I just finished the three books, and I decided to expand a bit more on the
Artemis/Butler relationship. Also, I thought Butler was kind of an
undeveloped character, so this is it. This is Pre-LEP
d/c: I don't own anything recognisable from the book.
Failed
He's intelligent.
Of course he's intelligent, I haven't met a person who would dare deny it. He can calculate monstrous equations in his head, he can name all the muscles in the human body, alphabetically or by order. He is fluent in Russian, French, Cantonese and English. Some scientists have dared to speculate that some day his IQ could become immeasurable. And yet everyday I asked myself:
How can someone so smart be so stupid?
And, ashamed, I answer myself:
You have failed.
I'm always at his side. In his first day of Kindergarten, I walked him to the door and sat at the back of the room as he antagonized the teachers, insulted the students and walked out because of how he felt his intelligence had been questioned. I walked by him as he went out that door, and called the limo for us.
As he grew up, I was by his side as every morning his father coolly inspected him. If he found nothing wrong, he'd nod and Artemis would sit down. If a flaw was presented, he would sneer at his son, and ridicule him. Artemis would inspect himself, mumble 'Yes Father' and fix it.
I was there as tutors mercilessly pounded facts, figures and dimensions into his brain. Every morning when he wakes up I am close by. I sleep in a conjoined room to him. His father sleeps three floors away.
I was so close, and yet I failed so badly.
Artemis doesn't talk much to me. Of course, I am a bodyguard; nowhere near as intellectually stimulating as his father or as his friends online. Yet, I was there.
Artemis cried once. Once, when he was about eight. I wasn't supposed to see, but I did. And for a moment, one precious moment, I felt that I had succeeded.
He didn't cry like most kids his age do. Instead of the loud bawling and screaming, his tears streamed quietly, and he seemed almost unaware of them.
"Artemis?" I dared. He tensed, like someone had found out his dirty little secret, and quickly wiped them away, turning from the window to face me, eyes wide, breathing quickly.
"Crying is an emotional release." He said very fast. "It's easier to function psychologically after those sorts of things. Yes." At this point, the boy started to mumble, more to himself then to me. "Nothing to be ashamed of. A basic human function."
Despite his claim that it was basic human function, I never saw him cry again. And once again, I know I have failed.
I want to be there, I want to talk to him about his day, his friends, what he learned. But Artemis doesn't want that. All he needs is someone to be there should anything go wrong. And so I am. Yet, every time I see him talk to someone who looks interestedly at what he says, I feel proud. Like I may have done something worthwhile. Then, every time I feel him working alone, correcting himself, concentrating on one problem so hard, I know I've missed the mark. He may be intellectually intelligent, but he may never be able to deal with people whom love him. He may never be able to love. I take the burden of this knowledge upon myself, although I know it isn't my place to have any emotional tie with the child.
Yet, every time I look at him, I see his future. I saw a thin, pale man working alone. Going home to a lifeless house, with lifeless eyes. And I wonder: When his mother and father look at him, do they see what I see? Do they see him at all? And most of all, I wonder:
Do either of them feel they've failed him like I know I have?
Even though I have my concerns about the way the Fowls are raising their only son, I couldn't help but feel guilty at my elation when Artemis Fowl Senior went missing. The truth was, I thought the boy was better off without his father. I thought wrong.
Artemis's father may have showed him little affection in his years, but Artemis the child still loved him. I doubt he'd admit that he loves his parents. He'd probably explain it as symbiotic relationship: they fed him, and care for his physical needs and in return he carries their bloodline into the future. Nevertheless, Artemis felt compelled to meet his Father's demanding standards, to gain his respect, and somehow forged a kind of hero worship. To his mother, Artemis felt a sort of duty. He was her son; he should treat her with respect and dignity. That's as far as their connection ever really went besides the occasional hug, gift, and Angeline's occasional excitement over his grades or extra hobbies.
However, after Artemis Fowl's unexpected disappearance, and Angeline Fowl's descent to madness, their child was truly alone. Here was where I felt compelled to step in. It was a sense of duty, or maybe it was the chance I had been waiting for all along. Then, Artemis took over. He managed to organize the entire household again. He took over his father's stock portfolio, registered himself for school, and even did the Fowl's taxes, all by himself. In a way, he succeeded. In a way, we failed.
He never asked for help. Even when the strain of the stock market and accounting the family's fortune was clearly taking a toll on the boy, he never said anything to anyone, other then the occasional insult. He did manage to get everything fit in, including his odd obsession with finding out 'the truth' about the fey. And as he surrounds himself more and more with stocks, faeries and school, and shuts everyone else out, I just have to swallow my paternal instinct and do asks he asks. As much as I don't like to admit it, I am not his father, his brother, his mentor, or his friend. I am his bodyguard, my only purpose being to guard my principle's physical form. My concern does not lie with his family, his choice in friends or music or fashion. It shouldn't worry me that I can take a bullet for him, but not help with the stress of life or give him advice. And yet, it does. Sometimes I worry myself sick. Which makes me wonder, whom have I failed more? Artemis, or myself?
"Bulter!" Artemis calls, snapping me out of my reverie, a look of cruel satisfaction across his face. "I've found a contact in Vietnam. Our plane leaves in two hours."
Then, as I carefully watch Artemis turn on his heel and leave, I know it doesn't matter. He's an antisocial brainiac with a social future equal to zero. And I have failed.
)()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()() ()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
I'm not too sure about this one. I don't know if I've managed to get across what I wanted to. I'd be tickled if you could let me know what you think. Thank you! And I had to go back and add the part about Bulter's opinion on Artemis and Angeline.
d/c: I don't own anything recognisable from the book.
Failed
He's intelligent.
Of course he's intelligent, I haven't met a person who would dare deny it. He can calculate monstrous equations in his head, he can name all the muscles in the human body, alphabetically or by order. He is fluent in Russian, French, Cantonese and English. Some scientists have dared to speculate that some day his IQ could become immeasurable. And yet everyday I asked myself:
How can someone so smart be so stupid?
And, ashamed, I answer myself:
You have failed.
I'm always at his side. In his first day of Kindergarten, I walked him to the door and sat at the back of the room as he antagonized the teachers, insulted the students and walked out because of how he felt his intelligence had been questioned. I walked by him as he went out that door, and called the limo for us.
As he grew up, I was by his side as every morning his father coolly inspected him. If he found nothing wrong, he'd nod and Artemis would sit down. If a flaw was presented, he would sneer at his son, and ridicule him. Artemis would inspect himself, mumble 'Yes Father' and fix it.
I was there as tutors mercilessly pounded facts, figures and dimensions into his brain. Every morning when he wakes up I am close by. I sleep in a conjoined room to him. His father sleeps three floors away.
I was so close, and yet I failed so badly.
Artemis doesn't talk much to me. Of course, I am a bodyguard; nowhere near as intellectually stimulating as his father or as his friends online. Yet, I was there.
Artemis cried once. Once, when he was about eight. I wasn't supposed to see, but I did. And for a moment, one precious moment, I felt that I had succeeded.
He didn't cry like most kids his age do. Instead of the loud bawling and screaming, his tears streamed quietly, and he seemed almost unaware of them.
"Artemis?" I dared. He tensed, like someone had found out his dirty little secret, and quickly wiped them away, turning from the window to face me, eyes wide, breathing quickly.
"Crying is an emotional release." He said very fast. "It's easier to function psychologically after those sorts of things. Yes." At this point, the boy started to mumble, more to himself then to me. "Nothing to be ashamed of. A basic human function."
Despite his claim that it was basic human function, I never saw him cry again. And once again, I know I have failed.
I want to be there, I want to talk to him about his day, his friends, what he learned. But Artemis doesn't want that. All he needs is someone to be there should anything go wrong. And so I am. Yet, every time I see him talk to someone who looks interestedly at what he says, I feel proud. Like I may have done something worthwhile. Then, every time I feel him working alone, correcting himself, concentrating on one problem so hard, I know I've missed the mark. He may be intellectually intelligent, but he may never be able to deal with people whom love him. He may never be able to love. I take the burden of this knowledge upon myself, although I know it isn't my place to have any emotional tie with the child.
Yet, every time I look at him, I see his future. I saw a thin, pale man working alone. Going home to a lifeless house, with lifeless eyes. And I wonder: When his mother and father look at him, do they see what I see? Do they see him at all? And most of all, I wonder:
Do either of them feel they've failed him like I know I have?
Even though I have my concerns about the way the Fowls are raising their only son, I couldn't help but feel guilty at my elation when Artemis Fowl Senior went missing. The truth was, I thought the boy was better off without his father. I thought wrong.
Artemis's father may have showed him little affection in his years, but Artemis the child still loved him. I doubt he'd admit that he loves his parents. He'd probably explain it as symbiotic relationship: they fed him, and care for his physical needs and in return he carries their bloodline into the future. Nevertheless, Artemis felt compelled to meet his Father's demanding standards, to gain his respect, and somehow forged a kind of hero worship. To his mother, Artemis felt a sort of duty. He was her son; he should treat her with respect and dignity. That's as far as their connection ever really went besides the occasional hug, gift, and Angeline's occasional excitement over his grades or extra hobbies.
However, after Artemis Fowl's unexpected disappearance, and Angeline Fowl's descent to madness, their child was truly alone. Here was where I felt compelled to step in. It was a sense of duty, or maybe it was the chance I had been waiting for all along. Then, Artemis took over. He managed to organize the entire household again. He took over his father's stock portfolio, registered himself for school, and even did the Fowl's taxes, all by himself. In a way, he succeeded. In a way, we failed.
He never asked for help. Even when the strain of the stock market and accounting the family's fortune was clearly taking a toll on the boy, he never said anything to anyone, other then the occasional insult. He did manage to get everything fit in, including his odd obsession with finding out 'the truth' about the fey. And as he surrounds himself more and more with stocks, faeries and school, and shuts everyone else out, I just have to swallow my paternal instinct and do asks he asks. As much as I don't like to admit it, I am not his father, his brother, his mentor, or his friend. I am his bodyguard, my only purpose being to guard my principle's physical form. My concern does not lie with his family, his choice in friends or music or fashion. It shouldn't worry me that I can take a bullet for him, but not help with the stress of life or give him advice. And yet, it does. Sometimes I worry myself sick. Which makes me wonder, whom have I failed more? Artemis, or myself?
"Bulter!" Artemis calls, snapping me out of my reverie, a look of cruel satisfaction across his face. "I've found a contact in Vietnam. Our plane leaves in two hours."
Then, as I carefully watch Artemis turn on his heel and leave, I know it doesn't matter. He's an antisocial brainiac with a social future equal to zero. And I have failed.
)()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()() ()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()
I'm not too sure about this one. I don't know if I've managed to get across what I wanted to. I'd be tickled if you could let me know what you think. Thank you! And I had to go back and add the part about Bulter's opinion on Artemis and Angeline.