Poemas y sonetos - Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz

Rating: ★★★★

27/02/17

Women and books are not every man’s best friends

Juana Inés de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana. Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. Sister Joan Agnes of the

Cross. The Tenth Muse. The illegitimate child. The self-taught scholar. She was born in San Miguel Nepantla, near Mexico City, which was part of the Spanish Empire, in 1651. Having learned how to read and write at age 3, she devoured every book she found in her grandfather’s library. Books both appropriate and forbidden, according to the wisdom of a Church composed of fallible men. By virtue of her brilliant mind, she harvested admiration and envy. And the strength of the latter, naturally, resonated across her body, her spirit, her legacy. Much has been said, much has been hidden. A fascinating and controversial figure brimming with beauty and the rare charms of wit. I was instantly captivated by her life and poetry, which echoes the lyrical nature of a restless soul. Her verses disclose the desire for knowledge, the delights of a good argument, the sensuous beauty of the flesh, the chants to the divine, the impulse of a free spirit and a constrained body. Truths essentially secular, revelations intrinsically sacred. Breathtaking complexity. Confusion and longing.

The unbearable heaviness of being.

Este amoroso tormento

Este amoroso tormento

que en mi corazón se ve,

sé que lo siento, y no sé

la causa por qué lo siento.

Siento una grave agonía

por lograr un devaneo

que empieza como deseo

y para en melancolía.

…

Siento mal del mismo bien

con receloso temor,

y me obliga el mismo amor

tal vez a mostrar desdén.

*

This amorous torment

This amorous torment

which in my heart can be seen

I know I feel it yet don’t know

the reason of this feeling.

I feel a strong agony

at having a dalliance,

that begins as desire

and ends in melancholy.

...

I feel bad for good itself

with suspicious fear

and obliged by the same love

perhaps to show disdain.

The young Juana Inés couldn’t even touch the threshold of the university, not even while wearing men’s clothes, as she once naively contrived, so she decided to wear a religious habit in order to assuage her thirst for knowledge. An activity which wouldn’t interfere with her studies, and probably would save her from her condition of illegitimacy, as stated by some sources. A bold decision that not always lived up to her expectations, for being married to God meant prayers and penitence, cooking, needlework, cleaning, more penitence. Her spiritual marriage didn’t involve reading and writing about worldly matters. It didn’t involve philosophy, theology, logic nor passion. It didn’t involve thinking. Nonetheless, Juana Inés, now Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, had other plans which obeyed the talents that God, her creator, for some reason gave her.

Insinúa su aversión a los vicios

¿En perseguirme, mundo, qué interesas?

¿En qué te ofendo, cuando sólo intento

poner bellezas en mi entendimiento

y no mi entendimiento en las bellezas?

*

Suggesting her aversion to vice

O World, why do you wish to persecute me?

How do I offend you, when I intend

only to fix beauty in my intellect,

and never my intellect fix on beauty?

After some years, and particularly since 1690 (the year when she dared to question the theological views of one celebrated Portuguese Jesuit preacher), a nun and her wondrous quill became an ecclesiastic insult. An inexcusable transgression. An unpardonable song of rebellion in a world where some women truly believed the small fate imposed by men, while others nodded in despairing acquiescence.

Finjamos que soy feliz

Finjamos que soy feliz,

triste pensamiento, un rato;

quizá prodréis persuadirme,

aunque yo sé lo contrario...

…

Si es mío mi entendimiento,

¿por qué siempre he de encontrarlo

tan torpe para el alivio,

tan agudo para el daño?

*

Let us pretend that I'm happy

Let us pretend that I'm happy,

sad thought, for a while;

you may actually persuade me

but I know otherwise

...

If it's mine my understanding,

Why always must it be

So dull and slow to pleasure,

So keen for injury?

After watching a biopic, a series on Netflix, and reading a brief biography, I thought it was time to get acquainted with this brilliant woman's work (otherwise, I confess, I wouldn't have paid her much attention). A person who defended women's right to gain knowledge like any other man, in a time when a woman was considered an inferior being and the source of all sin; a time when reading Copernicus was the safest path to the diverse punishments inflicted by the Inquisition.

It was an interesting social experiment to compare a protest I witnessed a couple of weeks ago, where women decided to protect her rights by going topless (watch out, Wollstonecraft) with a woman who, amid the ignorance and misogyny of a harsh 17th century, decided to defend those same rights with her mind. A religious woman whose quill didn’t shiver and once wrote to foolish men, who accuse/Women without good reason/You are the cause of what you blame/Yours the guilt you deny...

By 1693, Sor Juana Inés relegated her literary creativity. She, the worst of all women, was forced to repent by the pressure of the Church, embodied by Francisco de Aguiar y Seijas, Archbishop of Mexico, for being a vain spirit too attached to earthly matters, for neglecting her duties as a nun, for daring to think like a man. Her books, her musical instruments, her scientific tools – everything was sold or confiscated, depending on the source. Her intellectual force couldn’t resist the clerical opposition which not only would affect her, but her Sisters as well. In that context, her words were no longer published; she immersed herself in the activities of the convent. She died in 1695 during a plague, while taking care of other stricken nuns.

According to some documents, after Sor Juana Inés' death, several writings – sacred and profane – were found in her room. She never published a word in the eyes of the Church again, but she never stopped writing either.

Juana Inés de Asbaje y Ramírez de Santillana. Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz. The heavens and the earth tried to conquer her beautiful mind.

Dime vencedor rapaz

…

En dos partes dividida

tengo el alma en confusión:

una, esclava a la pasión,

y otra, a la razón medida.

Guerra civil, encendida,

aflige el pecho importuna:

quiere vencer cada una,

y entre fortunas tan varias,

morirán ambas contrarias

pero vencerá ninguna.

…

pues podré decir, al verme

expirar sin entregarme,

que conseguiste matarme

mas no pudiste vencerme.

*

Ascendent raptor speak

…

My soul is cleft

confusedly in twain.

Half - a thrall to passion,

the other - reason's slave.

Civil war, inflamed, importunate

afflicts this breast:

each strives to overwhelm his counterpart;

but amidst such mutinous counterstorms,

both helmsmen must perish,

neither, return to port.

…

since it will be said - to see me fall

yet not surrender -

that you managed to kill

but failed to conquer.

The mind that saw no obstacle in gender or time. That put common citizens, sensible clergymen and viceroys under her intellectual spell. That gained her inveterate enemies but also kind-hearted friends who remained admiring her work during the worst of times, and after her death. That transcended the limits of her body. For being enamored with the mind of another human being is the most long-lasting connection to which anyone may aspire.

* 4.5 stars. I wasn’t exactly thrilled by this edition. I noticed that there were one or two incomplete versions of poems and no indication - vexing. If you know Spanish, you may want to look for another collection.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath

Rating: ★★★★★

02/02/17

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? ...we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

— Franz Kafka; January 27, 1904

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor… and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was... (Chapter 7)

There is a lulling silence engulfing this entire book, and if it weren’t for the darkening clouds approaching, an infinite palette brimming with all the shades of creation, one may never guess that it is the calm before the storm. Amid the impending commotion, the ancient state of confusion hovering over this land, a tree has already started to sense the chaos. A fig tree is losing its branches, one by one, as the storm unleashes its fury and time passes us by. The house does no longer provides shelter; its white walls won’t stop the cold, we see the ceiling yet we’ll feel the rain. Crystals are besieging us. The captives in the world of glass feel it all.

My first encounter with Sylvia Plath’s work was Ariel. It was a good read but it didn’t leave me memorable impressions. Later I understood how excruciatingly personal her poetry was, thus missing a plethora of subtle vocals, strong undertones, harrowing melodies. After reading about her life and watching a biopic, the connection was absolutely different regarding, for instance, the same two poems I had read months ago. There may be a lack of lyrical substance, of the mellifluous quality in language worthy of all praises, but to me, the beauty of her verse lies on her honest display of emotions through complex and raw imagery. I find that openness refreshing. How unsafe it is to be on the brink of vulnerability, with a bunch of emotions for one person or a whole world to see. And yet, how brave; giving free expression to such feelings, turning them into creative energy. How invigorating. Even when no one is listening to anyone. Not even the ones who complain about how deaf the world is.

Under these circumstances, I decided to revisit her poetry someday. The thing that triggered this series of fortunate events was a review by a friend, which made me want to give Plath’s writing another try, because I had sensed many times that she was an author I would certainly love – inexplicable hunches. Therefore, I dived into her only novel, The Bell Jar, first published in 1963 under the pseudonym “Victoria Lucas” and under her name in 1967. It tells the story of Esther Greenwood, the young heiress of several of Plath’s life experiences.

The trouble was, I had been inadequate all along, I simply hadn't thought about it.

I dreaded this review; I knew that from this novel would emerge a personal journal barely touching upon the merits of the book. I postponed the process many times since I didn’t want to deal with it, the easiest path evoking an infantile self-preservation, considering the world as an enormous rug where one can hide every unpleasant feeling, all the mirrors whose reflections we don’t dare to acknowledge.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

In this novel, I found indecision under the apposite metaphor of a fig tree; undying portions of time where absence is a unilateral reality, and the inability to fit the standards to which a woman is supposed to belong – a perpetual rift between professional development and motherhood. The disparities between the world of a man and the encapsulated universe of a woman in mid-20th-century America. Or any place, any time.

I couldn’t stand the idea of a woman having to have a single pure life and a man being able to have a double life, one pure and one not.

Such differences constitute a theme that is deeply explored in this book, and from all perspectives, such as work and sexuality.

Whether she knew it or not, Philomena Guinea was buying my freedom. “What I hate is the thought of being under a man’s thumb,” I had told Doctor Nolan. “A man doesn’t have a worry in the world, while I’ve got a baby hanging over my head like a big stick, to keep me in line.”

While fighting against her demons, we find in Esther a powerful and perceptive character, full of conviction and harboring a strong yearning for independence, a situation that naturally didn’t involve the oppressive presence of a man absorbing her individuality like an unwavering sponge. However, the way her mind worked was much more profound than a trendy dislike composed of empty words. It was a search for identity in a society ruled by men and in which she felt inadequate most of the time. Through the character’s reflections, we witness her longing for liberation from the ties of the expected.

The trouble was, I hated the idea of serving men in any way. I wanted to dictate my own thrilling letters.

It is certainly striking that this novel, which deals with complex themes under such a stifling atmosphere, could also make me smile. Esther has a unique sense of humor and some of her comments regarding a vast array of things were rather amusing. Under the night that never seemed to end, trying to illuminate the long corridors of her mind, accompanied by voices, electricity and despair, she made me her confident and brought me smiles to pass the time.

The Bell Jar is an ambitious work, as I read before, but it’s not a perfect novel. There are some fissures that should prevent me from giving it a 5-star rating. Nevertheless, I changed my first rating from four to five stars; it is on my “favorites” shelf, another favorite axe, and it has rekindled my feelings for Plath. I am grateful for the story she shared. And for the fate she forged for her character. I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am. Despite the darkness in which this book is immersed, a sense of hope still lingers even after finishing this somber journey. Fig trees are on solid ground, awaiting for courage, a leap of faith, life-changing decisions – meaning, beauty, uniqueness. The silence, a limpid layer which allows to admire the now splendid azure sky, is no longer an ominous sign. As a small stone is thrown into a pond, causing violent ripples that soon vanish while the former serenity is restored, such silence is interrupted briefly by the sound of glass breaking. In the midst of too much consciousness, those small shivers are a vital part of the ritual for being born twice—patched, retreaded and approved for the road.

* Photo credit: Bell jar / via Pinterest
Fig Tree (ficus)- Masai Mara, Kenya / Elsen Karstad
Broken window / via karasoft.info

No Longer Human - Osamu Dazai, Donald Keene (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★

28/08/16

LXXXV

They say that “time assuages”,—

Time never did assuage;

An actual suffering strengthens,

As sinews do, with age.

Time is a test of trouble,

But not a remedy.

If such it prove, it prove too

There was no malady.

Emily Dickinson, Part Four: Time and Eternity, The Complete Poems

*

Everything passes. (169)

A gentle breeze brushes the branches of luxuriant trees brimming with cherry blossoms which surround the quaint park bench I chose as my reading spot. A diaphanous cloud softly attached to the sun creates the sensation of being part of a watercolor painting bound to become the antithesis of an actual winter day. Away from the bustle of an anonymous city, from the thoughts that keep accumulating after roaming awkwardly around the mind, trying to repress relentless pangs of sadness. The only sound I would like to hear is the one pages make as they silently turn in order to unfold this heartrending story; one page after the other, reverberating through the Gardens, ensuring the quietude which, by virtue of a book's mere presence, clears my mind completely. If only for a few hours. Or for the briefest minute unable to last sixty wretched seconds.

I wonder if I have actually been happy.

No Longer Human, published in 1948, is a timeless piece of writing that portrays the sense of disqualified as a human being.

isolation of Oba Yozo, a confused child who became a troubled man; roughly, a deceitful person unable to show his true nature to most people, a man

The book is mostly composed of three memoranda; the last one is divided into two parts. Dazai interwove significant personal experiences into his writing; it was somewhat striking to identify those autobiographical aspects as I read our tormented protagonist's story.

The first memorandum is about Yozo's childhood. From an early age, he felt overwhelmed by a profound sense of alienation, which was increased by the presence of his overbearing father. In the end, incapable of understanding human beings, confused by their selfishness and artificial personalities, he steps into the world and becomes another unauthentic person, begetting the perception of having a jocose and amusing manner in the eyes of people around him. In his mind, such farce was the only way he could find to face the creatures he feared the most: humans. As these attempts take place, he ends up harboring a feeling many of us are familiar with but, in another display of egotism triggered by human condition, perhaps the limitations of our surroundings, we tend to think we are the only ones feeling that way.

All I feel are the assaults of apprehension and terror at the thought that I am the only who is entirely unlike the rest. It is almost impossible for me to converse with other people. What should I talk about, how should I say it? – I don't know.

I could connect with some of Yozo's reflections, naturally. I am not someone who immediately trusts in people, especially after many close encounters with disappointment. In that sense, I understood completely the character's reasons for keeping his agonies locked in his chest, imbued with a persistent sense of mistrust. Nevertheless, I could never endorse his absolute insincerity towards everybody. It is impossible not to take this book to everyday life; how distressing it must be to interact with someone so irrationally fearful and indecisive, unwilling to respond when another person tries to reach out, incapable of seeing his ability to actually love. Yozo's feigned emotions, which culminated with the perfect role of the farcical eccentric, somehow shielded the people who cared about him from his recurrent fears, though the element he chose to protect himself (and them, who knows) was deception.

The second memorandum is mostly about the continuation of Yozo's self-destructive behavior, which by then included excessive drinking, smoking and many encounters with prostitutes (to whom he dedicates some degrading observations). Until he finds a woman who makes him feel, for the first time, as if he had freed himself from fear and uneasiness. He didn't feel the need to hide his gloomy disposition. Unfortunately, things rapidly started to go awry.

The weak fear happiness itself.

Even though he had many love affairs, one thing did not change: he was equally cruel to all women who cared about him (view spoiler)[(to the point of witnessing the rape of his own wife and not thinking for a second about helping her; yup, a good fella – great movie, by the way). You may blame it on his father, on his “friends” who took advantage of him, on another sad anecdote from his childhood; you name it (hide spoiler)]. The seemingly cogent arguments and plausible excuses to justify his actions are infinite. In any case, the results were indelible wounds and irreparable consequences.

“You look like someone who's had an unhappy childhood. You're so sensitive–more's the pity for you.”

That same memorandum also reflects the conflicts that are present in human relationships in the context of an adverse socio-economic status. At one point, the humiliation of not being able to provide for a woman was insufferable; the last straw that culminated in another mistake.

The third memorandum chronicles the protagonist's late twenties.

Several ambivalent feelings arise from reading about a character such as Yozo. I was able to comprehend some of his fears and his genuine sense of alienation, though other times I saw him as an inconsiderate man who epitomized cruelty and selfishness.

After a life of lying to himself and to others, Yozo chooses to write about his miseries and atrocious acts without a shred of falseness. Without resorting to any sentimentality – in contrast to his entire existence, his notebooks do not try to please anyone – he tells his story without engaging in unavailing circumlocution, elegantly gliding to the brink of brutal honesty as he circumvents every rule of an ostensibly civilized world. Despite the stark writing style which predominated in the novel, Dazai endowed it with not only plentiful profound meditations which may resonate with many readers around the globe, but with an exquisite language reminiscent of wistful fragments of poetry written in some bleak hotel room. There is no rhapsody of praise to nature, no writer simply extolling the virtues of silence. This novel is a one-way ticket to a person's psyche. Indubitably, a memorable journey since Dazai's words might linger in the vicinity of one's mind for far too long.

Unhappiness. There are all kinds of unhappy people in this world. I suppose it would be no exaggeration to say that the world is composed entirely of unhappy people. But those people can fight their unhappiness with society fairly and squarely, and society for its part easily understands and sympathizes with such struggles. My unhappiness stemmed entirely from my own vices, and I had no way of fighting anybody... Am I what they call and egoist? Or am I the opposite, a man of excessively weak spirit? I really don't know myself, but since I seem in either case to be a mass of vices, I drop steadily, inevitably, into unhappiness, and I have no specific plan to stave off my descent.

Selfishness or a weak spirit. I am not in the position to ascertain to which of those personalities Yozo belongs. Recently, I stumbled upon a quote by Jane Austen (which can be found in her novel Mansfield Park) that makes me ponder his situation, since it states the following: “Selfishness must always be forgiven, you know, because there is no hope of a cure.” In that context, Austen only refers to selfishness; she is not as bold as one M. de Norpois (I just met him so I still don't know what to think of him) who declared once that for every sin there is forgiveness.

We all carry within us some degree of egoism – in fact, it can be seen as another defense mechanism regarding the protection of one's heart; I should know. But of course, some humans are replete with it. So much so that sometimes they might seem incapable of feeling pain, as they might do everything in their power to avoid it, regardless of the pain they are inflicting on others. To me, Yozo's case is somewhat paradigmatic; he relied on his antics to deceive people – and thereby being able to deal with them – instead of turning to superficially veracious words he never meant to say or a perpetual pusillanimous silence. Either way, Yozo suffers; he is not a pretender who thinks that being unable to fit into society is something that makes him special. It makes him truly unhappy. However, fighting for our existence is certainly not impossible; as a matter of fact, it is a more reasonable plan than sitting comfortably, feeling miserable and just waiting for the world's gaping maw to tear us apart.

I thought, “As long as I can make them laugh, it doesn’t matter how, I’ll be alright. If I succeed in that, the human beings probably won’t mind it too much if I remain outside their lives. The one thing I must avoid is becoming offensive in their eyes: I shall be nothing, the wind, the sky.”

Unlike Austen, I can't say for sure that there is no hope of a cure. The idealistic within me, breathing optimism and naivety daily, will claim that there is. The cynical within me, a little bruised due to some unpleasant experiences in life, will guarantee that, in reality, there is no remedy for such unfortunate malady. Despite this state of uncertainty, I agree with the first part of Austen's statement; we should forgive. As Dickinson's poem continues to echo in my head, the thought that time alone doesn't heal all wounds resounds just as much; indeed, it is what we do with that time that may alleviate certain symptoms. Forgiveness is an active way to deal with anything that once caused a small cut or unfathomable pain. It is not only part of a process which is essential to avoid hardening one's heart, it is also a humane way to treat others, even those whose actions leave a bittersweet aftertaste, even if I am not forgiven. Not that the world needs my foolish perspectives in the form of endless paragraphs of little merit, of course, but I for one choose to forgive, and that decision is made taking into consideration, among other things, the possibility that such cure, in fact, does not exist. I wouldn't want to magnify the weight of the cross that some people have to carry around, for the absence of said remedy might be already too harsh a punishment.

I turn the last page and the previous luminous scenery metamorphoses into a typical winter day. Storm clouds are already appearing above the horizon; they will soon cover these empty cherry trees, and me. I walk back home, trying not to think about the intense sky's azure, the park bench, the limpid lake I never mentioned, the cherry blossoms, the tragedy of being no longer human. Trying not to think.

Indomitable thoughts.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.

Swann's Way (À la recherche du temps perdu #1) - Marcel Proust, Lydia Davis (Translator)

Rating: ★★★★★

02/06/16

Proust so titillates my own desire for expression that I can hardly set out the sentence…

My great adventure is really Proust. Well—what remains to be written after that? I’m only in the first volume, and there are, I suppose, faults to be found, but I am in a state of amazement; as if a miracle were being done before my eyes. How, at last, has someone solidified what has always escaped—and made it too into this beautiful and perfectly enduring substance? One has to put the book down and gasp. The pleasure becomes physical—like sun and wine and grapes and perfect serenity and intense vitality combined.

– Virginia Woolf, The Letters of Virginia Woolf: Volume Two, 1912-1922

INTRODUCTION

For a long time, I went to bed early. Thus begins the most challenging novel I have read this year,

which I have been deliberately avoiding for a very long time, daunted by its renowned intricacy and sumptuous sophistication. With those simple words – to which I cannot relate since going to bed early and sleeping through the night is not something I am known for – a vast array of themes are brought to life by virtue of the magnificent and oh, lord, intellectually demanding pen of Marcel Proust; and this is hardly a complaint: it is difficult to express my gratitude, for this is the most beautiful and stimulating prose I have read in years, composed of sentences whose length left me awestruck at first but, after a while, became a familiar and endearing quality, since they are replete with charm, profundity, unparalleled versatility and an unflagging will to find the meaning of our existence in a world where time will never call a truce.

Being fully aware of this novel's complexity, I thought about getting a great Spanish edition in order to avoid overexertion and provide my brain with a chance at survival; then I reconsidered and decided to indulge my desire for a real literary challenge, ergo, I purchased this English edition brilliantly crafted by Lydia Davis, filled with helpful footnotes that enlightened me about many matters and informed me at once of some clever puns that unfortunately I wasn't in the position to comprehend due to obvious language restrictions. Clearly, I took my time... my mind, on many occasions, was somewhat dizzy with confusion which emanated from a plethora of words of all sizes and colors, trudging to the brink of linguistic fatigue, floral hallucinations and architectonic mirages; thus ended up seeking refuge in sitcoms, two TV series and articles on the Internet that ranged from Kierkegaard to the recipe for strawberry shortcake. I can't deny reading this novel was a bumpy ride, but the benefits it brought me far outweighed any benign bump or educational jolt that ultimately led me to sheer beauty and utter knowledge; for the best things in life – as the best kind of people – are not easy to find.

I need to rest for a couple of weeks, but I look forward to the time when I tackle the second volume that is already beckoning me, patiently waiting on my bookshelf (I would like to read them all with my current mind-set), that unexplored and exciting land in my hands, hoping to find again the same delightful and amusing prose that captivated me for so long.

EXPOSITION – COMBRAY

This first part of the novel was the one I struggled with the most since it was my first contact with Proust's unusual writing style, a succession of words conveying incredibly evocative visualizations that became tangible objects and landscapes by the end of an everlasting sentence; a songbook bursting with candor, with a lofty, delicious language portraying the most vivid metaphors that elevated any ordinary situation and ringed it with pure sublimity; melodies speaking of sleep, an elusive companion; of habit, a despot whose whip is somehow needed; of art, one of the many realms in which one can find the long-awaited and rather fugitive meaning of life; of country walks and the shimmering beauty of nature; a goodnight kiss that keeps being postponed and left me here, in this pearl-colored room where the perfect blend of an andante spianato and a polonaise ignites the walls, where silence is eloquent and words are essentially needed and successfully eluded, in a state of indefatigable contemplation of my almost corporeal melange of emotions and thoughts, intoxicating the air with the scent of contradiction, extrapolating fears and disappointments as I see my own illogical detachment towards a motherly kiss that hardly ever arrives to a boy's door but I receive every single night; for memories strike the Narrator's mind and inoculate an early regret into mine, as I picture the day I no longer get that kiss once taken for granted and there is only night, a faint gleaming of distant stars and a taciturn memory inside a cup of tea, encapsulated in a madeleine, waiting to be reawaken.

But, when nothing subsists of an old past, after the death of people, after the destruction of things, alone, frailer but more enduring, more immaterial, more persistent, more faithful, smell and taste still remain for a long time, like souls, remembering, waiting, hoping, upon the ruins of all the rest, bearing without giving way, on their almost impalpable droplet, the immense edifice of memory. (51)

DEVELOPMENT – SWANN IN LOVE

The second part of the novel speaks of a refined gentleman with an artistic disposition pulsating through his veins, a man already mentioned in 'Combray', Charles Swann and his overly complicated relationship with Odette de Crécy, a persistent source of intense yet minimal joy, stifling and omniscient misery; an unbearable, almost inhumane addiction from which vivid, ardent, passionate, irrational gusts of jealousy adulterating love's nature, palpitating with despair, throbbing with terror, spring up in the face of absolute indifference; a cold-hearted state in which once inhabited her unreserved love beaming with pretended grace and a dab of frivolous peculiarity, molded after the voluptuousness of a cattleya, a devoted chrysanthemum, an obscure book, an exquisite painting rationally observed; samples of affection that make him exhale unfaltering sighs desirous of reciprocity; tokens of a torrid love that have germinated in an ethereal-sounding violin accompanied by the gentle touch of a piano, both coexisting in a large salon where the mere fleeting essence of love has been sketched, crafted by a composer who will never be consigned to oblivion, where every pain inflicted by bare existence was mentally absorbed, physically assimilated, awakening inspiration and channeling those existential wounds – whose presence has been cursed with the countenance of eternity – placing them in the midst of a maelstrom of creativity; a whirlwind in front of my weary eyes, as I contemplate the melodious renaissance of the ‘little phrase’, like a phoenix blazing in the darkness, time and time again, triggering memories of passion and loss, obsession and self-pity, the absurdity of possession; wishing for love to recede, reveling in melancholy, harboring a hope for deliverance.

He apologized for his fear of new friendships, for what he had called, out of politeness, his fear of being unhappy. ‘You’re afraid of affection?’ (223)

RECAPITULATION – PLACE-NAMES: THE NAME

Unravel every mystery, reader.

...helped me better understand what a contradiction it is to search in reality for memory's pictures, which would never have the charm that comes to them from memory itself and from not being perceived by the senses. The reality I had known no longer existed. (481)

CODA

Anesthetized beings seem to have lost the ability to see beauty in life, in people, as they continue to watch the days go by, one after another, impassively, resignedly, like a medieval prisoner gazing up at a small window that helps him realize the presence of the sun and the coldness of the moonlight – that perennial, pale glow that is whitening forlorn skyscrapers at this moment – while holding the keys to the dungeon where he has been dwelling for years but, unable to move due to some uncanny force, perhaps a comfortable fear, could never manage to open. Those days will never cease to pass, days teeming with books, music, windows, soothing memories and distant dreams, instilling life in despondent bodies; brimful of ideas, reflections, beauteous words belonging to this novel, the efflorescence of Proust’s brilliance and generosity, that furnished me with a sense of solace which helped me sleep through an entire night, after the last page was turned. Pages. Words. Words involving goodbyes when love becomes agony. Existence attached to impossibility. Childhood made of beloved places and reminiscences of diverse textures and flavors. An everlasting waiting that will remain so when facing unwavering reluctance. A purpose in life. A wretched alchemist grasping love and art, cutting through their shells in the hope of finding a droplet of essence: a hopeful distillation, a futile attempt at turning existence to meaning; a combination of both. Traces of beauty. The beauty around us. The scent of freshly brewed coffee. A pile of books. The contradiction of my emotions on paper. Staccato lines, disjointed thoughts, scribblings without any light. The sun seeping through the cracks in the blinds. Breakfast in bed. A flowering garden. The fragrance of jasmines. A motherly kiss. A nonexistent immutability which involves not only blissful times but, fortunately, ages of sorrow. Memories, madeleines; lazy Sundays in my hometown. A sonata echoing through the years. The art of appreciation in a single dewdrop, before everything withers away.

* Photo credit: Book cover via Goodreads.
Tea cup and madeleine / Patrick Forget via tourisme28.com
 Madeleine de Scudery, "Le Pays de Tendre" / CC
Les Champs-Élysées / via Pinterest
Water Droplets / via Nevsepic 

Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy

Rating: ★★★★★

01/04/16

[Turn the volume up;

open me in new tab]

There is a well-known belief that, brimming with the romanticism of bygone days to which reason acquiesces in silence, attempts to explain the elusive nature of human relations. According to this myth, the gods get involved in our existence by using a red cord. In Japanese culture, such cord is tied around the little finger; in China, around the ankle. Be it as it may, that string binds one person to the other; people who were always destined to meet, regardless the place, time or circumstances. The character of this connection varies, since it is not restricted to lovers: the two people whose paths are meant to converge at some point, will make history in some way or another, in any given situation. It is said that the red string might get tangled or stretched but it can never break.

Amid all the plausible and unrealistic explanations that might be conceived in order to unravel the true nature of all the encounters we experienced and the ones still awaiting for us, this myth is one of the most poetic ways to try to elucidate their puzzling essence while conveying a lack of randomness in human relations (this certainly goes beyond any rationalization that I could manage to elaborate and that would ultimately be rather pointless). For you could find the person to whom you were always meant to share your life with when you least expect it, no matter your marital status, undoubtedly. And a story that could epitomize this legend took place in 19th-century Russia.

Anna Karenina is not merely a story about an ill-fated relationship that begins with one of the most famous lines in classic literature. Admittedly it was prejudice what prevented me from picking up this book for years. I thought it was going to be another mawkish love story that, alongside its many comings and goings, dealt with—and probably romanticized—the theme of adultery. As much as I spent my entire life questioning the dogmas that my surroundings may have tried to impose upon my own fragile set of principles in youth (that slowly became more grounded through the years), a certain vestige may have survived, but I'm not trying to compete with Tolstoy over who has the most moralizing tone, for I judge no one but myself. To sum up, in literature, the idea of infidelity bores me, so if I have to put up with over nine hundred pages of passion, deception, lustful gazes, thrilling rendezvous and any other similar situation... I'd better stick to short stories.

So imagine my surprise when I found this substantially complex universe populated by people coming from different backgrounds, following different principles, imbued with many noble qualities and ordinary flaws; all captives of something, be it a required sense of dignity, an observance of decorum, stifling social conventions, the game of honesty and feigned emotions or a religion that ruled over most aspects of their lives. A universe defined by the sacrifice of one's wishes, the rejection of one's true feelings in order to do what is proper. A self-denial attitude to demonstrate compliance with the social rules of the world. Actions intended to safeguard a reputation that might get tarnished by truth or falsehood.

I must confess that my lips sarcastically twitched every time I read Tolstoy's effusive meditations on the magnanimous nature of religion and its elevated consequences upon people's behaviour. Oh, 'I want to turn the other cheek, I want to give my shirt when my caftan is taken, and I only pray to God that He not take from me the happiness of forgiveness!' and excerpts as such. At times, I was unable to shake off the impression of a preachy tone that perhaps it was not so, but that my skeptical disposition perceived it anyway. Thankfully, he didn't gush about that too often.

Thus, I gave in. I surrendered to the magnificence of his words, unconditionally.

Every character has been meticulously developed. They were given strong opinions and even the ones I found slightly weak at first, astonished me later when I read their poignant musings, especially when it came to women and their role in both family and society. The idea of (preferably) attractive women whose main job is to give birth, bear with husbands of libertine inclinations and accept their inability to form any opinion worth hearing because nature (un)fortunately has not endowed them with men's brilliance, has clearly survived the 19th century and still resides in some minds that surely scream progress and common sense.

A third-person omniscient narrator takes the lead and introduces us to the world of Anna Arkadyevna Karenina, Karenin's wife, who falls in love with Count Alexei Vronsky, a single, wealthy man. My feelings toward Vronsky gradually changed; I found him rather obnoxious at first—though not as much as Anna’s brother, Stepan Oblonsky, a charming and utterly selfish womanizer married to Darya (‘Dolly’).

This narrator (who acquires a suitable tone for each character and even gives voice to the thoughts of their pets) also follows the story of Konstantin Levin and Ekaterina “Kitty” Shcherbatskaya. Needless to say, Levin has become a favorite of mine. Through his actions and way of thinking, some fascinating factors came into play. His riveting conversations—that he maintained while trying to overcome a heart-rending awkwardness, especially when he found himself cornered due to his inability to disentangle his innovative thoughts when discussing philosophical and political issues—and internal monologues are for me the most memorable parts of the entire novel.

Anna's story is a faithful account of the pressure caused by social norms and the influence of the Russian Church which combined with other elements eventually brought about a relentless state of blinding jealousy, another theme deeply explored by Tolstoy, along with hypocrisy and the need to resort to appearances to be at least theoretically happy. On the contrary, Levin embodies the simplicity of the countryside life, far away from any display of unnecessary opulence; also the bewilderment regarding bureaucracy and the efforts to grasp the concept behind politics, the difficulties present in his relationship with peasants and, in a global scale, the whole agrarian system in contrast to the perception of progress seen in the city. In addition, we witness his struggles concerning faith, an aspect that immediately drew me in, as I also feel frustrated every time I ponder the essence of our existence, our identity, the acknowledgement of death—mortality salience or a persistent state of fear and anxiety—and how everything is supposed to fit an intricate system based on faith; swinging back and forth between reality and a need to believe in something.

This absolutely compelling book showed me another side of Tolstoy. He opened the doors to a world I may recognize since it is not my first Russian novel but that I have barely seen through his eyes for I stubbornly shunned his look for so long. His gifted mind, the uniqueness of his style, the now unmistakable sound of his words thanks to this wonderful translation, the beauty of his language and the sincere nature of his thoughts that were conveyed so eloquently, left an indelible impression on me. Through the characters he has skillfully brought to life, Tolstoy not only shared his views on society and politics, but also his unswerving commitment to do everything in his power to attain a meaningful life. That strenuous search we are always returning to; one that cannot be limited to any time or place since it is intrinsic to human condition. That purpose to which existence might aspire. Something to stimulate our slow, measured pace, often against the flow.

Many things lead to that much desired meaning. Many ways that by themselves are insufficient as life, in constant motion as it is, is a complement of them all. Countless roads branching out while we contemplate, with fearful eyes and wavering avidity for they have ramified in so many directions, the one we should choose.

There is one clear path that this novel illustrates with unflinchingly compassionate brushstrokes of reality. It is understandable that, seeing how love might deteriorate over time, how a kiss becomes an endless reproach and a word, a way to punish and inflict pain on others in the midst of an atmosphere of self-destruction, might make you realize of how that possibility, that unremitting sense of an ending has been injecting fear into your being through the years and all of the efforts you have made to keep a reassuring distance from everything; echoing infantile attempts at self-preservation. A child stepping into society for the first time, again; learning how to speak and behave accordingly, again. Anna, her ghosts, they all demanded, energetically; others, while yearning for different scenarios, return to the shadows, quietly. Giving too much; receiving halves, too late. Doors are always on the verge of closing; serenely becoming accustomed to nothingness.

Even so, amid a myriad of red threads that belong to the vastness of a timeless tapestry, love still constitutes one of the paths that may render a fulfilling life possible.

A bedroom adorned with poppy tears is now shrouded in silence. A red string dwelt there once. It connected two people destined to meet; people who lived a thousand lives in the eternity of a second. According to the myth, such string stretched, tangled and stretched again.

Until she seized hold of it, hoping for a season of forgiveness.

The Nose - Nikolai Gogol

Rating: ★★★★★

06/03/16

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the longer and more carefully we look at a funny story, the sadder it becomes.

As expected, this is a hilarious story. After an intriguing introduction that I shall refrain myself from explaining, we are told that a man woke up, looked at his mirror but didn't find any labyrinths of time nor tigers that haunt dreams. He only noticed that his nose had disappeared. Was it during the night? Perhaps a second before he opened his eyes. We will never know. But, in an act that can only be described as a heinous betrayal and a challenge to every manifestation of reason, that part of his body escaped from the surface of his respectable-looking face and became a well-dressed entity, very pleased with himself and, oddly, with a better social rank than his. Ah, and he was so proud of that rank! You know, he is the kind of person to whom you might ask about the weather and after a minute, you would find yourself listening to a fine gentleman boasting about his important occupations and the comforting feeling that his significant social status gave to him. Nothing profound, certainly. That sort of weakness might be suitable for someone of lesser rank, not him. Following this line of thought, remember, you would have the good fortune of listening to his distinguished conversation only if you belong to a similar status as his, otherwise, I'm afraid he will not be able to answer to you. That would be beneath him. Do not get me wrong, I am not trying to hurt your feelings. I am merely imparting what I regard as relevant information, a dash of knowledge, a gram of wisdom, if you will: the rules of civilization, no less!

You should know by now that the person I am referring to, the one who inspired these ridiculous lines—such drivel that he would unquestionably enjoy nonetheless because, after all, we are all talking about him—is no other than our friend Collegiate Assessor Kovalyov (now, if you would be so kind as to call him 'Major', that would help him make it through the night; to gently caress the ego of these upstanding members of society always ensures them a good night's sleep). Oh, the man sans nose. He could still breathe so that was not an issue, obviously. Notwithstanding, there was a visible absence on his face that surely made him feel self-conscious about his appearance. Who wouldn't understand?

You might think that the source of his distress was also the fact that he could no longer smell the fragrance of fresh-ground coffee (although he would prefer tea, I suppose). Or the perfume of a woman with whom he might have dreamt of the other night but would not speak about, not to one soul, wishing that such memory would return to the bleak corner of his disobedient mind, where it should have stayed; those little nooks under the shadows of the world that hold unavowed dreams and nightmares that ruin normal sleep patterns. Or the aroma that comes from the snuff-box belonging to a thoughtful clerk who might not be aware of our friend's refined taste.

No, the superficial side of human nature would not allow such luxury. Not being able to show his face in public struck fear into his heart. We are in no position to judge here because every individual would feel the same way. Yes, sir. Who wouldn't understand?

Once the glimmer of satire has vanished completely and a state of reflection has emerged from the depths of the unconscious, you will discover that underneath this funny story lies the countenance of misery; timid, distant, determined. The anxiety caused by the look of another person. The condescending sneer from a superior. The mockery directed at an inferior. The need to have a respectable place in society and the urge to cling to it as if your life depended on it. Which, at some degree, unfortunately, it does. A natural consequence of people's priorities. You do understand.

Gogol, whose name is another universe so different from Dostoyevsky's and yet with countless similar facets, mastered the art of blending humor with tragedy, sheer absurdity with varying nuances of misfortune. Like a chameleon and its unusual ability, his language gradually varies from paragraph to paragraph—entertaining lines might take the form of serious statements filled with amusing nonsense that, by the end of the story, might resemble a set of words dripping the sort of lyricism that transports you to another place defying the laws of time, space and apprehensive dispositions.

From that moment on, the thoughts that were impatiently dwelling in some obscure corner that no one would wish to see, manage to free themselves, to leave their self-absorbed bubble. Engulfed in flames of wintry colors and whispering voices, threatened by their wild nature, what are we supposed to do?

Look at the windows as you walk by. Better yet, do not go outside. Go to the bathroom where that wide mirror awaits for you every morning when you are most vulnerable, after walking aimlessly through the bedroom because of three or four hours of lousy sleep. Or reach into your handbag and pull out the small mirror you carefully hide from the world—a futile attempt to deny the existence of some vestige of vanity that might still reside in you.

In an act of moral courage, we could take a look at what that spotless piece of glass may reflect. We could stand in front of it, hold it before our eyes, struck by fear or overcome with joy, in deep, almost mystical contemplation, just to see ourselves through the perception of others, as we try to grab the nearest lifesaver for we might be sinking in a sea of inhibition; rough waters that may reveal a possible craving for social validation with fluctuating degrees of intensity, knowing all the time that any degree could dissolve all trace of reassurance, at the same speed an ice cube melts in hot water. To touch and recognize everything that visually defines us and emotionally affects us. More importantly, to find out, to bring to light. To actually discern what we might have lost yesterday, a while ago; during the minutes that have died and now belong to an uncertain space composed of unreliable memories and remnants of immortality. The things we are about to lose today. Things I would not want to lose tomorrow but that, as with anything in life, in fact, I may have never even had.

* Austen and Gogol have partaken in the creation of the first sentence. I share with you this classified piece of information before Collegiate Assessor Major Kovalyov takes the credit for it.

Journal of a Solitude - May Sarton

Rating: ★★★★★
05/01/16

Does anything in nature despair except man?

September 15th

I feel inadequate. I have made an open place, a place for meditation. What if I cannot find myself inside it?

For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been a collision. I feel too much, sense too much, am exhausted by the reverberations after even the simplest conversation. But the deep collision is and has been with my unregenerate, tormenting, and tormented self. I have written every poem, every novel, for the same purpose—to find out what I think, to know where I stand. I am unable to become what I see.

September 16th

I make the questions.

I also give the answers.

Naturally.

September 17th

It was a strange relationship, for he knew next to nothing about my life, really; yet below all the talk we recognized each other as the same kind. He enjoyed my anger as much as I enjoyed his. Perhaps that was part of it. Deep down there was understanding, not of the facts of our lives so much as of our essential natures.

September 20th

“There is something demoralizing about watching two people get more and more crazy about each other, especially when you are the only extra person in the room. It's like watching Paris from an express caboose heading in the opposite direction—every second the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it's really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and excitement at about a million miles an hour.” P.

September 22nd

I am losing the ability to hold a conversation with people. My voice drowns. My mind wanders. I am holding on to those written words, clinging to them like they were the last piece of wood of a fragile boat that the sea swallowed before. I am holding on to that last trace of whatever it is that makes me human.

...but, what are we looking at? A puppy starving for a glance that fearfully walks away after it gets it; overwhelmed, confused. Connections and detachment fight for a place inside conflicted minds, echoing the struggles of those lonesome beasts of the steppes.

September 23rd

It is raining. I sit by the window and start to look at the world I know, where the jasmines and some white lilies briefly live. Nothing compares to the scent of the jasmines, I think. As I repeat that particular thought inside my head, the rest of them start to ramble. Trapped in the inner world as they contemplate what's outside. They blend with reverie and solitude and begin to restlessly create memories. Brand new memories of things that I have never experienced. A sense of nostalgia towards things that were never real. A feeling of loss at what I have never had. Possibilities are endless and I cannot control anything.

Except the presence of those simple jasmines. And how their fragrance make me feel. For I do not want a mere surface of bright colors or unusual forms. I want everything.

Or nothing at all.

September 25th

This room is a place in the world. Here I breathe, I dream, I read, I write. Do I live? I do feel that universal sense of discontent with life that I wish I could shake off at once. Happiness must exist, somewhere. A moment, a day, a year. A book, a place, a song, a person. And then I think—that inevitable activity that haunts us everyday. And then. And then I am not sure if I want to find that happiness and belong to the flock.

Even though I believe that I am already a part of one.

...

But mirrors await. Poetry emerges from every nook. Time, unforgiving time. Time is everything.

Give me a day and I will give you a year of thoughts. With time, I will accept. I will regret. Fortunately or against my wishes, I will also start to forget. I was never able to forget completely. But things become quiet memories. It all starts to lose its brightness. Its warmth. I thought about someone today. Those faintly aloof eyes.

I smiled. A colder memory now.

September 28th

I am an ornery character, often hard to get along with. The things I cannot stand, that make me flare up like a cat making a fat tail, are pretentiousness, smugness, the coarse grain that often shows itself in a turn of phrase. I hate vulgarity, coarseness of soul. I hate small talk with a passionate hatred. ...it is a waste of time to see people who have only a social surface to show. I will make every effort to find out the real person, but if I can't, then I am upset and cross. Time wasted is poison.

September 29th

'How does one grow up?' I asked a friend the other day. There was a slight pause; then she answered, “By thinking.”

The thing I want to control the most.

*

So intimate, so special, so familiar. These journals reminded me of a book I absolutely adore.

A brushstroke of sweet, melancholic poetry on every page. The deafening sounds of a silent introspection. I have found more words to describe the inexplicable, since my own are never enough.

I am accused of disloyalty because I talk about things that many people would keep to themselves...I am not at all discreet about anything that concerns feeling. My business is the analysis of feeling.

May Sarton merged nature with solitude and, as a result, this beautifully crafted book came into existence. Journals filled with her impressions on the natural world, relationships of all sorts, the creative process and the isolation that it inevitably requires, the ebb and flow of her depression, the moments of peace in between.

A walk through the depths of her complex soul has been portrayed with a most exquisite and honest writing.

The Gambler - Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Rating: ★★★★★
13/12/15

Can I possibly not understand myself that I’m a lost man? But—why can’t I resurrect? (188)

It is not just the extraordinary psychological depth of the characters nor the engaging story that masterfully manages the element of surprise. This novella had a great impact on me for the simple reason that whenever I read certain passages, I saw him. His obsessions, his fears, his passion for a distant woman, his despair. Dostoyevsky was there, trying to survive.

Alexei Ivanovich is a 25 year-old tutor that works for a Russian family. The General's family that includes Polina, the woman Alexei loves. They are all living in a suite at some German hotel. Besides them, there is a bunch of other manipulative, self-destructing, unstable characters. Flawed yet colorful, at times. As with life. People that were the inspiration for Dostoyevsky's most amusing remarks, filled with fine irony and a tinge of sarcasm. Just a tad...

Alexei is a complete character; lovable, obnoxious. Everything but indifference. Pride (that vanishes when facing his obsession), overly analytical thinking, madness, cynicism, wit, honesty, frankness.

It’s really nice when people don’t stand on ceremony, but act in an open and unbuttoned way with each other. And why should one deceive oneself? It’s the most futile and ill-calculated occupation! (17)

A frankness that gave me hope. He is not the timid character that keeps everything inside. I mean, I am in love with those characters since they are a mirror to me and let me focus on the many things I need to change. But it is nice to see an energetic, outspoken character developing the quality that one longs for.

...when I talk with you, I want to say everything, everything, everything. I lose all form... Since I have no hope and am a zero in your eyes, I say outright: I see only you everywhere, and the rest makes no difference to me. (34)

A frankness that combined with the particular situation of being madly in love with a woman, inspires one of the most unsettling passages of the novella. One that brought to mind all the disgusting justifications that one encounters in life.

This book screams reality. The description of the casino, the kinds of gamblers, the desire to win, the abstraction from the world, the eyes fixed on a number, an excuse for every act, the brief sense of reason after a lost bet and the subsequent hunch that the next one will be the one that saves the day.

I was as if in a fever and pushed this whole pile of money onto red—and suddenly came to my senses! And for the only time that whole evening, in all that playing, fear sent a chill over me and came back as a trembling in my hands and legs. With terror I sensed and instantly realized what it meant for me now to lose! My whole life was at stake! (111)

No, a day is not saved only by the profits so easily made. It is the impulse, the craving for risks. Despair that drives. Chance that sings. The feeling that one is in control of the roulette, of the next move; the elusive luck. Praises for the fearless gambler.

However, I don’t remember what I thought about on the way; there were no thoughts. My only sensation was of some terrible pleasure—luck, victory, power—I don’t know how to express it. (114)

Every chapter, every paragraph, everything is written with such detail. Vivid descriptions about the parallel universe that inevitably brings disgrace to its inhabitants. Citizens that worship daring ventures.

They can deny it. They can lie to themselves as they embrace victory, but deep down they are aware of their deteriorating state.

Nothing could be more absurd than moral lessons at such a moment! Oh, self-satisfied people: with what proud self-satisfaction such babblers are ready to utter their pronouncements! If they only knew to what degree I myself understand all the loathsomeness of my present condition, they wouldn’t have the heart to teach me. Well, what, what new thing can they say to me that I don’t know myself? And is that the point? ... What am I now? Zéro. What may I be tomorrow? Tomorrow I may rise from the dead and begin to live anew! I may find the man in me before he’s lost! (133)

An ill-fated relationship. Our doomed Russian friend.

By trying to defeat destiny through gambling, he ensured his servitude. A slave of everything he loved too much. Of everything he hated but still needed. The roulette. The urge. The impulse. A woman.

A brief existence perpetually waiting for fate to change. Waiting for another tomorrow.