordes of techno-soldiers while defending an able-bodied and helpless (and short) man poet (the father). These are treated with respect by Catholics! One is held up as the definitive classic of its genre!
Out of artistic disgust, the one produced in my imagination the pleasant Madam Hamilton, President of that defunct union of masonic states, while the other gave me the unexpected and sorrowful delight of the Druidess Aletta in Saodfàil. I recommend both to you.
Perhaps this “classic” will give me something similar. I cannot stand to hear people lie so much about the daughters of Eve, Image of the Blessed Mother.
May the Lord reward you,
St Ignatius of Loyola pray for us,
St Henry pray for us,
In Cordibus Jesu et Mariae,
Mr. Nathaniel Slattery