All of a sudden, in that space around the chain of propositions, in which there was a continual coming and going of what, deprived of words, cannot, must not show itself, a wind blew... everything rises, flies up... there, in that place where it always used to be found, there is a void... a patch of nothingness opens up and something escapes through it... like the harbinger of the definitive disappearance, of annihilation... no though, perhaps not, not yet, words come rushing up to call for help, impossible to stop them, it's only possible for a split second to try to prepare their entrance, to make them look a bit more presentable, a bit more decent... "Forgive me, it's ridiculous to talk about it all of a sudden, but it's just come back to me, I don't know why..." But the words that were to have followed are intimidated, and haven't the strength to attack, they retreat, they hide... for a moment the chain of propositions had started moving again... it slowed, it was about to stop... but it mustn't... other words coming rushing up to repair what might have been damaged, to get it going again... "No, I don't know what got into me, do forgive me... To come back to what we were saying, yes, I agree with you, but even so we need to take into account..." But there's nothing to be done... once again everything in the background starts seething, a stronger gust lifts up piles of paper, drawers burst open, it'll ease off, the void will be filled again... There it is, that long, brown, thick envelope... it must be there... no, it isn't there, it disappears, it slides into the wastepaper basket, a hand picks up the basket, empties its contents into the dustbin... it's been taken away, it's lost for ever... impossible to hold back this cry... "I've lost, I've just realised, I don't know how I shall ever..." And now, through the gap that this call for help has opened, assistance arrives... "If you write and explain, you might perhaps get... they may have kept a duplicate there..." "Ah, you think so? You've known a case... Oh, thank you. Oh, do forgive me... my grasshopper mind again..."
[Here, Sarraute, N.]
Friday, 27 June 2014
...of anticipation
"Have you read it?" The words are just about to come spurting out, vibrant with excitement, with enthusiasm... forced out by what is there, which is compelled to emerge, to show itself to the person who has come here, who is probably delighting in the anticipation of what he is going to find, of what he is going to be offered... who else could so well appreciate it?... "Have you read it?..."
Just another moment, let them shelter a bit longer in the tranquility, the security of silence... But why hold them back? Haven't they already undergone the most meticulous, the most rigorous checks possible, and there is nothing to stop these words entering the other person's territory, nothing in him which, when they reach him, would be aroused, sit up, try to measure itself, to confront... and then fall back pathetically, shattered... Nothing over there which, at the appearance of these words, would start crawling humbly, ashamedly, toward obscurity, toward in existence... no, nothing can happen to produce any such painful, degrading sight... "Have you read it?" may enter in all security... The person who is going to receive these words has never written a book.
[Here, Sarraute, N.]
Just another moment, let them shelter a bit longer in the tranquility, the security of silence... But why hold them back? Haven't they already undergone the most meticulous, the most rigorous checks possible, and there is nothing to stop these words entering the other person's territory, nothing in him which, when they reach him, would be aroused, sit up, try to measure itself, to confront... and then fall back pathetically, shattered... Nothing over there which, at the appearance of these words, would start crawling humbly, ashamedly, toward obscurity, toward in existence... no, nothing can happen to produce any such painful, degrading sight... "Have you read it?" may enter in all security... The person who is going to receive these words has never written a book.
[Here, Sarraute, N.]
...of pleasantries
Without the slightest apprehension, in all innocence, in all confidence, they present it... they find words to make clearly perceptible, to make evident its "perfect proportions," its "great simplicity," "the admirably chosen place it occupies, where it harmonises perfectly with the city, with all the colours of the sky..."
But all those ornaments, all those gems they cover it with, which don't suit it, which were not meant for things of its sort, increase the intensity of the feeling of repulsion, of revolt, of impotent fury it provokes, produced by... what, exactly? No words have ever yet attempted to capture it, to demonstrate it...
Their words are now bringing up to the surface here words of the same sort, of the same force, ones which could hurl themselves on their words, snatch them away from the tower, take their place... here they come, building up, crowding in... "inaccurate proportions"... "a servile, impoverished imitation of what elsewhere is a masterpiece of originality, of force"... "the worst possible choice of site... where it disfigures, dishonours the whole city, whatever angle you look at it from, whatever the time, whatever the light"... the words they come, they insist, they want to pounce, to launch an assault... but on no account must they come out, nothing must allow any suspicion of their existence... above all, the silence holding them back must not last too long, it could become one of those "heavy," "reproachful" silences... the dangerous words retreat, hide... those that must take their place arrive... "Yes, yes, you're right, it's quite true."
"Yes, you're right, yes, it's true"... the signature affixed to the bottom of the peace treaty after the surrender...
But there has been no surrender. Had they not been welcomed into a friendly country? Was it not necessary that perfect understanding should be preserved at all costs? Were they not meant to feel at home here?
And now that they've gone... even their image has faded... what they have left behind them is still theirs... They are at home here. They are at home everywhere... Everywhere, their words have complete mastery... they alight with perfect liberty... there?... yes, even there... and they remain fixed there forever, they stick fast... "Admirable"... "Amazing"... "A gem"... "A real marvel"... Their constant drone produces a kind of drowsiness... a kind of numbness... a kind of slight suffocation... a kind of very slight nausea... oh, so slight... it's nothing... it'll pass... it's already passing... things will be all right... yes, everything is fine.
[Here, Sarraute, N.]
But all those ornaments, all those gems they cover it with, which don't suit it, which were not meant for things of its sort, increase the intensity of the feeling of repulsion, of revolt, of impotent fury it provokes, produced by... what, exactly? No words have ever yet attempted to capture it, to demonstrate it...
Their words are now bringing up to the surface here words of the same sort, of the same force, ones which could hurl themselves on their words, snatch them away from the tower, take their place... here they come, building up, crowding in... "inaccurate proportions"... "a servile, impoverished imitation of what elsewhere is a masterpiece of originality, of force"... "the worst possible choice of site... where it disfigures, dishonours the whole city, whatever angle you look at it from, whatever the time, whatever the light"... the words they come, they insist, they want to pounce, to launch an assault... but on no account must they come out, nothing must allow any suspicion of their existence... above all, the silence holding them back must not last too long, it could become one of those "heavy," "reproachful" silences... the dangerous words retreat, hide... those that must take their place arrive... "Yes, yes, you're right, it's quite true."
"Yes, you're right, yes, it's true"... the signature affixed to the bottom of the peace treaty after the surrender...
But there has been no surrender. Had they not been welcomed into a friendly country? Was it not necessary that perfect understanding should be preserved at all costs? Were they not meant to feel at home here?
And now that they've gone... even their image has faded... what they have left behind them is still theirs... They are at home here. They are at home everywhere... Everywhere, their words have complete mastery... they alight with perfect liberty... there?... yes, even there... and they remain fixed there forever, they stick fast... "Admirable"... "Amazing"... "A gem"... "A real marvel"... Their constant drone produces a kind of drowsiness... a kind of numbness... a kind of slight suffocation... a kind of very slight nausea... oh, so slight... it's nothing... it'll pass... it's already passing... things will be all right... yes, everything is fine.
[Here, Sarraute, N.]
...of rapport
Alexandra felt that he would like to know there had been a man of his kin whom he could admire. She knew that Emil was ashamed of Lou and Oscar, because they were bigoted and self-satisfied. He never said much about them, but she could feel his disgust. His brothers had shown their disapproval of him ever since he first went away to school. The only thing that would have satisfied them would have been his failure at the University. As it was, they resented every change in his speech, in his dress, in his point of view; though the latter they had to conjecture, for Emil avoided talking to them about any but family matters. All his interests they treated as affectations.
Alexandra took up her sewing again. "I can remember father when he was quite a young man. He belonged to some kind of a musical society, a male chorus, in Stockholm. I can remember going with mother to hear them sing. There must have been a hundred of them, and they all wore long black coats and white neck-ties. I was used to seeing father in a blue coat, a sort of jacket, and when I recognised him on the platform, I was very proud. Do you remember that Swedish song he taught you, about the ship boy?"
"Yes. I used to sing it to the Mexicans. They liked anything different." Emil paused. "Father had a hard fight here, didn't he?" he added thoughtfully.
"Yes, and he died in a dark time. Still, he had hope. He believed in the land."
"And in you, I guess," Emil said to himself. There was another period of silence; that warm, friendly silence, full of perfect understanding, in which Emil and Alexandra had spent many of their happiest half-hours.
[O Pioneers!, Cather, W.]
Alexandra took up her sewing again. "I can remember father when he was quite a young man. He belonged to some kind of a musical society, a male chorus, in Stockholm. I can remember going with mother to hear them sing. There must have been a hundred of them, and they all wore long black coats and white neck-ties. I was used to seeing father in a blue coat, a sort of jacket, and when I recognised him on the platform, I was very proud. Do you remember that Swedish song he taught you, about the ship boy?"
"Yes. I used to sing it to the Mexicans. They liked anything different." Emil paused. "Father had a hard fight here, didn't he?" he added thoughtfully.
"Yes, and he died in a dark time. Still, he had hope. He believed in the land."
"And in you, I guess," Emil said to himself. There was another period of silence; that warm, friendly silence, full of perfect understanding, in which Emil and Alexandra had spent many of their happiest half-hours.
[O Pioneers!, Cather, W.]
...of fancy
Emil was glad to escape and get to his own room. He was a little ashamed for his sister, though he had tried not to show it. He felt that there was something indecorous in her proposal, and she did seem to him somewhat ridiculous. There was trouble enough in the world, he reflected, as he threw himself upon his bed, without people who were forty years old imagining they wanted to get married. In the darkness and silence Emil was not likely to think long about Alexandra. Every image slipped away but one. He had seen Marie in the crowd that afternoon. She sold candy at the fair. Why had she ever run away with Frank Shabata, and how could she go on laughing and working and taking an interest in things? Why did she like so many people, and why had she seemed pleased when all the French and Bohemian boys, and the priest himself, crowded round her candy stand? Why did she care about any one but him? Why could he never, never find the thing he looked for in her playful, affectionate eyes?
Then he fell to imagining that he looked once more and found it there, and what it would be like if she loved him, - she who, as Alexandra said, could give her whole heart. In that dream he could lie for hours, as if in a trance. His spirit went out of his body and crossed the fields to Marie Shabata.
At the University dances the girls had often looked wonderingly at the tall young Swede with the fine head, leaning against the wall and frowning, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the ceiling or the floor. All the girls were a little afraid of him. He was distinguished-looking, and not the jollying kind. They felt that he was too intense and preoccupied. There was something queer about him. Emil's fraternity rather prided itself upon it's dances, and sometimes he did his duty and danced every dance. But whether he was on the floor or brooding in a corner, he was always thinking about Marie Shabata. For two years the storm had been gathering in him.
[O Pioneers!, Cather, W.]
Then he fell to imagining that he looked once more and found it there, and what it would be like if she loved him, - she who, as Alexandra said, could give her whole heart. In that dream he could lie for hours, as if in a trance. His spirit went out of his body and crossed the fields to Marie Shabata.
At the University dances the girls had often looked wonderingly at the tall young Swede with the fine head, leaning against the wall and frowning, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the ceiling or the floor. All the girls were a little afraid of him. He was distinguished-looking, and not the jollying kind. They felt that he was too intense and preoccupied. There was something queer about him. Emil's fraternity rather prided itself upon it's dances, and sometimes he did his duty and danced every dance. But whether he was on the floor or brooding in a corner, he was always thinking about Marie Shabata. For two years the storm had been gathering in him.
[O Pioneers!, Cather, W.]
...of sulking
The boys looked angry. Alexandra put a soothing hand on her mother's shoulder.
"There's no question of that, mother. You don't have to go if you you don't want to. A third of the place belongs to you by American law, and we can't sell without your consent. We only want you to advise us. How did it use to be when you and father first came? Was it really as bad as this, or not?"
"Oh, worse! Much worse," moaned Mrs. Bergson. "Drouth, chince-bugs, hail, everything! My garden all cut to pieces like sauerkraut. No grapes on the creek, no nothing. The people all lived just like coyotes."
Oscar got up and tramped out of the kitchen. Lou followed him. They felt that Alexandra had taken an unfair advantage in turning mother loose on them. The next morning they were silent and reserved. They did not offer to take the women to church, but went down to the barn immediately after breakfast and stayed there all day. When Carl Lindstrum came over in the afternoon, Alexandra winked to him and pointed toward the barn. He understood her and went down to play cards with the boys. They believed that a very wicked thing to do on a Sunday, and it relieved their feelings.
[O Pioneers!, Cather, W.]
"There's no question of that, mother. You don't have to go if you you don't want to. A third of the place belongs to you by American law, and we can't sell without your consent. We only want you to advise us. How did it use to be when you and father first came? Was it really as bad as this, or not?"
"Oh, worse! Much worse," moaned Mrs. Bergson. "Drouth, chince-bugs, hail, everything! My garden all cut to pieces like sauerkraut. No grapes on the creek, no nothing. The people all lived just like coyotes."
Oscar got up and tramped out of the kitchen. Lou followed him. They felt that Alexandra had taken an unfair advantage in turning mother loose on them. The next morning they were silent and reserved. They did not offer to take the women to church, but went down to the barn immediately after breakfast and stayed there all day. When Carl Lindstrum came over in the afternoon, Alexandra winked to him and pointed toward the barn. He understood her and went down to play cards with the boys. They believed that a very wicked thing to do on a Sunday, and it relieved their feelings.
[O Pioneers!, Cather, W.]
...of civil disobedience
Close-up of my grandfather's right hand: nails knuckles fingers all somehow bigger than you'd expect. Clumps of red hair on the outside edges. Thumb and forefinger pressed together, separated only by a thickness of paper. In short: my grandfather was holding a pamphlet. It had been inserted into his hand (we cut to a long-shot - nobody from Bombay should be without a basic film vocabulary) as he entered the hotel foyer. Scurrying of urchin through revolving door, leaflets falling in his wake, as the chaprassi gives chase. Mad revolutions in the doorway, roundandround; until chaprassi-hand demands a close-up, too, because it is pressing thumb to forefinger, the two separated only by the thickness of urchin-ear. Ejection of juvenile disseminator of gutter-tracts; but still my grandfather retained the message. Now, looking out of his, window, he sees it echoed on a wall opposite, and there on the minaret of a mosque; and in the large black type of newsprint under a hawker's arm. Leaflet newspaper mosque and wall are crying: Hartal! Which is to say, literally speaking, a day of mourning, of stillness, of silence. But this in India in the heyday of the Mahatma, when even language obeys the instructions of Gandhiji, and the word has acquired, under his influence, new resonances. Hartal - April 7, agree mosque newspaper wall and pamphlet, because Gandhi has decreed that the whole of India shall, on that day, come to a halt. To mourn, in peace, the continuing presence of the British.
[Midnight's Children, Rushdie, S.]
[Midnight's Children, Rushdie, S.]
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