Araby

Every work of art is in part inspired and disciplined.  We may betake ourselves into pessimistic circles because it is easier to be captious and punctilious than to embrace broadly what is imperfect, but love is truly what inspires and disciplines us at once.  From our teenage years on we develop a sense of what it is to become an adult; to be responsible for one's words and actions; to choose a path and have the wherewithal to maintain the course; to be old enough to fall in love that is undeniably real and eternal.  For every sniper who claims love is merely the troubadour's expression of a chemical bond, I give him the love of something greater than a human body or soul, the love of what we breathe, the love of memory, of time, of joy, of lessons that make us the adults we have always wanted to become.  The casual love of an ephemeral being who just happens to be beautiful and reminiscent of some poem we read once, a long time back, about another person in love beyond her means, we can impute to our need for understanding and, more than that, for sympathy.  Which brings us to this tale of youth and regret.

The young protagonist and narrator is a Catholic school pupil who is neither rich nor abjectly poor.  He attends school, his streets are lit ("the space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns"), and his family is around him and patient.  He has discovered something new in life, something that begins and ends with one note, something he would espy in her home from his own rowhouse, "a figure defined by the light from the half-opened door."  This Beatrice is the sister of his classmate Mangan, and she is oddly introduced as just that; never is she given her own identity outside the likelihood of marrying the sister of one's friend since no one ever really leaves the street of one's childhood.  This unnamed lass soon engirds our narrator with her endless horizons:

Her name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I myself did not understand.  My eyes were often full of tears (I could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out into my bosom.  I thought little of the future.  I did not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration.  But my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

Her name is never mentioned and probably doesn't matter, although one might surmise that it has much the same phonetic flavor as Araby, the production which she cannot attend.  The narrator departs and leaves everything behind except what he can snatch from her, from this being presumably a bit older or at least more mature, who has all the trappings of the princesse lointaine necessary for a poet.  Why does a poet need such a distanced object of admiration and affection?  Because that distant object is really his own future work, the embodiment of inspiration – the lyric sensations that this being produces within him – and the discipline that involves forsaking all the women of the world for one woman.  This is the task our narrator undertakes and the one which, of course, is bound to disappoint him since all juvenile love is by definition disappointing.

There cannot be a simpler premise to a story than this.  Our protagonist has little else to do but think about this unapproachable object who, as it were, does talk to him, exuding enough civility to suggest indifference rather than some kind of precocious ego boost.  Time is not, however, on our lad's side:

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home.  Still it was early.  I sat staring at the clock for some time and when its ticking began to irritate me, I left the room.  I mounted the staircase and gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms liberated me and I went from room to room singing.  From the front window I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, I looked over at the dark house where she lived.  I may have stood there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

It has been said that true maturity arrives when we find ourselves dissenting from group activities, collective notions of fun and edification, and the hedonistic and self-serving interests concealed by the greyness of bourgeois mores.  Our hero enjoys such a moment, however briefly, when some particle of him suddenly feels above the daily hubbub caused and reveled in by his contemporaries.  He wants and in fact deserves more; his soul is deeper and richer than the yells and taunts that surround him.  So, near the story's beginning, when we get a whiff of the "dark and odorous stables where a coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled harness," we may recall a stanza from this poem:  

When last I saw thee drink!  Away!  The fever'd dream is o'er,
I could not live a day and know that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! – for hunger's power is strong –
They tempted me, my beautiful!  But I have loved too long.

Too long means past the daydreams that dissolve time into clear segments – with and without; and to be the subject of such a story only one of these conditions can triumph.  Alas, we know all too well which one.

Novalis, "Wenn alle untreu werden"

A poem ("If all and each became untrue") by this German poet.  You can read the original here.

If all and each became untrue,       
To you my loyalty wouldn't flail;         
That gratitude has not derailed,       
And died amidst the earth's bright hue.
For me does passion bind you near,
As you in pain pass from my side,
Forever does my heart abide
By you in joy, in endless cheer.

So oft am I beset by tears
For you are dead and gone above,
And many souls that you once loved
Have lost the traces of your years.
Impelled by love and love alone,
You did so much and did it well;
And now your waves have ceased to swell
Upon a shore that waits unknown.

You are of truest love divine,
To each as true as e'er before. 
As others your sweet love forswore,
True you remained, in spite of time. 
So is it felt as day recedes
That truest love shall always win;
Cry bitterly and nuzzle in,
Just like a child upon your knee.

You I have felt, you I have sensed,
O do not leave, please do not leave! 
Let me conjoin myself with thee
Forever love's red bow to bend.
Once brothers mine their gazes chart
Anew against the heavens high,
Then sink below to earthly quiet,
And fall to you upon your heart.

Borges, "Parábola del palacio"

A prose poem ("Parable of the palace") by this Argentine writer.  You can read the original as part of this collection.

That day, the Yellow Emperor showed the poet his palace.  They left behind in a long procession the first Western terraces which, like tiers of an almost boundless amphitheatre, sloped down towards a paradise or garden whose metal mirrors and intricate hedges of juniper already called to mind the labyrinth.  Gleefully they lost themselves within; at first, however, it was as if they had condescended to a game.  Later and not undisturbingly the straight paths sustained a very gentle yet continuous curve; secretly, then, they were encircled.  Around midnight, observation of the planets and the propitious sacrifice of a turtle allowed them to unbind themselves from this ostensibly bewitched region but not from the sensation of being lost, a sensation that would accompany them to the end.  They visited antechambers and patios and libraries; they walked through a hexagonal room with a water clock; and one morning from a tower they espied a man of stone who then eluded their sight forever.  Many a resplendent river was crossed in sandalwood canoes or perhaps just one river many times.  The poet reached the imperial retinue and the people lay prostrate at his feet, yet one day they stopped at an island on which someone did not stop owing to his never having glimpsed the Son of Heaven, and an executioner was obliged to behead him.  Their eyes looked with indifference upon black hair and black dances and complex masks of gold; what was real and what was dreamt became confused or, rather, the real was one of the configurations of dream.  It seemed impossible that the land could be something other than gardens, waters, architecture and forms of splendor.  Every ten paces a tower sliced through the air; to the eyes the color was identical, but the first was yellow and the last scarlet, so delicate were the gradations and so long the sequence.

It was at the foot of the penultimate tower where the poet (who was alien to the spectacles that all found so marvelous) recited the brief composition to which we now attach his name and which, according to the most eloquent historians, lent him both immortality and death.  The text itself has been lost; there are those who understand it to consist of one verse, others that think it but one word.  What is certain and incredible is that in the poem was an entire enormous palace in meticulous detail with every illustrious porcelain piece and every drawing upon that piece, and the shadows and lights of the dusks, and every ill-fated or joyous moment of the glorious dynasties of mortals, gods and dragons who had inhabited the palace throughout its endless past.  All were silent, but the emperor exclaimed: You have robbed me of my palace!  And the hangman's iron blade separated the poet from life.  

Others remember the story differently.  In our world no two things can be truly equal; the poet's having said the poem sufficed (they tell us) for the palace to vanish as if abolished and struck dead by the final syllable.  Such legends, of course, are mere literary conceits.  The poet lived and died the emperor's slave; his composition fell into oblivion because it deserved oblivion and his descendants still search, and will never find, the word of the universe.  

The Sussex Vampire

It has been about fifty-five months since my fateful re-acquaintance with the world of Holmes and Watson in this bookshop, and perhaps owing to its rather provocative title my eyes fell first to this story.  A fifteen-minute read in the bookstore café and I left with the complete works in two rugged paperbacks (to be devoured in their entirety once I reached my sunny modern loft in Berlin).  Whether I truly remembered the tales from the summer now twenty years ago may be debated; more likely I retained only a few culprits, dialogues and twists, all of which were augmented by my love for the series featuring this late actor.  The story itself was considered promising enough to be expanded into a movie-length episode with Brett, and has remained a minor victory of style and concision. 

It is November, cold, mysterious, a month that drifts into perpetual gloaming, when the detectives receive a message from a certain Ferguson.  Ferguson was once Watson's regular opponent during their rugby days, a time that Watson typically recollects with exaggerated fondness (such is the machismo of the the average male that brutal, useless afternoons are transformed into a charming period of camaraderie).  Ferguson relates an almost impossible tale about the household of a close friend in which inexplicable events have cast a pallor upon the souls that therein reside.  This friend, whose personal life is known by Ferguson in suspicious detail, married a Peruvian beauty five years ago after his first wife died leaving him a son, Jack, now about fifteen.  While initially a happy pairing, their marriage soon becomes a conduit for suppositions that do not involve merit or mention, and the gentleman feels that he shall never come to know his wife:  

The fact of her foreign birth and of her alien religion always caused a separation of interests and of feelings between husband and wife, so that after a time his love may have cooled towards her and he may have come to regard their union as a mistake.  He felt there were sides of her character which he could never explore or understand.  This was the more painful as she was as loving a wife as a man could have - to all appearance absolutely devoted. 

A small stereotype of Anglo-Saxon and Latin relationships perhaps, but one that rings true in the matter of frankness and passion.  The mistrust could surely be imputed to the fact that they had known each other only a few weeks before taking their vows, yet another inherent difference persists even after they decide to have a child of their own, a difference buttressed by the description of the manor upon Holmes and Watson's arrival:

The room, as I gazed round, was a most singular mixture of dates and of places.  The half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the original yeoman farmer of the seventeenth century.  They were ornamented, however, on the lower part by a line of well-chosen modern water-colours; while above, where yellow plaster took the place of oak, there was hung a fine collection of South American utensils and weapons, which had been brought, no doubt, by the Peruvian lady upstairs.  Holmes rose, with that quick curiosity which sprang from his eager mind, and examined them with some care.  He returned with his eyes full of thought.

More specifically, full of thought on the horrific scene depicted by Ferguson, who is quickly revealed as both the author and subject of the long letter beseeching Holmes and Watson to help him discover what could be wrong with his wife – the same wife caught on more than one occasion sucking the blood out of her infant's neck.

Avid readers of detective fiction and horror will undoubtedly reach the right conclusion about the alleged vampirism, which Holmes refers to as "rubbish," "absurd," and something that "does not happen in criminal practice in England," an interesting way of avoiding a question regarding its actual existence.  As in many of Conan Doyle's later works, there are elements and clues already famous from other entries, a sidelight more indicative of fatidic patterning rather than any lack of creativity on his part.  To those not enchanted (alas, at one point I counted myself among them) by the miniatures of genius that these tales represent, our vampire and her appurtenances can proffer as fine an introduction as any of the more canonically recognized classics, most of which predate our sleuth's temporary demise.  In fact, reading them in order of publication suggests both that Holmes and Watson are necessarily wiser as time progresses and that their cases begin to echo past achievements.  Not that there could ever be any real-life vampires for two men of science apart from an occasional bat.

Kierkegaard, "A True Friendship" (part 2)

The concluding part of a selection from a work by this Danish man of letters. You can find the original in this volume.

All of this is but one picture, all four of us together.  If I were to think about some of them I would be able to find an analogy as far as my own self – Mephistopheles; the only difficulty here is that Edward is no Faust.  Were I to dub myself Faust the problem would be different: Edward is the farthest thing from Mephistopheles.  As am I for that matter, at least in Edward's eyes.  He admires me for the good genius of Love, and in that regard he does well; at least he can rest assured that no one can watch over his love more meticulously than I can.  I promised him to engage the aunt in conversation, and I tend to this hateful task with all seriousness.  Practically before our very eyes the aunt disappears into pure agronomy: we go to the kitchen and basement, out into the fresh air, look after the hens, ducks and geese, and so forth.  All this angers Cordelia, but she of course cannot understand what I actually want.  To her I remain a mystery, a mystery whose solution does not tempt her but which provokes bitterness and indignation.  She feels very good that her aunt is almost ridiculous, and yet her aunt is such a respectable woman that she certainly does not deserve it.  On the other hand I make her feel that she would be forgiven if she sought me out to provoke me.  Sometimes I go so far as to make Cordelia smile at her aunt with secrecy.  There are studies that have to be done.  It's not as if Cordelia and I acted in such a way so that she would never smile at her aunt – far from it.  I remain undeterred in my commitment to taking the matter seriously; but she doesn't let herself smile.  And this is the first error in her education: we have to teach her how to smile ironically.  But this smile applies almost as much to me as to her aunt because she really has no idea what to think of me.  Nevertheless it was possible that I was a young man who had become old before his time; it was possible.  There was a second possibility as well as a third, etcetera.  Once she has smiled at her aunt she will feel indignant towards herself, and I will turn around and continue chatting with her aunt, look at her with a grave and serious mien, and she will smile at me, at the situation.              

Our relationship does not involve the tender, faithful embraces of understanding nor attraction, but misunderstanding's repulsion.  My relationship towards her is in fact nothing at all, it is purely spiritual – which of course is nothing in a relationship with a young girl.  The method to which I now adhere does have, however, its extraordinary conveniences.  A person who comports himself chivalrously stirs up doubt and provokes resistance – but I am exempt from such things.  No one watches over me; on the contrary, one would sooner label me a reliable sort well-suited to watching over a young girl.  This method has only one flaw, which is its slowness; this can only used to one's advantage on those people who would be interesting to win over.

What else possesses the tremendous force of a young girl?  Not the wind's whisper, nor the freshness of the morning air, nor the brisk cool seaport, nor the scent and vim of a bottle of wine.  No, nothing; nothing else on earth has this power.

Soon I hope to have made her hate me.  I have wholly assumed the guise of bachelor, talking only about loafing at home, having a reliable servant, and having a friend with a good enough foothold that he can be counted on when we join arms in camaraderie.  If I could only get the aunt to stop talking about farming, I would be able to give her a more direct occasion for irony.  A bachelor is someone you can laugh at, someone with whom you can sympathize, yet a young man who is not out of his mind; and a young girl will bristle at such behavior, with all of her gender's meaning, her beauty and poetry destroyed. 

Thus the days go by: I see her but do not speak to her, in her vicinity I only make idle chatter with her aunt.  One night perhaps it may occur to me to give full vent to my love.  So I walk outside her windows shrouded in my cloak, my hat pulled down over my eyes.  Her bedroom looks out upon the courtyard, but since it lies on the corner it also faces the street.  Now and then she stands up for a moment beside the window or opens it, and, unnoticed by all, looks up towards the stars – although she is not one to want to be noticed by everyone.  During these nocturnal hours I drift around like a ghost, and like a ghost I haunt her apartment block.  Here I forget everything, have no plans or calculations; here I throw reason overboard, expand and strengthen my bosom with deep sighs, a movement not permitted in my system of conduct.  Some are virtuous during the day and sinful at night, and I am all pretense in daytime and pure desire as evening comes.  If only she could see me here, if only she could peer into my soul – if only. 

If this girl wishes to understand herself, she will have to confess that I am a man for her.  She is too intense, too deeply set on being happy in marriage; it would not be enough to let her fall for a seducer, pure and simple.  But when she does fall for me she will salvage the interesting part of this shipwreck.  With me she will have to do what philosophers have described with a pun: zu Grunde gehen.

As it were, she's grown tired of listening to Edward.   This is so often the case when strict limits engird the person of interest.  Sometimes she listens in on my conversation with her aunt, and once I notice this, to the astonishment of both her aunt and Cordelia, some hint of another world gleams on the horizon.  Her aunt sees lightning but hears nothing; Cordelia sees nothing but hears a voice.  And yet at that very time everything is in perfect order, the conversation between her aunt and me advancing in its humdrum way like courier ponies in the still of the night, accompanied by the melancholy of the tea machine.  In the living room at such moments it can sometimes get uncomfortable, especially for Cordelia.  She has no one to whom she can talk or listen.  Were she to turn towards Edward in his embarrassment, she would run the risk of a very dumb move; were she to turn to the other side, towards her aunt and me, she would trigger that assuredness that reigns, the brisk, monotone hammering of conversation, so different from Edward's supreme awkwardness.  I can well understand how it might occur to Cordelia that her aunt was charmed and bewitched, as she moves in perfect harmony with my tempo.  Nor could she participate in this conversation, because this is one of those means that I use to repulse her, and I allow myself to treat her completely like a child.  It's not as if on that account I should permit myself all sorts of liberties towards her – far from it.  I see quite clearly how confusing this might seem, especially as to whether her femininity may rise up pure and  beautiful as it once was.  Owing to my intimate relationship with her aunt, it is easy for me to treat her like a child that has no understanding of the world.  This approach neutralizes rather than affronts her femininity, because her femininity cannot be offended by the fact that she has no idea about market square prices although it may repulse her that this is somehow the most essential thing in life.  In this respect her aunt outdoes herself – with my powerful support.  She becomes almost fanatic, something for which she has me to thank.  The only thing she cannot tolerate about me is that I am simply nothing.   Now I have introduced the practice that every time our topic of conversation is a vacant office or post, that means that this is a post for me, and a matter of serious discourse between us.  Cordelia always notices the irony, which is exactly what I want. 

Poor Edward!  Pity that his name is not Fritz.  Every time that I dwell in my reflections on my relationship with him, I always end up thinking about Fritz i Bruden.  Edward is moreover just like his role model, the Corporal in the National Guard; to be honest, Edward is also rather boring.  He never perceives a matter the right way, and always appears taut and rehearsed.  Just between us, out of friendship towards him, I always try to appear as reckless as possible.  Poor old Edward!  The only thing that hurts me more is his endless debt to me, and that he almost doesn't know how to thank me.  Therefore allowing myself to be thanked would really be too much.