One thing lead to another

A few days ago, I stumbled upon this quote from Flannery O'Connor (1925-1964):

"Truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it."

I didn't remember reading this, or in this form, in her short stories, so I looked it up. I found it in a letter O’Connor wrote in 1955 to a friend (letter available here):

“The truth does not change according to our ability to stomach it emotionally. A higher paradox confounds emotion as well as reason and there are long periods in the lives of all of us, and of the saints, when the truth as revealed by faith is hideous, emotionally disturbing, downright repulsive. Witness the dark night of the soul in individual saints. Right now the whole world seems to be going through a dark night of the soul.”

The phrase, repeated twice, is ominous. The world seems to be toiling under the same dark night of the soul. I recognised it to be inspired by a poem by St John of the Cross*, even though it is not written verbatim. I'm too tired today to go deeper, so I'll leave you with the quote, the letter, the poem to outlast the night.

Flannery died at the same age I am today. All nights are dark, by definition, but not all of them are dark. Perhaps it is the same with souls, after all.



*Dark Night of the Soul
By St. John of the Cross
Translated by A.Z. Foreman


Once in the dark of night,
Inflamed with love and yearning, I arose
(O coming of delight!)
And went, as no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose

All in the dark went right,
Down secret steps, disguised in other clothes,
(O coming of delight!)
In dark when no one knows,
When all my house lay long in deep repose.

And in the luck of night
In secret places where no other spied
I went without my sight
Without a light to guide
Except the heart that lit me from inside.

It guided me and shone
Surer than noonday sunlight over me,
And led me to the one
Whom only I could see
Deep in a place where only we could be.

O guiding dark of night!
O dark of night more darling than the dawn!
O night that can unite
A lover and loved one,
Lover and loved one moved in unison.

And on my flowering breast
Which I had kept for him and him alone
He slept as I caressed
And loved him for my own,
Breathing an air from redolent cedars blown.


And from the castle wall
The wind came down to winnow through his hair
Bidding his fingers fall,
Searing my throat with air
And all my senses were suspended there.

I stayed there to forget.
There on my lover, face to face, I lay.
All ended, and I let
My cares all fall away
Forgotten in the lilies on that day.

Here is the source for the poem.
 

A word is a word is a word is a word

Gertrude Stein, on her deathbed, asked to the people around her "What is the answer?" As she didn't get any reply, she continued: "In that case … what is the question?"

Adapted from What Is Remembered (1963) by Alice Babette Toklas (1877-1967), Stein's lifelong partner.

As soon as I wrote this, the name Stein reminded me of Conrad's Lord Jim, and all of a sudden I was engulfed in a memory which I couldn't process up until now. I grabbed my diary and after a few minutes completed the following poem from my notes.

The Professor

The shaking hand

the mind stuck

inside the husk

the eye thanking

the eyelid twitching

in fond remembrance

and the implacable thirst

the cotton dipped in apple juice

dabbed on the gums to quench the pain

you were staring at the ceiling

when I timidly stepped into the room –

quite unlike your wife twenty years ago.

we had stayed until she had left

then we left and she stayed

and we were all stayed

yesterday it was your left side

prostrate arm and leg, drooping eyelid

which was stuck in time, in place

today your right side succumbed

but for your arm, and your toes

yet you don't seem to be moving at all

I wonder if you have died

but your eyes hold their ground

you groan, you stare into my eyes

you want something which you cannot name

so I hold the magic slate and the felt-tip

fell like your felt hat, long ago,

askew, in dashing silken white

the feeble fingers grip the pen

the instinctive grasp

the way you've always held your pen

on this second try you write

the last, terrible, clear-minded

“I am gone.”

You couldn't realise this

but these last words

are your last logos with me,

cenotaphing your memorial

in the graveyard of the mind

you remind me of Kurtz on his deathbed,

uttering the four words which sent

me on a life-long quest for the truth.

You had peeked behind the veil

had a foot across the threshold

you spoke your truth, aporia of a man

the glint which beckons to read on

so I recite and scan, give you Auden

because you had given it to me

two decades or so ago

Sunny Prestatyn wrinkles your eye

in cheeky souvenir

your inward eye sees the same

field of daffodils

which you made me see

I'm glad you got to keep that inward eye

and suddenly you grow tired

the day has waned

you frown when I don't understand,

tire of repeating, your mind alert

and pointing to the obvious

locked in the sarcophagus

of your own body.

You mean something I cannot yet understand.

Today, you have gone.

In fond memory of Philip L., who guided my first footsteps in the world of English Literature, who nurtured and listened, patiently advised, read and commented, inspired. We eventually became friends over our mutual passion for words, written and spoken, and thought. He was a funny, eccentric fellow and you'd be hard put to find a student who didn't like him. He had a great mind for quotes, and bequeathed me books when I left university...which were the same books which I read to him on the day I visited him at the hospital a few weeks after he had a stroke, a few weeks before he passed away. Each of his movements demanded he drew on a diminishing reserve of strength, which gave the slightest sigh greater significance, which gave his gazes greater heartache. Whatever awaits us, I hope you have found the rest you deserve, my dear friend.

 

Shakespeare's Ward

A few years ago, I wrote this article about this infamous "quote" from Shakespeare:

"I always feel happy. You know why? Because I don't expect anything from anyone; expectations always hurt. Life is short, so love your life. Be happy and keep smiling. Just live for yourself and always remember: Before you speak... Listen. Before you write... Think. Before you spend... Earn. Before you pray... Forgive. Before you hurt... Feel. Before you hate... Love. Before you quit... Try. Before you die... Live." 

At the time I debunked it as NOT-Shakespeare but left it at that. But a few days later I came across it on Reddit...I had to unearth the notebook in which I had written down a similar poem by William Arthur Ward which goes: 

"Before you speak, listen.
Before you write, think.
Before you spend, earn.
Before you invest, investigate.
Before you criticize, wait.
Before you pray, forgive.
Before you quit, try.
Before you retire, save.
Before you die, give."

I had noted it down for future reference and also in order to track its source. I had never taken the time to do this, so today I did. NO-EFFING-WHERE! Zilch, nada, rien, nought. Couldn't find the original source for the poem to save my life. Does anyone know? That's a question for Quora, since Reddit people took the bait.

Not quite the same poem. Lines 3 and 4 are missing from the Shax ref. Two lines are inserted in the Shax ref after "pray, forgive". Penultimate line is skipped, last line is altered (give/live). The Ward poem (I'll call it that for the time being) definitely has rhyming patterns: listen/earn; investigate/wait; forgive/give (even save). We do hear echoes in the pairs: speak/think; invest/investigate; wait, pray, save. I'm not a Ward specialist, but that's arguably a better disposition, phrasing, tone, structure, than the Shakesparean "equivalent". Less schmaltz, more pragmatically inspirational.

Ironically enough, when you google "William Arthur Ward", one first look won't yield the quote: you need a second, more careful look to find it. Not exactly buried, yet not in plain sight. My guts tell me we haven't seen the last of this affair [insert smiley of your choosing]. 

All in all, I'm still amazed that this quote still roams the outskirts of the Internet. 

Edit: I published this post, and then had an epiphany and found this Snopes article, for all intents and purposes. 

The husk cannot hold

"Money may be the husk of many things but not the kernel. It brings you food, but not appetite; medicine, but not health; acquaintances, but not friends; servants, but not loyalty; days of joy, but not peace or happiness."

Henrik Ibsen, Norwegian playwright and poet (1828-1906)


Another quote which I could not trace. If anyone could enlighten me, I'd be really grateful :)

Insolent blue

The insolence of that blue

against the red, the green

why would it shine

while angers brew

at the crime scene

where sad people align

in the blood-giving queue

The insolence of that blue

unsure of what it might mean

while eyelids at last recline

gleaming gay and glinting true

where death flashes on screen

in our own modern fault line

bodies still lying in full view

The insolence of that blue

never-before-seen sheen

sends shivers down the spine

for the sheer numbers he slew

makes us rethink, redefine

what we thought was mean

what we thought was true

The insolence of that blue

the grass was starkly green

in contrast against the iodine

the red, the red we thought we knew

but didn't want to let shine

they say this red is obscene

yet it's to people's eyes like glue

The insolence of that blue

bright glow against the killing

unheeding the comments asinine

radiant amidst the inane spew

refusing the pity and the whine

bravely kindling our mien

because that day is so blue, so blue.

My heart and thoughts go to the brave people of Christchurch and of New-Zealand in this time of great sorrow. Let's remember why there are stars in that ocean of blue.

Rain

Tasting the downpour

nose up in the air

eyes wide open

astart soaring in the storm

unlooking back

drops pelting our visage

gyring cloudwards

Ashen overcast

symmetrised

on leaden rooftops

by mercurial rain

Argent pellicle

kohling our chagrin

ardently, ardently

seeking a silver lightning

so the darkness drops again

Icarused, rusted down

felled into sunyata

galvanised into rain

Irreversible, untraceable

the deluge is nous

we are now whole.

 

Patsy

He didn't remember his mom ever not locking the front door. True, he hadn't come home in a long while, but his mom wasn't what he'd call a charming person. Distrustful, cantankerous, OCD-type of bossy. She even had that sixth sense which warned her of an open door somewhere, and she'd yell “Door!” from the opposite side of the house. So when he called her a week ago, and she had said “The door's open, son”, he hadn't thought it'd be as literal as this, after ten years out of the country.

Ten years. A decade. She had no idea that he had enrolled in the military and had been sent to hell, and had come back, relatively unscathed compared to most soldiers in his platoon. He knew his mom would disapprove, but that was the main reason he had packed his stuff and fled the house in the first place. That and his dad who had been a marine and who had “disappeared”. It was only fitting that he had taken up the torch to fight his father's fight. He knew his mom would shake her head, but she would have to admit he was dashing in his white uniform.

“Mom?” The door opened straight onto the living room. The curtains were flung wide open and flowing in the breeze – an open window, somewhere. Spring was there and it was about time it did. A quick glance around showed him that nothing had changed: same worn-to-the-thread sofa, same TV set, same carpet with subtly-hidden-with-furniture stains. He remembered that time when he had sneaked outside his bedroom to watch football when his mom was asleep. He had made himself a sandwich but had spilt ketchup on the carpet. He had known that it would be useless to try and move any piece of furniture by even a millimetre to cover it up. He had scrubbed and scrubbed in vain, covered it up. In the morning his mom had found out and had rubbed his ears so hard he had felt the heat and the buzzing well into the afternoon. Even greedy Patsy couldn't lick the thing off, and she had given it a good go all through the night. Where was that dratted dog, by the way?

“Patsy?” That old dirtbag must be nearing biblical age now. He dropped his army bag on the floor, next to the sofa. “Patsy?”

He smelt something off, and instinctively went to the kitchen. As soon as he saw the two feet, one shoeless, lying on the ground he started running – only to be stopped short by the full view of the body and by the stench that felt like a wall. His mom had probably fainted or had fallen or something. There were traces of blood on the counter. She lay motionless. The dog was there too. Patsy had clawed her way through the thin cotton shirt and inside the ribcage. She was busy tugging at a whitish piece of something, a rib maybe. The heavy body was jerking at every tug from the powerful jaws. The dog had eaten the nose and ears clean, the half-eaten lips bared in a ridiculous rictus on his mom's face, his mom who had never smiled. Patsy had eaten most of the fingers, and he could easily picture her using her worn-out molars to try and smash the bones. There were several piles of vomit and shit, with earrings and strips of cloth discernible in the goo.

The brute had been too busy feasting, or was too old and deaf to have heard him come in. She didn't seem at all surprised when she lifted her head, looked at him with her slightly-veiled, dropping eyes. She was wagging her tail because yeah, the prodigal son had returned. Her rheumatic walk would have been farcical in other circumstances. Now it gave her the air of a bad sci-fi movie machine. She snuggled her bloodied muzzle in his hand like she used to, licked his fingers. Then she went back to her feast. He suddenly realised that she had left a fragment of bone on one of his fingers.

Something, at this precise moment in time, flashed in his mind. Very calmly, he reached for the holster in the small of his back, pulled his 9mm out, aimed carefully at the dog who, for some reason, had turned around. Patsy bared her teeth and growled. He could see pieces of bones and tendons stuck on her pink and brown gums. He stared straight into her black eyes and shot her in the head, once. Blood sprayed everywhere. Few drops landed on his carefully-polished shoes, and the bottom of his then-immaculate pants. Most of the blood spattered his mom's body. The force of the bullet sent the dog flying across the kitchen, landing with a thud on the opposite wall. He repositioned himself, grabbed the butt of the handle into the palm of his other hand. Calmly, he shot the dog, again. Again. Again. Until he ran out of bullets.

He calmly stepped out of the kitchen, through the living room and onto the porch. The draught through the front door was soothing, eerily embalming his face. He sat down. He had been fighting off the images ever since the flash had come, but now he embraced them. Every child, every woman, every man. Burnt, dismembered, bleeding. Crying, screeching, agonising. Their eyes, their seemingly iris-less, dark-as-night eyes. The hot nights illumined by rockets, home-made bombs. The air raids, the choppers. The sounds, the fury, the tinnital silence. The carefully-crafted, mutually-unintelligible, reciprocal hate.

When he heard the sirens in the distance, he knew he had a choice – several, actually. When he saw the three black and white cars hurtling down the road, he knew he still could make a choice. But he didn't move. The cries of the children, their hands stretched towards him, held him back.

All the officers came out of the car at once, but one was faster than the others and halfway across the front lawn when he spoke: “Sir, I can see the gun in your hands. Drop it!” His fingers fidgeting on the handle of his gun. “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!” “Shoot her, she has a gun, she has a gun!” When he came closer he noticed the blood-spattered shoes. He quickly drew his gun and aimed straight at him. The other officers did the same, two took cover. “Cover, cover! Sniper up at 2 o'clock!” Rookies maybe. Or ones who had been fired at before. “Sir, please drop the gun, now!” His eyes were darting quickly between the gun and his shoes. His dark eyes still contrasted with his light dark skin and his dark grey hair. He was a veteran, like him. “Keep pressing on the wound! We're losing him!” Older than the others. Could've been his dad, for all he knew. “Mom! Mom!” The gun fell between his shoes. The cop was a few feet in front of him.

Immediately, the officer's voice became much calmer. Something had changed. He walked closer, and said: “Rough day, son?”

When he tried to open his mouth he felt a knot in his throat. He managed to say “Yeah.”

“Would you like to tell me why you're crying?”

“I am?” “Flank! Flank! They're behind us!”

“Listen, why don't you come in the car so we see what's what inside the house and then we can have a chat?” He nodded. “We'll have to put you in handcuffs, son, you know it's standard procedure.”

He stood up, and saw everyone tensing. He turned around, his wrists crossed behind him. Two officers rushed inside the house. One picked up his gun. He didn't mind being roughed up. He didn't say a word. “I didn't like my folk, but now I miss them”. They would find, they would understand. He was led inside the car. Forceful hand bending his head. Door shut. Looking at his shoes. Outside. “Tell mom and dad I did my best. Tell them I.” All guns were being holstered. The old cop listening, looking straight at him. Nodding briefly to his colleague. Talking on the radio. They would understand why his mom, why Patsy. They might even be able to explain why the dog did this. But would he be able to understand the ultimate why? Would they? Would they be able to understand the constant cries of the children, the hate, the terror? The absolute, gut-wrenching, mind-crippling terror.

 

Fragment #80

The ground smell, raw and pungent, snaps him back to the now. He suddenly remembers his father saying: “If you fall, son, don't cry, and get up.”

So he dontcrys and getups. Unsure of what next, he thanks everyone around and runs. Runs till the streetlines blur.

He smells metal, earth, his own fear. He stops at the deli, panting; leans on the window but bangs his back, then folds on the floor like a rag doll.

Wipe nose, check clothes – tear on the front, mom will go bananas – bananas! He feels like crying, he does when he's bored, or when he's scared. He feels like peeing, again.

The deli man walks out, takes the boy's hand, pulls him up. Takes his chin, between thumb and index, turns his head left, then right.

Makes a face like Doctor Sullivan. “Come, sonny, we'll clean that up. Your mom's heart won't take it.” Mom's heart is big as a balloon in the sky – balloon! The deli man speaks funny. The deli wife takes his hand. Sits him on a stool in the bathroom.

The mirror shows a boy he doesn't recognise. There's blood trickling down his nose. Tufts of grass sticking out of his hair. And mud all over his face.

Poor boy. He cried too. Not a good day for anyone. Deli wife smells of soap, and lavender – lavender! Her hands are soft and busy. Mom's hands are rough like a brush.

“Why did they do this to you, mh? Can't they see you are what you are. Your mom is a good woman, but she can only do so much, on her own like that.”

Her voice is like a flute, it gets stuck in her apron, in her shoes, in her grey moustache. She brushes his hair, takes a washcloth, she lets her finger under the running water so the washcloth is warm. He likes it – warm!

Clothes will be mended. Stains will be washed off. Bruises will go away, and wounds will heal. But what about her son. He'll always be the special kid that end up beaten up. That's no life for a kid.

He likes her. The lightbulb makes his skin yellow – yellow! – like hers. She could be his second mom. He feels like hugging her, but mom said “No, you can't hug everyone like this.” He feels like crying.

“Does it hurt?” The boy shakes his head. She thinks he's trying to be brave but she can tell he's about to burst into tears. That's no life for a kid. She feels like crying herself.

Always feels like sleeping when his mom washes his face, and the washcloth roughing his face. Eyes closed. Water gurgle. Splash splash. More washcloth. Head bobbing. Whispers. Hands. Lifted, and eyes open light, light too bright. Light!

Hand the boy to the officer, he thought, it's none of your business. Nothing you can do about it. She was a decent woman his mother was, shame. Shame for the poor kid too. Like his life wasn't hellish enough already. “Did they catch the driver?”

Lots of words he doesn't understand. Never needed to understand them, really. His face is still rough from the cleaning. Rough like the policeman's hands. Rough the light he's brought in. It's a policeman's car. Car! And the flute voice says goodbye son. On! On!

“Take care of that little boy, will you, he has no notion of what's going on. Find him a good home. God knows what's going to happen to him.”

 

The blame

When you heard the screech on the asphalt

and realised your brakes didn't respond

you knew collision was bound to happen

perhaps you thought it wasn't your fault.

Perhaps, perhaps you saw my son

on the other side of your windscreen,

with his bright blue eyes wide open.

Perhaps, perhaps he froze on the spot

like the rabbit your bumper caught

last week – but that wasn't your fault.

It all happened in a flash, blinded

by the rising sun – maybe blunted

too, drowsy still in a sleepy slump.

When you heard the deafening thump

you knew one life had come to an end –

and again thought it couldn't be your fault –

perhaps then your heartbeats came to a halt.

You never know what's in the store of Fate,

but I knew, as all moms do, that something was off.

I had badgered my son not too be late

and in doing so I was behind time myself.

You see, my son that day was turning twelve,

and I wanted to organise a surprise dinner

but I had lots to do before the night's glitter.

So I dropped him near the roundabout –

the one which has become dangerous

for they have removed the hard shoulders –

that's why folk now take another route.

So when my son tried in a hurry to cross the road

he crossed yours and though you stomped

the brakes broke and your car flew

like a cannonball on morning dew.

When I got the call and reached the hospital

I mulled “how am I going to tell my husband

what has happened to our only child?”

I was directed by nurses with bowed heads

into a cold white room buzzing with sounds.

White blouses blinding in the blaring sun.

I still couldn't believe what you had done.

I heard my son's voice calling me as in a haze

though I couldn't see him through the wall of tears

only then did I start pondering whose fault it was.

Then I couldn't feel anything but pain –

losing a son isn't like losing a pen –

we can't rewrite any part of that tale,

not even a different, happier version.

This is why, Sir, I'm begging for your pardon

because had your son not swerved his car

and hit a wall to avoid my child

he would have had a blame to bear

with which he would never have reconciled.

Life will never be the same again

for you, for me, and for my son,

because yours gave his so ours could go on.

I will never forgive what he gave,

never forgive you said that he was brave

never forgive that you said at his funeral

that it wasn't anybody's fault.

That no one but ill-luck was to blame.

I wish – oh I wish I could say the same.

 

Where Good and Evil are borne

"We should not be simply fighting evil in the name of good, but struggling against the certainties of people who claim always to know where good and evil are to be found."

Tzvetan Todorov, Bulgarian-born French philosopher, historian, structuralist literary critic, sociologist and essayist (1939-2017)

The irony, which Mr. Todorov might have enjoyed, is that this brilliant quotation of his isn't to be found in a book, but is something he said during a conference. "Nothing is more commonplace than the reading experience, and yet nothing is more unknown," he wrote in Reading as Construction, 1980. Yes, but a sweet irony because he's still remembered.

I had the pleasure of meeting him once, briefly, at a small conference/book signing in the early 2000s. He struck as a man of sharp wit, and of piercing gaze. I still enjoy reading his book The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre.

He would have been eighty years old today.