Monday, January 04, 2010

cold and bitter

New year's eve was cold and bitter, it was wet and cold and so we decided to stay indoors, we decided to talk to each other and while away the few hours, instead of going out. You have stopped celebrating the new year, you said and I have stopped marking it, I thought, so we decided to while away some hours, amongst some talk of this and that, amongst some talk of you and perhaps some of me. You said that it was absurd to celebrate the new year, everything is still the same, all this revelry gets on my nerves, you said, it is absurd you repeated again, there is no point, it stays the same. Basically this life, you said, is senseless. We do pointless things and we know we do things pointlessly, you said and yet everyone continues to do and say pointless things, like now, you added, pointless. However, this celebration revelry is nonsense, waiting to jump up and down, waiting to shout at some hour when we know there is nothing to shout and jump about, everything is still the same, you said. I did not say anything, I continued to watch you as you spoke, I kept on looking at you, while you were so animated, pointing at invisible people and things, sometimes pointing at the window, outside, where it was so cold, bitterly cold and wet, I thought.

This taking stock of the old year drives me crazy, you said, this obsession with what we have done in the year gone by when we have done absolutely nothing, you said. This obsession with years, with dates is just crazy you said, nothing has changed. You were playing with the flames of some candles that I had lit, on the mantelpiece, while you were talking, I saw you were not aware of that, mildly singeing your fingers, as you looked here and there. I have done absolutely nothing this last year, you said, and I don't care, you added. You were now looking out of the window, at the High Street, people were rushing home and some were rushing towards the square. People are always going or coming from place to place, that is what happens always you said, nothing else. I did not contradict you, I kept on looking at you, the candle flames were throwing irregular shadows on the wall, near the window and I thought again how cold it was outside, so bitterly cold and wet, I thought.

To even talk about these things is a waste of time, you observed after some time. Everything will go on as it has before, we are merely observing the passing of some hours. Morning always makes me feel ashamed of what I say or even think about, you said. I nodded, as I looked at you, at how beautiful you looked, now that you had murdered the candles and extinguished the flames. Let's talk of something else, you said, thinking about life is such nonsense, everything is so senseless you added. I could not entirely disagree with what you said, I thought, and besides, the hours were passing by, and soon it would be time for you to go. I looked at you again, how listlessly beautiful you were looking, and I looked at the window again and was reminded of the outside, how bitterly cold and wet it was, I thought. And by now, I saw, it had started to snow.

9 comments:

Roxana said...

but do you know how beautiful this is, Kubla? oh, i don't think you really know. i have come back many times to read it, and each time new images take shape and throw irregulars shadows on my soul, new sensation flicker on my skin. i read this with my mind, but more importantly and perhaps unfailingly with my body: the cold, the dark and the wet, the flames, you make me feel them. i almost feel your gaze, contemplating her (i wish so much i could have seen it - assuming, as always with you, but perhaps it is wrong, that this is not only a fictional text - i could have seen your look following her, as i wish i could have seen your look following the other woman, the one in the bar, the one for whom you didn't translate the song, the one for whom you didn't make that gesture that would have perhaps changed everything, even if you say it wouldn't have).
and there are sentences which glow, so beautiful and almost cruel in their perfection:
"I nodded, as I looked at you, at how beautiful you looked, now that you had murdered the candles and extinguished the flames."
or
"I could not entirely disagree with what you said, I thought, and besides, the hours were passing by, and soon it would be time for you to go." (ah, the refinement of that "besides", the way it mirrors the "not entirely" just before it)
and of course, of course, the final sentence, so short and full:
"And by now, I saw, it had started to snow." a meaningless snow, showing how right she is - and yet also rich with meaning and symbol, transformed like this by you, by your writing.

Kubla Khan said...

Hi Roxana

But do you know that you make these lines better than i think they are? your look is uncritical, but you see, i cannot say what is true and what is 'fictional', for the thing that doesn't happen, to me at least, also happens. to tell you which bits happened and which didn't would steal the certain 'state' of that state, for the things i want to happen, the wishful thinking is more 'solid' in happening than the thing that does.

do not for a moment think that i pine for unrequited feelings but what is gathered here is actually true. what i mean by 'true' is something that can only be discussed face to face. and who knows, some day?

Roxana said...

you'd be surprised to know how critical my look is - yet i don't think this is a place to write a critical, scholarly response, you don't share such texts with us in order to get such comments, do you? that is why i concentrate on the things that touch me deeply and don't dwell on "criticism" (but i can do this from now on, if you'd like me to. though i am afraid i would be helpless in front of this particular text :-). and i don't say a literary piece is good when i don't really think it is and i am very selective with what i think it is good.
and no, i don't expect you to betray your secrets, this ambiguity and uncertainty adds to the mystery of your writing...

and kubla, yes, someday. i am looking forward to this face-to-face, revealing things which cannot be said otherwise (and perhaps hiding others?)

Roxana said...

hi, Kubla...

just passing by to tell you i have started to watch Satantango and is overwhelming... i couldn't have imagined...

i hope you are fine - still under the snow? the same here. though it has already turned grey and sad on the roads...

Kubla Khan said...

Ah, Satantango.........now that is altogether a different experience! let me know how you are getting on.

unni said...

There is a hint of Saramago in the irreverence to syntax, but he is not sensitive (quite the opposite)

I don't know enough to be critical, but it is beautiful and honest

and it makes me want to cry...

Roxana said...

hi Kubla,

i had patiently waited for your return...

you haven't yet, at least not here: i wish to thank you for the comment you left on the Bridge, for still being there. and yes, i remember you telling me before about the hidden, dark-lurking face of bright spring landscapes, i haven't forgotten that ("some dark crime being committed, blood, gore, deception and heartbreak") - how could i have? your words always linger in me.

please, come back soon. and be well.

Roxana said...

Kubla, hi again

(i do hope you get these messages?)

i want to tell you that i was overwhelmed by what you wrote about my little tulips-poem - i don't deserve such praise and i am certainly not a poet. but one thing is unmistakable: yes, it was born out of truth. you felt and understood the passion (the despair), i am grateful to you for that (but i know you do and always will).

someday we will meet for coffee and tea and you will show me one of your dark and melancholic bars, and we'll talk and be silent.

i am so happy you like Soseki, i remember when i first discovered him - in Japan, in my first months there, and it was a revelation. they say it is realism, but how far away from our european realism, how different... make sure you read the Three-cornered world as well...

Roxana said...

ps. i've just finished Mishima's short stories Sword and Martyrdom and i've been thinking of you, i would be so curious to know if you like them -
(i am so fascinated with him)

i have them in French but they exist in English in this collection:
http://www.amazon.com/Acts-Worship-Stories-Japans-Writers/dp/0870118242