His Claudia, delicately dabbing the tip of her pen in his neck wound. His Claudia, one final look of defiance, of which there was none in her real final look to him.
Lestat's hands settle on either side of the keyboard as he gazes at this unmoving image that nevertheless shows so much movement. Life. Something stinging, about the happy life she briefly found in Paris without him, and immediately sickening, the guilt, for even thinking it, when Paris so thoroughly tore her to pieces. These feelings are familiar and they come and go as Lestat sits silently with them.
The next picture. Claudia again. He tips his head, then says, "I like that little capelet on her. She had all of Louis' refinement, I remember," towards the end, the adult vampiress trying to claw her way out through styling, body language, language, "but my passion for very expensive things."
Is now the time to say his true critique of the book? The thing neither Daniel nor Louis could, actually, represent, because Lestat wasn't in the room to make his case. Whether it even matters, when the cruel things he said and did, rendered on the page, were true things.
Still, there it is, in his voice, in the slight glossiness to his regard, a wellspring of love that doesn't quite match with the account Daniel was given. But Daniel knows all about fucking up one's daughters despite best intentions to the contrary.
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Lestat's hands settle on either side of the keyboard as he gazes at this unmoving image that nevertheless shows so much movement. Life. Something stinging, about the happy life she briefly found in Paris without him, and immediately sickening, the guilt, for even thinking it, when Paris so thoroughly tore her to pieces. These feelings are familiar and they come and go as Lestat sits silently with them.
The next picture. Claudia again. He tips his head, then says, "I like that little capelet on her. She had all of Louis' refinement, I remember," towards the end, the adult vampiress trying to claw her way out through styling, body language, language, "but my passion for very expensive things."
Is now the time to say his true critique of the book? The thing neither Daniel nor Louis could, actually, represent, because Lestat wasn't in the room to make his case. Whether it even matters, when the cruel things he said and did, rendered on the page, were true things.
Still, there it is, in his voice, in the slight glossiness to his regard, a wellspring of love that doesn't quite match with the account Daniel was given. But Daniel knows all about fucking up one's daughters despite best intentions to the contrary.