cthululemon

I've loved Stephen Fry for as long as I could love anything. I was raised on A Bit of Fry and Laurie and Black Adder. Kingdom, his various audio books, and especially his interviews and public appearances are magical. Whenever I (re-)read a book of his I imagine it in his voice; I can't do otherwise.

His ideas are usually comforting but occasionally challenging. His voice is melodious and soothing. I love his stories and anecdotes, and how much he delights in wordplay and the delicious sounds of language. One of Tolkien's most attractive ideas is the creative power of speech; the ability to sing the world into creation. For me, Stephen Fry's speech is powerful magic.

There's a reason why Stephen Fry's performance as the Master of Laketown is so hilarious; the discord between the actor and the character makes the whole thing preposterous.

So erudite, so smug; so amiable, so un-condescending.

There's that parlor game, that let's-get-to-know-each-other game where you name some people from history you would like to have over for tea or dinner. Oscar Wilde frequented my lists when I was younger, as did Stephen Fry, but over time I realized Stephen Fry was a much better choice for the simple reason that, after tea, the summoned Wilde would return to wherever his spirit spends its time. But Stephen Fry! He's alive and our friendship could grow old and strong long after I had composted the tea leaves and tidied up the kitchen. Our teatime would be jovial and silly:

Stephen Fry: “This tea is splendid!” Habeeb: “I'm so glad you like it.” Stephen Fry: “Oh my, Habeeb—may I call you that?...” Habeeb: “Of course! May I do likewise?” Stephen: “Of course. Now, what shall we discuss first?” Stephen's Habeeb: “ Well, my Stephen, I was hoping to chat about your humanism, and how it doesn't seem to need—and maybe even rejects—an empirical foundation.” Habeeb's Stephen: (chuckles) Stephen's Habeeb: “Also, ducks. Oh, and donkeys. And capybara.” Habeeb's Stephen: (very seriously) “Well the humanism part will take our tea time. The rest will take a lifetime. But, my Habeeb, I'm up for both if you are.” Stephen's Habeeb: “My Stephen, nothing would please me more.” Habeeb's Stephen: “On the topic of capybara, remind me to tell you about how Sir David Attenborough and I mixed up our steamer trunks near Manaus...”

The point of all this is to try to explain how unutterably sad I've been since a dream I dreamed a while ago. By some dream logic, I was to meet Stephen Fry at last, but he had heard about some other person who had uttered something despicable about trans people and Stephen thought it was me. He was disgusted and wouldn't even look at me. I pleaded and pleaded until I awoke in a panicked sweat.

He would never be my Stephen and I would never be his Habeeb, and all because of my stupid common name and because people just can't lay off hurting the most vulnerable among us.

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