What would some of literature’s most famous characters have to say about current pop culture controversies?
Samwise Gamgee on The Will Smith Slap
My Dear Mr. Frodo,
Have you heard the story of a man slappin’ another man to defend his dear wife’s honor? News from the lands of men rarely reaches us here in Hobbiton but sir when it does, it sure is the kind of tale that folks settle in and gather ‘round a fire to listen to, bellies full ‘o ale.
They say a very powerful man slapped another powerful man in front of all of the kingdoms at a big grand party! Now, that sounds downright no-good and disrespectful. You know I don’t believe in hurtin’ others unless it’s in self-defense of a hobbit’s own life. On our own adventures, sure, we had to draw our blades and do whatever we could to survive and get rid of that blasted ring.
But, you know I can be a protective sort of hobbit. When we were on the road to Mordor, you recall how I didn’t trust Smeagol, for fear that he wanted to hurt you, my master and my dearest friend. He gave me the shivers, he did.
If my beloved wife Rosie was being insulted by another hobbit in front of the Shire, you bet your last potato I would defend her! They say this man’s wife has a sort of condition that her hair doesn’t grow anymore and the healers haven’t been able to cure her. Oh, I would be so heartbroken for my Rosie if she lost her beautiful ringlets. Of course, I wouldn’t love her any less, but I would be sad for her, on accounta’, I know how much she loves her locks, as she tenderly combs them every night before bed. If my wife was losin’ her hair, I swear upon my life that I’d love her even more, for I know well enough that she’d be strong and brave and would set a good example for our little ones to follow – that even when misfortune strikes down upon you, a good hobbit must carry on.
But what kind of filth would poke fun at a lady losin’ her hair? I have no notion what could have gotten in his head. Some say this slap was a sign of something called toxic masculinity. Now I can’t say I know what that is exactly, but I say he got what was comin’ to him, I do.
As I always say, there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and it's worth fighting for. Well, Rosie is so good that thinkin’ o’ her makes my heart burst and I will always fight for her, as I would you, Mr. Frodo, and Merry, and Pippin, and most of the hobbits in The Shire (except maybe not the Sackville-Baggins, that greedy lot).
Ah well, I look forward to seein’ you soon. It’ll be time to enjoy the first strawberries o’ the season before we know it.
Enjoy the loaf that Rosie made, I like it best with a nice thick slab o’ apple butter.
Yours,
Sam
Belle on BookTok
Dear Diary,
The village is as provincial as ever, though I've discovered something quite marvelous that connects me to readers far beyond our little town—a magical forum called "BookTok" that exists within an enchanted looking glass called the "internet."
Oh, it’s incredible! No longer am I limited to the bookseller's meager collection. Through BookTok, I've discovered countless recommendations from fellow bibliophiles across the kingdom. My reading adventures have expanded beyond tales of "far-off places, daring sword fights, and a prince in disguise."
What's particularly fascinating is the popularity of what I might delicately call "passionate literature." These are stories where the romance between characters blooms not just in tender glances and gentle hand-holding but in the, shall we say, private chambers of one's castle. I find myself with flushed cheeks even mentioning it, but these tales explore the dance of hearts and bodies in ways our village's books never dared.
Mrs. Potts would certainly require an extra pot of tea were she to glimpse some of these pages! Even Lumière, with his French sensibilities, might find himself momentarily speechless. Cogsworth would undoubtedly declare such reading material "highly improper" while secretly borrowing a volume when no one was looking.
The Beast, with his extensive library, has been surprisingly understanding. When he discovered me engrossed in a particularly stirring volume about a duke and his spirited lady, he merely raised an eyebrow and remarked that his library contained several ancient Greek and Roman texts that were equally unrestrained in their depictions of affection.
I've found these books offer more than just descriptions of intimate embraces. They often feature heroines who, like me, yearn for something beyond their circumstances—women with minds of their own who find partners who cherish them for their intelligence and spirit, not just their appearance.
Gaston would be horrified, of course, which makes me appreciate these stories all the more. He still believes a woman should not read lest she start "getting ideas and thinking." Little does he know how many ideas I've collected!
I must conclude here as I've promised to read to Chip this afternoon (from a more appropriate volume, I assure you).
Jo March on the Moo Deng Phenomenon
My Dearest Teddy,
How strange it is to write to you of matters so peculiar that even my most fanciful scribblings in the attic could not have conjured them! You always did tease me for my wild imagination, yet I believe even you would find yourself bewildered by this tale.
I have lately observed a most curious phenomenon that reminds me of when Marmee cautioned us about the dangers of obsession. Do you recall how Amy nearly drowned after I refused to take her to the theater with us? My anger consumed me then, much as this "internet" seems consumed with a creature called Moo Deng—a pygmy hippopotamus no larger than Beth's piano stool, yet commanding the attention of thousands!
This Moo Deng, with eyes like black buttons and a countenance that alternates between seeming innocence and flashing temper, puts me in mind of my own contradictions. How often you witnessed my bursts of temper, followed by remorse! Remember when I burned Meg's hair with those wretched curling tongs, or when I cut off my own hair—my "one beauty" as Amy called it—to help Father? I too have been both adored and misunderstood for my nature.
The world seems to have developed a most imprudent habit of making celebrities of creatures who cannot consent to such fame. It reminds me of how Professor Bhaer once spoke of the responsibility we hold when we write of others. "Every story should have a moral," he said, and I wonder at the moral of exhibiting this small beast for our amusement when she shows signs of distress.
I find myself strangely sympathetic to this hippo's plight. Like Beth with her kittens and broken dolls, I wish to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Yet unlike Beth's gentle ministrations, this public display seems to serve mainly those who gawk rather than those who care.
The "internet," Teddy, appears to be full of temptations and fleeting pleasures that distract us from deeper concerns. What would Marmee say of a world that finds more fascination in a small hippo's antics than in tending to one's character or family?
I wonder, too, what Father would say of this ethical quandary. Would he, with his philosophical mind, see some greater lesson in our fascination with creatures whose behavior we cannot truly understand?
As I conclude this letter from my desk where I once penned "The Witch's Curse," I am reminded that even my most dramatic tales were rooted in some truth of human nature. Perhaps this Moo Deng fascination reveals our longing for innocence in a complex world, though I fear we sacrifice the dignity of the innocent in our pursuit.
Write to me soon of your thoughts on this matter. Until then, I remain as ever,
Your affectionate friend,
Jo
Scarlett O’Hara on Ozempic
My dearest Melanie,
Fiddle-dee-dee! I simply must tell you about this marvelous new medicine everyone in Atlanta society is whispering about – Ozempic! Mrs. Merriwether's daughter has lost fifteen pounds on it, and even that dreadful Mrs. Elsing looks positively sylph-like after taking it for a month. I declare, it's more miraculous than when Mammy laced my corset to eighteen inches for the Wilkes' barbecue!
Of course, I've secured myself a supply. Dr. Meade was reluctant, mumbling something about "diabetes treatment" and how I "don't qualify medically," but you know I've never let a man's "no" stop me before! I simply batted my eyelashes and reminded him how Papa always said I had the smallest waist in three counties. A lady must maintain her advantages in these difficult times.
Ashley mentioned something about "concerning side effects" when he saw my little bottle of injections. Honestly, he's always fretting about something or other! I told him quite plainly that I didn't care a fig about nausea or digestive troubles – after surviving on radishes from Tara's garden, I can endure anything for beauty's sake.
India Wilkes – that jealous old maid – had the audacity to suggest I was setting a poor example for Bonnie Blue and other young girls. As if I hadn't heard Aunt Pittypat gossiping that India herself had inquired about getting some! The hypocrisy of these Atlanta ladies never ceases to amaze me.
Rhett, naturally, laughed outright when he discovered my Ozempic. "Another scheme to preserve your vanity, my pet?" he drawled. He said something rather profound afterward about how the Yankees may have burned our homes, but now we're burning ourselves from the inside with these northern medicines. I pretended not to understand, of course.
I do wonder sometimes if there isn't something to what they say. Even Mammy looked worried, muttering about how "folks ain't meant to shrink away like that." But then I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror – my green velvet dress hanging so beautifully loose – and thought, "I'll worry about health effects tomorrow."
After all, tomorrow is another day! But a slimmer waistline is forever – or at least until the next Twelve Oaks barbecue.
Your devoted cousin,
Scarlett O'Hara Butler