The Write Thing

I have not written on this blog for quite a while. It has been a difficult month, full of retrospection and introspection, with some good moments but, basically, lots of inner self questioning, if such a combination of words exists in the English language. There has been pain inside and also outside, in my “circle of trust”, and it has had a very strong impact on me. I hope eventually the whole experience will make me a more insightful human being and a better person.

So, if I had to choose poetry to illustrate the moment — I recall mentioning poetry earlier in this blog as my foie gras in a world of prosaic corned beef, or something of the sort — there should be some Emily Dickinson. Sagittarian, tortured, passionate and suffering goddess of illuminated seclusion, her writing dissects the anatomy of feelings in a methodically simple way. I would say it is the kind of poetry where each word weighs a ton, and there are so few that missing one single element in her compositions results in major loss.

I read on a website the other day that the poem I quote below was allegedly written for her sister in law, with whom the poetess was apparently infatuated. Perhaps associating lonely Dickinson (the typical Puritan spinster, at least in form) with lesbianhood is an oversimplification, but let’s agree that as we read her it is impossible not to perceive that certain component which denotes someone as being really sensitive to the female world. But no more words from me, let’s hear it from Miss Dickinson herself:

What mystery pervades a well!

The water lives so far,

Like neighbor from another world

Residing in a jar.

The grass does not appear afraid;

I often wonder he

Can stand so close and look so bold

At what is dread to me.

Related somehow they may be, –

The sedge stands next the sea,

Where he is floorless, yet of fear

No evidence gives he.

But nature is a stranger yet;

The ones that cite her most

Have never passed her haunted house,

Nor simplified her ghost.

To pity those that know her not

Is helped by the regret

That those who know her, know her less

The nearer her they get.

It appears that the lesbian code can be cracked by replacing the word “nature” in the poem with the name of the undisclosed destinataire, Susan Gilbert. Regardless of whether it was Susan or somebody else the poem was directed to, I cannot but marvel at Dickinson’s deftness in portraying the mystery of others, the hidden self, or selves, of le grand autre. The well (the other) is a mystery, a lonely, perhaps exciting mystery. Sometimes, paradoxically, the nearer we get to it — as to nature itself — the more unfathomable it becomes.

I have a thing for French opera. I always have, since I saw my first performance of Gounod’s Faust at the Colón many years ago. My expectations were not really high, as I was more used to the Italian drama that a Puccini or a Verdi would ooze. However, as the curtain was lifted on the first act, a new world opened before my eyes. The melodic lines, the finesse of the singing, the words, the dramatic tempo all melted in a magical feast for the senses. It was all there, subtle and enriching, like a three-course meal in a cozy French restaurant. Everything in its right measure, the perfect marriage of music and words, providing that the artists could accomplish their task correctly. That night they did.

And so it was that I developed a strong liking for French opera. I was not disappointed when I switched from Gounod to Massenet afterwards. First, there was Manon and, a few years later, Thaïs (which I have never been able to see live yet). Now, these past few weeks I found myself listening to the two works again after quite some time. Curiously enough, the excerpts I listened to were Act III of Manon, and Act II of Thaïs. In both these acts, the protagonists sing about youth and the aging process, albeit from a different perspective. There is young Manon urging her friends to enjoy youth, and to love, laugh and sing non-stop, because they will not be twenty years old forever and youth fades away only too soon, like love itself. Then, there is Thaïs bringing a different shade to the whole issue. She feels the emptiness of beauty with no purpose, and in fear asks her mirror to tell her she will be beautiful for good. (Dis-moi…que) rien ne flétrira les roses de mes lèvres, rien ne ternira l’or pur de mes cheveux, she sings as if she could seal a pact with the devil and never grow old. But her mirror is only too cruel and replies Thaïs, tu vieilliras!

So my reflection upon listening to this was…is youth an operatic obsession for the French? I could argue that, if that is the case, so are mirrors (Thaïs talks to hers and Gounod’s Marguerite does the same in Faust). However, I prefer to think that, more than an obsession — in fact, being forever young is an impossible aspiration for all cultures these days — youth for the French is a way of life. In this light, the prevailing idea would be to enjoy and use up your youth (and your life) while it lasts instead of regretting its passing in advance. In short, it is awareness of pleasure…enjoy what you have knowing that it will go away at some point.

This is my own interpretation of French wisdom, I must confess, but if I elaborate a little further, I can actually say I have seen the French really apply this rule. For example, a woman I once met in Paris told me: “we may not have a lot of money, but we do have lovely cars”. I would say that it is not only that. France has also made a very rich contribution to the realm of opera, with works that even today defy the passage of time, in characters that despite their fear or their knowledge have remained forever young.