Eliot Waugh (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oregoniandionysus) wrote2012-03-15 09:22 am
oregoniandionysus) wrote2012-03-15 09:22 am
Entry tags:
Quotes from and about Eliot
For quick character reference. Here lie SPOILERS for both books.
The Magicians
But despite his odd appearance Eliot had an air of effortless self-possession that made Quentin urgently want to be his friend, or maybe just be him period. He was obviously one of those people who felt at home in the world--he was naturally buoyant, where Quentin felt like he had to dog-paddle constantly...
(pg. 19)
"My parents are paid not to grow soybeans," he said. "I have three older brothers. Magnificent physical specimens--kind-hearted, thick-necked, three-sport athletes who drink Schlitz and feel sorry for me. My dad doesn't know what happened. He thinks he chewed too much dip before I was conceived, and that's why i 'di'n't come out reg'lar.'" Eliot stubbed out his Merit on a glass ashtray balanced precariously on the glossy wooden hull and lit another one. "They think I'm at a special school for computer geeks and homosexuals.
"That's why I don't go home in the summertime. Henry doesn't care. I haven't been home since I started here.
"You probably feel sorry for me," he went on airily. He wore a dressing gown over his regular clothes, which gave him a shabby princely look. "You shouldn't, you know. I'm very happy here. Some people need their families to become who they're supposed to be. And there's nothing wrong with that. But there are other ways to do it."
(pg. 46)
Eliot wasn't alone. There was somebody sitting in the chair. The angle was bad, but he thought it was one of the Second Years, an unexceptional, smooth-cheeked kid with straight rust-colored hair. Quentin barely knew him. His name might have been Eric.
"No," Eric said, and then again sharply: "No! Absolutely not." He was smiling. Eliot started to stand up, but the boy held him down playfully by his shoulders. He wasn't especially large. The authority he exercised over Eliot wasn't physical.
"You know the rules," he said, like he was speaking to a child.
"Please? Just this once?" Quentin had never heard Eliot speak in that pleading, wheedling infantile tone before. "Please?" It was not a tone he had ever expected to hear Eliot speak in.
(Pg. 65)
When he first met Eliot, Quentin assumed that everyone at Brakebills would be like him, but in fact that wasn't the case at all. For one thing, even in this rarefied setting Eliot's bizarre personal manner set him apart. For another, he was conspicuously brilliant in class--maybe not quite as quick as Alice, but Alice worked her ass off and Eliot didn't even try, or if he did he hid it very, very well. As far as Quentin could tell he never studied at all. The only thing in the world he would actually cop to caring about was his appearance, especially his expensive shirts, which he wore with cuff links, even though it cost him regular menial punishments for violating the dress code.
(pg. 107)
"But you really think the Thames dragon is going to give you free career advice?" Josh said.
"Oh, I don't know," Eliot said. "Dragons are so weird about these things. You want to ask them deep, profound questions, like where does magic come from, or are there aliens, or what are the next ten Mersenne primes, and half the time they just want to play Chinese checkers."
(pg. 182)
He felt entitled to blow off steam and shake off the Brakebills pixie dust and generally "live." And Eliot felt that way, too ("Ain't that why we got livers?" he said in his exaggerated Oregoner accent).
(pg. 227)
Once when Eliot was nursing a stubborn cold, Quentin remarked lightly that maybe he should consider something more wholesome than a vodka tonic with which to chase his plastic jigger of DayQuil.
"I'm sick, I'm not dead," Eliot snapped. And that was that.
(pg. 230)
It took Quentin and Janet twenty minutes to get Eliot down the hall to his bedroom, lurching heavily against the walls with their arms around each other as if they were struggling down a flooded steerage-level corridor on the Titanic...Eliot kept saying he was fine, and Quentin and Janet kept insisting that had to pick him up...As they passed Richard's door Eliot began a loud speech on the order of, "I am the mighty Maker, and I now bequeath to you My Holy Power Tools, because I am too fucking drunk to use them anymore, and good luck to you, because when I get up tomorrow they had better be exactly where I left them, exactly, even My . . . no, especially My belt sander, because I am going to be so fucking hungover tomorrow, anybody who fucks with My belt sander is going to get a taste of My belt. And it won't taste good. At all."
(pg. 237)
"We're already in the shit, Richard," Eliot said. "You think that button would be legal if the court knew about it? If you want out, get out now, but Anaïs is right. I'm not going over there with just my dick in my hand."
"We can get a dispensation for small arms," Richard went on primly. "There are precedents for that. I know the forms."
"Guns?" Eliot made a sour face. "What is wrong with you? Fillory is a pristine society. Have you ever even watched Star Trek? This is basic Prime Directive stuff. We have a chance to explore a world that has not yet been fucked up by assholes. Do any of you get how important this is? Any of you?"
Quentin kept expecting Eliot to declare himself too cool for the whole Fillory project and start making snarky jokes about it, but he was turning out to be surprisingly focused and unironic about it.
(pg. 270)
He sounded exactly as relaxed and unworried as he ever had back at Brakebills. Just dotting the i's, clearing up the details, the way he would have insouciantly picked apart one of Bigby's problem sets, or decoded a closely written wine label. He was in control. The deeper they rolled into Fillory, the shakier Quentin felt, but Eliot was the opposite: he just got calmer and more sure of himself...
(pg. 320)
"I'll tell you something funny," Eliot went on. "I don't regret coming here. Even now that it's all gone to shit, I'm still glad I came. Could that possibly be the stupidest thing I've ever said to you? But it's the truth. I think I was going to drink myself to death back on Earth."
(pg. 342)
The Magician King
Eliot was in heaven. It was everything he'd always loved about Brakebills--the wine, the food, the ceremony--with none of the work. Eliot loved being a king.
(pg. 6)
He wasn't much for drafting legislation, but Eliot was meticulous about royal etiquette, which included getting all the Fillorian hunting protocol exactly right. (Though he found any actual killing distasteful, and usually managed to avoid it.)
(pg. 9)
He was still Eliot, the languid lush of Breakebills, but becoming High King had uncovered a dismayingly rigorous streak in him.
"We can't have unexplained deaths in the kingdom," he said. "It won't do." He cleared his throat. "Here's what's going to happen. I'll put the fear of Ember into the Fenwicks, just in case. It won't take much. They're a bunch of pussy dandies. And I say that as a pussy dandy myself."
(pg. 22)
"I was shaken, but I suppose you're not really High King until somebody tries to kill you in your bath. If they ever succeed, by the way, make sure you leave me in there and have a painting done. Like Marat."
(pg. 221)
"I don't mind telling you I found the whole business more than a little provoking. I was being called, you understand, and I most definitely did not want to come. I understand the appeal this sort of thing has for you, quests and King Arthur and all that. But that's you. No offense, but it always seemed a bit like boy stuff to me. Sweaty and strenuous and just not very elegant, if you see what I mean. I didn't need to be called to feel special, I felt special enough already. I'm clever, rich, and good-looking. I was perfectly happy where I was, deliquescing, atom by atom, amid a riot of luxury."
"Nicely put," Quentin said. Eliot must have mounted this set piece before.
(pg. 222)
Eliot had no idea where he was going, but he'd read enough to know that a state of relative ignorance wasn't necessarily a handicap on a quest. It was something your dauntless questing knight accepted and embraced. You lit out into the wilderness at random, and if your state of mind, or maybe it was your soul, was correct, then adventure would find you through the natural course of events. It was like free association -- there were no wrong answers. It worked as long as you weren't trying too hard.
And Eliot was in no danger of trying too hard.
(pg. 225)
The Magicians
But despite his odd appearance Eliot had an air of effortless self-possession that made Quentin urgently want to be his friend, or maybe just be him period. He was obviously one of those people who felt at home in the world--he was naturally buoyant, where Quentin felt like he had to dog-paddle constantly...
(pg. 19)
"My parents are paid not to grow soybeans," he said. "I have three older brothers. Magnificent physical specimens--kind-hearted, thick-necked, three-sport athletes who drink Schlitz and feel sorry for me. My dad doesn't know what happened. He thinks he chewed too much dip before I was conceived, and that's why i 'di'n't come out reg'lar.'" Eliot stubbed out his Merit on a glass ashtray balanced precariously on the glossy wooden hull and lit another one. "They think I'm at a special school for computer geeks and homosexuals.
"That's why I don't go home in the summertime. Henry doesn't care. I haven't been home since I started here.
"You probably feel sorry for me," he went on airily. He wore a dressing gown over his regular clothes, which gave him a shabby princely look. "You shouldn't, you know. I'm very happy here. Some people need their families to become who they're supposed to be. And there's nothing wrong with that. But there are other ways to do it."
(pg. 46)
Eliot wasn't alone. There was somebody sitting in the chair. The angle was bad, but he thought it was one of the Second Years, an unexceptional, smooth-cheeked kid with straight rust-colored hair. Quentin barely knew him. His name might have been Eric.
"No," Eric said, and then again sharply: "No! Absolutely not." He was smiling. Eliot started to stand up, but the boy held him down playfully by his shoulders. He wasn't especially large. The authority he exercised over Eliot wasn't physical.
"You know the rules," he said, like he was speaking to a child.
"Please? Just this once?" Quentin had never heard Eliot speak in that pleading, wheedling infantile tone before. "Please?" It was not a tone he had ever expected to hear Eliot speak in.
(Pg. 65)
When he first met Eliot, Quentin assumed that everyone at Brakebills would be like him, but in fact that wasn't the case at all. For one thing, even in this rarefied setting Eliot's bizarre personal manner set him apart. For another, he was conspicuously brilliant in class--maybe not quite as quick as Alice, but Alice worked her ass off and Eliot didn't even try, or if he did he hid it very, very well. As far as Quentin could tell he never studied at all. The only thing in the world he would actually cop to caring about was his appearance, especially his expensive shirts, which he wore with cuff links, even though it cost him regular menial punishments for violating the dress code.
(pg. 107)
"But you really think the Thames dragon is going to give you free career advice?" Josh said.
"Oh, I don't know," Eliot said. "Dragons are so weird about these things. You want to ask them deep, profound questions, like where does magic come from, or are there aliens, or what are the next ten Mersenne primes, and half the time they just want to play Chinese checkers."
(pg. 182)
He felt entitled to blow off steam and shake off the Brakebills pixie dust and generally "live." And Eliot felt that way, too ("Ain't that why we got livers?" he said in his exaggerated Oregoner accent).
(pg. 227)
Once when Eliot was nursing a stubborn cold, Quentin remarked lightly that maybe he should consider something more wholesome than a vodka tonic with which to chase his plastic jigger of DayQuil.
"I'm sick, I'm not dead," Eliot snapped. And that was that.
(pg. 230)
It took Quentin and Janet twenty minutes to get Eliot down the hall to his bedroom, lurching heavily against the walls with their arms around each other as if they were struggling down a flooded steerage-level corridor on the Titanic...Eliot kept saying he was fine, and Quentin and Janet kept insisting that had to pick him up...As they passed Richard's door Eliot began a loud speech on the order of, "I am the mighty Maker, and I now bequeath to you My Holy Power Tools, because I am too fucking drunk to use them anymore, and good luck to you, because when I get up tomorrow they had better be exactly where I left them, exactly, even My . . . no, especially My belt sander, because I am going to be so fucking hungover tomorrow, anybody who fucks with My belt sander is going to get a taste of My belt. And it won't taste good. At all."
(pg. 237)
"We're already in the shit, Richard," Eliot said. "You think that button would be legal if the court knew about it? If you want out, get out now, but Anaïs is right. I'm not going over there with just my dick in my hand."
"We can get a dispensation for small arms," Richard went on primly. "There are precedents for that. I know the forms."
"Guns?" Eliot made a sour face. "What is wrong with you? Fillory is a pristine society. Have you ever even watched Star Trek? This is basic Prime Directive stuff. We have a chance to explore a world that has not yet been fucked up by assholes. Do any of you get how important this is? Any of you?"
Quentin kept expecting Eliot to declare himself too cool for the whole Fillory project and start making snarky jokes about it, but he was turning out to be surprisingly focused and unironic about it.
(pg. 270)
He sounded exactly as relaxed and unworried as he ever had back at Brakebills. Just dotting the i's, clearing up the details, the way he would have insouciantly picked apart one of Bigby's problem sets, or decoded a closely written wine label. He was in control. The deeper they rolled into Fillory, the shakier Quentin felt, but Eliot was the opposite: he just got calmer and more sure of himself...
(pg. 320)
"I'll tell you something funny," Eliot went on. "I don't regret coming here. Even now that it's all gone to shit, I'm still glad I came. Could that possibly be the stupidest thing I've ever said to you? But it's the truth. I think I was going to drink myself to death back on Earth."
(pg. 342)
The Magician King
Eliot was in heaven. It was everything he'd always loved about Brakebills--the wine, the food, the ceremony--with none of the work. Eliot loved being a king.
(pg. 6)
He wasn't much for drafting legislation, but Eliot was meticulous about royal etiquette, which included getting all the Fillorian hunting protocol exactly right. (Though he found any actual killing distasteful, and usually managed to avoid it.)
(pg. 9)
He was still Eliot, the languid lush of Breakebills, but becoming High King had uncovered a dismayingly rigorous streak in him.
"We can't have unexplained deaths in the kingdom," he said. "It won't do." He cleared his throat. "Here's what's going to happen. I'll put the fear of Ember into the Fenwicks, just in case. It won't take much. They're a bunch of pussy dandies. And I say that as a pussy dandy myself."
(pg. 22)
"I was shaken, but I suppose you're not really High King until somebody tries to kill you in your bath. If they ever succeed, by the way, make sure you leave me in there and have a painting done. Like Marat."
(pg. 221)
"I don't mind telling you I found the whole business more than a little provoking. I was being called, you understand, and I most definitely did not want to come. I understand the appeal this sort of thing has for you, quests and King Arthur and all that. But that's you. No offense, but it always seemed a bit like boy stuff to me. Sweaty and strenuous and just not very elegant, if you see what I mean. I didn't need to be called to feel special, I felt special enough already. I'm clever, rich, and good-looking. I was perfectly happy where I was, deliquescing, atom by atom, amid a riot of luxury."
"Nicely put," Quentin said. Eliot must have mounted this set piece before.
(pg. 222)
Eliot had no idea where he was going, but he'd read enough to know that a state of relative ignorance wasn't necessarily a handicap on a quest. It was something your dauntless questing knight accepted and embraced. You lit out into the wilderness at random, and if your state of mind, or maybe it was your soul, was correct, then adventure would find you through the natural course of events. It was like free association -- there were no wrong answers. It worked as long as you weren't trying too hard.
And Eliot was in no danger of trying too hard.
(pg. 225)