Category Archives: consciousness

Die, My Love

Die, My Love (Ariana Harwicz)

It’s Week 4 of the teaching semester and Week 6 of my Magic Mountain book club, and I am kind of/sort of/maybe starting to feel the tiredness kick in? It probably mainly has to do with me going to London this weekend for a wedding, which was VERY fun – the bride and groom’s first dance was to an Aphex Twin song! Very cool, and nice to catch up with people. However, being in my thirties has made spending the night in hostels increasingly less appealing to me – I’m talking to YOU, Italian ladies, who somehow thought it was appropriate to talk to each other at 4 in the morning, thus inspiring everyone else in the room to hiss and screech at them!

Along with my weekly intake of Thomas Mann (Knasgaard, I have put aside for now – I’m saving him for a long plane journey), it’s been fun to read some shorter books. This article (which is seriously probably the most fascinating pieces of literary criticism I have ever read!) inspired me to (re?)-read Lloyd Alexander’s “The Chronicles of Prydain” series – they’re SO GOOD! I can’t believe I’ve never read them before! Or have I?! I distinctly REMEMBER seeing his books lying around the house in Colombia, but they belonged to my older brother, and he only had the first and fifth one, so maybe I never got around to reading them because I didn’t see the point of starting a series and not finishing it…? I definitely read SOME of the first one, at the very least. Anyway, I have REALLY been enjoying them – a terrific discovery.

And then there’s Die My Love by Ariana Harwicz, which is definitely in the territory of ADULT FICTION. And for very specific adults too – I would definitely NOT give this to any expectant or new mothers!!

This was a fascinating book to read after having finish Jessie Greengrass’ Sight – they make for interesting counter-balances. While the style in Sight is very essayistic, Die My Love is more like a hot, sweaty monologue. This was probably my favorite thing about the book – it reminded me of Mary Ruefle, in the way that sentences jumped from one topic to another so rapidly. The paragraphs are long, but the chapters are never more than three pages. And at barely over a hundred pages total, this is one fast read. It’s almost like a book of poetry, or a collection of monologues, or stream-of-consciousness angry rants. But it’s not boring or annoying at all, mainly due to the crazed voice, which I found absolutely HILARIOUS (in a very dark way).

The story follows a foreign woman (Argentinean? We’re never told), living in rural France (also never specified – I’d have NEVER guessed it was France without the blurb on the back). She’s newly married with her long-time partner, with a newborn son. And she finds herself wondering: “How could a weak, perverse woman like me, someone who dreams of a knife in her hand, be the mother and wife of these two individuals? What was I going to do? … I dropped the knife and went to hang out the washing like nothing had happened.” (1)

And so we see that she is slowly losing her grip. Or maybe she’s having a reasonable response to the disarming situation she’s in, that of being in a foreign land with a newborn child. She’s constantly comparing herself with other mothers, judging herself, and having strange fantasies like walking through the patio door glass: “I’ll have a blonde beer, I say in my foreign accent. I’m a woman who’s let herself go, has a mouth full of cavities and no longer reads. Read, you idiot, I tell myself, read one full sentence from start to finish. Here we are, all three of us together for a family portrait.” (3) The frenzied, raw energy reminded me of Elena Ferrante’s Days of Abandonment. Darkly provocative stuff, but I honestly found the darkness of it (and sheer outrageousness at times) very funny!

Themes throughout include nature, human vs. animal, desire, what does it mean to have different selves (wife, mother, daughter). I underlined SO many sentences in this. And there were some sequences (like when they hit a stag with the car, and the dog licks the remains off the bonnet, and they christen the unnamed dog Bloody) read almost as slapstick; they seemingly come out of left field.

Highly recommend this. Here are some quotes I underlined (so hard to choose! These are just from the first thirty pages!):

We don’t hold hands either, we’re always pushing the buggy or carrying the baby instead.” (5)

Why won’t he stop crying? What does he want? You’re his mother, you should know. But I don’t know, I say, I haven’t the faintest idea...” (6)

You all have your dark side. But I’m thinking about pacing up and down with the baby in my arms, hour after hour of tedious choreography, from the exhaustion to screaming, screaming to exhaustion. And I think about how a child is a wild animal, about another person carrying your heart forever.” (6)

How does a wild boar ejaculate?“(8)

I organise his action figures in order of their arrival in our lives.” (9)

Why do we women ask our husbands what they ate? What the hell are we hoping to find out by asking what they ate? If they’ve slept with someone else? If they’re unhappy with us? If they’re planning to leave us one day when they say they’re going out for an ice cream?” (10)

If I want to leave my baby in the car when it’s forty degrees out with the heat index, I will.” (11)

Personally, I think if your husband or father beats you up it’s your call to tough it out.” (12)

If I could lynch my whole family to be alone for one minute with Glenn Gould, I’d do it.” (13)

I’m one person, my body is two.” (15)

I hope the first word my son says is a beautiful one. That matters more to me than his health insurance.” (15)

“I’ve built up so much rage that I could drink until I have a heart attack. That’s what I tell myself bu tit’s not true. I couldn’t even down half a bottle. My days are all like this. Endlessly stagnant. A slow downfall.” (16)

Something I always used to hate about living in the countryside, and that I now relish, is that you spend all your time killing things. Spiders appear in the sink as I’m having my morning coffee, and they drown as soon as I turn on the tap. The stronger ones manage to resist for a while, folding into themselves like tight little flowers. They’re the ones that provoke me to run the hot water to destroy them. The flies’ turn comes when I’m spreading the quince jelly. They’ve been following us around since prehistoric times and it’s about time they died out.” (29)

Some people need to be able to see the ocean, but I need to be able to see a firearm.” (33)

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Filed under books, consciousness, fiction, Rio Plata, translation, women writers

My Year of Rest and Relaxation

I am back from two weeks in Colombia, which were not exactly two weeks of rest and relaxation. But I have my new laptop, finally! I also had lots of time to catch up on reading – I’ve finally caught up with my “reading goal” (SNORT) after being behind it for most of the year. Oh wait, I just checked and I’m still one book behind. Not that it matters. Not that anything matters, amirite? Haha, maybe I’m just feeling the effects of the novel I just finished, or I’m still stupefied from jetlag/general travel exhaustion. I thought I’d beat the jetlag, but I think what’s really made me tired was all the transfers that my v. cheap tickets involved. That or the two teens sitting behind me on one flight playing Who Wants to be a Millionaire on the in-seat console for nine straight hours, poking and prodding the back of my seat with their over-enthusiastic fingers. Or the heatwave, which seems to have finally ended. Anyway.


If I were an annoying, pretentious book reviewer (which I clearly am, OBVIOUSLY!), I would call this A MILLENIAL CLASSIC. Or maybe A CLASSIC OF THE MILLENIAL ERA sounds better? But seriously, I found something so deliciously liberating and relatable and ANTI CAPITALIST in this novel about a woman who decides to sleep her life away, in an attempt to achieve a metamorphosis of some sorts. An emergence from a cocoon, etc.

I initially thought this book was only going to take place in her apartment (man, that would have been a challenge! A novel where a character never leaves the room and never interacts with anyone? Could it work? I guess it would be very “experimental”), so I was pleasantly surprised to see her interacting regularly with her best friend, her shitty ex-boyfriend, and even venturing outwards from time to time, as the result of an extremely powerful sleeping pill that causes her to sleepwalk, sleep-shop, sleep-club, etc.

I really loved the narrator in this – it’s truly her voice that makes the book, i.e. her complete lack of interest in anything other than sleeping. I kept laughing at how callous she was towards her best friend.

Some of the most powerful passages come near the end, when the narrator is in a museum looking at art (she studied art history, worked in a museum before deciding to hibernate, and tellingly wonders early on in the book if she should have been an artist, had she had the talent). It’s a long passage, but I’m going to type up the whole thing, because I like it (especially the description of painting as a ‘distraction’). Looking at the paintings, she wonders about the artists:

Did they want more? Could they have painted better, more generously, more clearly? Could they have dropped more fruit from their windows? Did they know that glory was mundane? Did they wish they’d crushed those withered grapes between their fingers and spent their days walking through fields of grass or being in love or confessing their delusions to a priest or starving like the hungry souls they were, begging for alms in the city square with some honesty for once? Maybe they’d lived wrongly. Their greatness might have poisoned them. Did they wonder about things like that? Maybe they couldn’t sleep at night. Were they plagued by nightmares? Maybe they understood, in fact, that beauty and meaning had nothing to do with one another. Maybe they lived as real artists knowing all along that there were no pearly gates. Neither creation nor sacrifice could lead a person to heaven. Or maybe not. Maybe, in the morning, they were aloof and happy to distract themselves with their brushes and oils, to mix their colors and smoke their pipes and go back to their fresh still lifes without having to swat away any more flies.” (286)

People will be writing dissertations about this book, I think, and what it says about “modern life” and “women in fiction,” etc.

Other quotes I liked:

“Since adolescence, I’d vacillated between wanting to look like the spoiled WASP that I was and the bum that I felt I was and should have been if I’d had any courage… I thought if I did normal things – held down a job, for example – I could starve off the part of me that hated everything. If I had been a man, I may have turned to a life of crime. But I looked like an off-duty model.” (35)

“Having a trash chute was one of my favorite things about my building. It made me feel important, like I was participating in the world. My trash mixed with the trash of others. The things I touched touched things other people had touched. I was contributing. I was connecting.” (115)

“I could think of feeling, emotions, but I couldn’t bring them up in me. I couldn’t even locate where my emotions came from. My brain? It made no sense. Irritation was what I knew best.” (137)

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Filed under books, consciousness, review, women writers

Getting off the mind train

I have not been reading books lately because I’ve been depressed.

I’m hoping there’ll be some kind of liberation, in writing that phase: I have not been reading. I’ve been depressed.

There is ONE book I have been trying to get into, though. William T. Vollman’s Imperial didn’t cut it for me (too heavy, so I couldn’t really carry it around with me, unless I wanted to make my backpack significantly heavier and my shoulders significantly sorer). Re-reading Phillip K. Dick’s Valis hasn’t quite done it either.

Just look at the title and tell me that you don’t want to read this book:

I mean, doesn’t that sound GREAT? How can that possibly be something that anyone wouldn’t want to do? “Get Out Of Your Mind and Into Your Life.” Sounds good to me.

It was given to me by a friend, and I’ve been slowly but surely working my way through it with a pencil, doing all of the exercises. It’s been a little hard going. I flipped ahead and apparently one of the exercises consists of keeping a Pain Diary, which quite frankly… doesn’t sound that appealing to me. But hey, maybe it will reveal something useful. But yeah, the exercises so far have been difficult. But maybe they’re only hard because they’re forcing me to be brutally, painfully honest with myself.

A lot of it is pretty similar stuff to what I’ve read in Pema Chodron’s When Things Fall Apart. Accepting suffering as an inevitable part of life, instead of trying to run away from your pain and pretend that it isn’t there, do anything to distract yourself and avoid looking at the suffering. Developing compassion for yourself and mindfulness of your actions. The oh so important role of delicious, delicious meditation.

What’s also interesting about this book, though, is that it has a very cognitive therapy, this-is-the-way-your-brain works, psychology-based approach. It’s fascinating stuff, reading about how the brain fuctions and how humans think.

There’s a chapter about language that I found especially interesting, about how language inherently causes suffering in people (the chapter is called “Why Language Leads to Suffering”–ho-kay!). According to the book, the nature of language makes it so that humans thus “have the capacity to treat anything as a symbol for something else” due to what they call “relational frames,” or networks of mutual relations. These networks make it so that humans can learn without requiring direct experience (a fascinating idea, which reminds me, yet again, of my undergraduate thesis. BOO-YAH! I should seriously take a shot every time I mention it in this blog!). So basically what this means is that what it means to be human is to be able to arbitrarily relate objects in our environment to basically any other object. Thus Phillip K. Dick’s book Valis isn’t just a fun escapist science fiction book, but a reminder of the last time you read it, and all the memories that come attached to that. A sunset isn’t just something beautiful, but something sad, because it reminds you of a person you miss, who isn’t watching it with you. And so on. So basically people are CRAZY because they can turn things like sunsets and Valis into things that they totally are not!

So what does this oh so wise book advise about how to deal with this? Well first of all, it’s not something that we can just STOP, since thinking relationally is what makes us human: it’s what helps us problem-solve, develop tools and technology, and so on. Humans constantly seek out patterns, relationships, steps that connect things to other things. As the book puts it: “humans suffer, in part, because they are verbal creatures. If this is so, then here is the problem: the verbal skills that create misery are too useful and central to human functioning to stop operating. That means suffering is an unavoidable part of the human condition, at least until we know how to better manage the skills language itself has given us.” (24)

I like looking forward to learning about how to do the part in bold.

There were a lot of other things in the book that I liked, some of them hitting painfully close to the bone, so much so that it’s difficult to even retype them here. Like the definition and discussion of experiential avoidance: “You develop specific means by which you try to stop feeling the feelings you are feeling or thinking the thoughts you are thinking. You try to avoid the experience of painful thoughts or feelings by burying yourself in distracting activities, combating your thoughts with rationalizations, or trying to quash your feelings… If you are suffering, you may spend a lot of time performing these distracting coping techniques. Meanwhile, your life is not being lived.” (30) OUCH. “What you are left with are behaviors that have become deeply embedded in your day-to-day life due to their short-term effectiveness, but for long-term relief they are sadly lacking.” (31) More pain, more avoidance. The book has a really scary diagram of this, with MORE PAIN in a big black circle in the center, and then circles around it that say MORE PAIN and MORE AVOIDANCE. Ugh. I didn’t like doing the activities in this chapter…

But then I am heartened by passages such as this one: “To know what an experience is really like, you’ve got to experience it for yourself, not just think about it. To see what it’s like to jump off the mind-train, you have to actually do it. You do that by breaking some of the rules and conditions your mind sets for you… once you are off of the train with your feet on the ground, you will see whether you are in a better position to choose a direction and live accordingly to your values rather than simply riding the rails of your verbal conditioning.” (32) It sounds so nice, I wrote in light pencil in the margins.

It makes me think of that NY Times magazine story published a while back ago, “Depressions Upside,” also e-mailed to me recently by the same friend that lent me the book. I like two sentences in this article: “sadness, like happiness, has many functions” and  “Sometimes, Darwin wrote, it is the sadness that informs as it “leads an animal to pursue that course of action which is most beneficial.” The darkness was a kind of light.”

I like thinking about  depression as something useful, something with a purpose. It makes me think of that last sentence in that Amy Hempel story: How do we know that what happens to us isn’t good? That story also in turn makes me think of Voltaire’s “Candide.” Things happening for reasons is different than things happening because of goodness.

I also liked the discussion of the etymology behind words in this book. I liked learning how ‘symbol’ means ‘to throw back as the same.’ I also liked learning that the primary root of ‘suffering’ is the Latin word ferre, which means to “bear or to carry” (hence “ferry”!), and that the prefix “suf” is a version of “sub,” which means “from below, up (hence) away.” Or as the book puts it, “suffering [thus] doesn’t just involve having something to carry, it also involves moving away.”

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Filed under books, consciousness, depression, experience, health, mindfulness, non-fiction, Phillip K. Dick, psychology

Practicing mindfulness, Henry James-style

I have nine—eight—seven days left here. Is it bad for me to be counting them down? I know I’ll miss Mexico when I’m gone, the same way I miss every place I leave. It’s a bad habit of mine, wanting to be somewhere else so badly that it interferes with my enjoyment of the present moment, of where I am currently. (Man, does that sound like a problem of mankind or what? The inability to appreciate and remain in the present time and place!) I’ll miss the street food, especially the amazing sopes I ate at that random cart with my Uruguayan friend by the park this Sunday. I’ll miss the karaoke bar with the giant hat in front, and the man in the sombrero walking around at 2AM pouring tequila out of a leather flask down the throats of anyone who opened their mouths.

I don’t know what lesson to take away of my time here. I don’t want it to be one of defeat. I wish I were able to say that I learned something, that a moral, a truth I’d always desperately been seeking had been announced loud and clear. It definitely wasn’t WOWZERS!! Microfinance really and truly is the solution to all of the world’s problems, especially global poverty!! (To be fair, I didn’t come here expecting to see this.) I was thinking of something finding something along the lines of, OH! Yes, this kind of work, development work, this is really the kind for me!! Or: WOW! I’ve thought of a really great idea for a future masters thesis, thanks to my field research here! Neither of these two statements are completely true… but I can’t say that they’re total lies, either.

I guess I thought that coming to Mexico again would bring about some kind of closure for me. I have a big thing for retracing my past steps, in the hopes that lessons I missed the first time around will reveal themselves more clearly. I was last here in 2007, during a summer job in Tijuana, and it was really, really, really good experience, to say the least. I healed a broken heart, made amazing friends and learned a ton. I’ve done the same here (minus the broken heart bit—strengthened it, you could say), but it hasn’t felt as intense. I dunno how much that has to do with being 24 as opposed to 21. Mostly, this time around I feel like I’ve had to deal with MYSELF a lot, which is maybe an inevitable consequence of living alone in a country where you really don’t know anyone. I mean, I made friends, I hung out with people—I am going to let myself be proud of myself for the relationships I’ve established in this community, dammit. I came here wanting to be immersed in the feeling that I had come full circle. It didn’t exactly happen that way, of course, because life never happens the way you want it to. It could have been better. But it also could have been a lot worse.

Wow, I sound really ambivalent, don’t I? I guess that’s a result of the counting-down-the-days feeling I’ve been mired in since Corey left. I’ve been left wanting to kill time so bad. I wanted to chop it up with an axe, just have it over, done with, so that I could move on to the next step. I always get this itchy feet feeling whenever the 10-week mark of being in a new place creeps around. It’s not that things are bad here, it’s just that I really, really miss my family, and I’m very, very ready to be in Portland with them (if only for a limited time). I also am very anxious to be with Corey, to really commit to this relationship and to being together, like definitively together in a very grown-up way—I was already pretty sure about this before coming here, and now it’s the one thing I can say I’m DEFINITELY sure about. So, I guess if nothing else, that’s one definitive, horn-blaringly loud truth that I’ve learned. One is better than none, right? I love the idea of him coming with me on my next placement with Kiva (which is no longer in Ecuador, by the way. I’m not at liberty to say where just yet, but trust me: I’m more than pleased. It makes perfect, ridiculous sense for me to be there, in more ways than one).

I guess I’m trying to extract some hard-earned wisdom here at the last minute, during the eve of my last week. Um. What else will I miss about Nuevo Laredo? The street cats I’ve come to recognize from my block (the black one, the calico one, the five kittens, one of whom I found dead on the street a few weeks ago). Estacion Palabra and the shelves full of comforting books I’ve come to memorize, scanning the rows every weekend. The bar decorated with frog images, where you can order six Coronas in a bucket of ice. Mini Super JIT, my local grocery store and local provider of weekly 6-packs of Miller Lite, where I still have an outstanding “cuenta” of 10.50 pesos when I bought a box of Special K cereal and didn’t have enough change with me. The grilled elote (corn) you can buy on any street corner. People’s gardens and the things they grow: cactuses, agave, orange trees, yellow trumpet-shaped flowers (Corey spotted a lot of interesting nut trees while he was here, always fun to walk around the neighborhood with a botanist). The sunflowers that suddenly appeared out of nowhere on an abandoned empty lot near my house, the sight of which nearly brought tears to my eyes when I glimpsed them from a car window (NATURE!!). The mockingbirds that explode into a cacophony of hoots and calls like clockwork every sunset, darkening the sky above the street plazas as they fly from tree to tree. The Christmas lights hanging over the cement walls in front of people’s houses. My $120/month apartment with its two rooms, the toilet that always smells, the floor tile I use to cover the pan when I’m boiling rice, the fruit flies that somehow succeed in thriving in my papayas in the fridge (OK… maybe this not so much).

Relics from Nuevo Laredo: James, pepper spray, Miller Lite, flowers from the street

I wanted to write “these past few weeks have been as hard as reading a Henry James novel” but that’s not really true. Ha. I’ve been reading “Wings of the Dove” and it is, as they say, slow going. I’ll be slogging through a murk and mess of run-on sentences and obscure references with no idea of what’s going on when suddenly a flash of insight and wisdom occurs, in a beautifully written sentence that just makes sense, and it feels so beautiful in contrast to all the murkiness and confusion that come before. Hey, sounds a lot like human consciousness, right? No wonder this novel was referred to with regularity in David Lodge’s Thinks, a great book that deals with the question of consciousness, among other things.

“Consciousness” is one of the most common words in this book. I wonder if it’s used almost as much as “solitude” in “Cien Anos de Soledad” (my high school Spanish teacher claimed that “soledad” appeared at least once on every page of the novel, I’ve never actually confirmed this). It’s… difficult. But rewarding. Henry James is another author who’s difficult to recommend. The director at my MFI (microfinance institution) saw WOTD on my desk, picked it up and asked me if it was good. All I could say was “um…” not wanting to be blamed in case he bought a copy in translation, read a page and then stared into space wondering what possessed him to listen to the advice of the scraggly haired American. (He’s a great guy, by the way, and is a big reader himself—during our first conversation we talked for ages about books and authors and and and oh, it was wonderful!) As an experiment, back in Portland when I had Dove checked out from the library but never got around to reading it (I probably still have a late fine to pay on it, boo!), I had my housemate read a page. I think he probably made it through the first sentence before throwing it on the floor and shouting “WHAT THE BLEEP IS THIS BLEEP.” yeah. I mean, just look at the opening sentences:

“She waited, Kate Croy, for her father to come in, but he kept her unconscionably, and there were moments at which she showed herself in the glass over the mantel, a face positively pale with the irritation that had brought her to the point of going away without sight of him. It was at this point, however, that she remained; changing her place, moving from the shabby sofa to the armchair upholstered in a glazed cloth that gave at once—she had tried it—the sense of the slippery and of the sticky.”

The slippery and the sticky. I love it. One of the main characters in David Lodge’s Thinks does a great analysis of this passage, in which she discusses how these opening sentences are a wonderful example of James’ stream of consciousness technique: there’s no omniscient narrator, hovering above and letting us know what is going on in Kate Croy’s mind. Instead, we are in her mind, feeling her anxiety, her restlessness, as she paces about the room. It’s a very interesting technique, but probably hard as hell to write, and it can be damn draining to read. You’re always right there, right in the character’s mind as their thoughts swirl darkly and wildly around as judgments, projections and imaginings take the forefront. Entire chapters take place around four or five lines of dialogue (probably more, but it feels like less). Henry James was a very, very talented man (or as I put it more crudely to Corey, the guy could write like a MF).

I can’t imagine anyone in this day and age being able to write like this (I believe in the 100+ years in which “Dove” was published, no one has). It was an interesting experience to read this novel after reading Portrait of a Lady earlier this year (which I think might very well take the coveted #1 slot on my oh so important favorite books of 2009 list. Ha). Another David Lodge novel, Author Author, is a work of historical fiction dealing with James’ brief foray into the theater. Apparently James abandoned writing altogether for a good decade or so in the 1890’s in order to take a stab at writing plays, in order to produce critically acclaimed theatrical pieces that would bring him popularity, respect and adoration from millions (needless to say it didn’t happen that way—did I mention already that life never happens the way you want it to?). What his theater work did provide him with, though, was the ability to write just from a character’s mind. In a play, there’s no narrator setting the scene or providing omniscient narration. It’s just the dialogue. It’s all about “reading” the scene: the reaction to a sentence, the way a woman looks at a man, or at a younger American woman with money, the way the entire atmosphere of a room can change with the arrival or presence of a certain person. Instead of a light penetration, where the narrator tells you what’s happening in a neutral voice and gives a narrator’s viewpoint on the character’s attitudes and motivations, dipping in and out of character’s minds the way you dip a tortilla chip into salsa, you have a DEEP penetration, in which you never leave the viewpoint as seen through the character’s eyes. It’s intense and involving, and as exhausting as being trapped in your own head, with all the yappings and yippings that go on up there.

My favorite character in this book so far has been Milly Theale, the young doomed American who comes to Europe only to be callously taken advantage of by the old school British. At first I was surprised that James spends so much time inside Milly’s head during the first 200 pages, because in the movie (which is okay; the Portrait of a Lady film is a superior adaptation IMHO) she’s very much treated as a distant, secondary figure to Kate and Denscher, the scheming couple. The part where she leaves the doctor after hearing some bad news (or is it just ambiguous news? You never can tell, with James) and walks quickly through the streets of London with her heart pounding may be one of the best passages that I’ve read all year. Her are some of the excerpts I underlined, the ones that really struck a chord with me:

(171) She literally felt, in this first flush, that her only company must be the human race at large, that her field must be, then and there, the grey immensity of London. Grey immensity had somehow of a sudden become her element; grey immensity was what her distinguished friend [the doctor] had, for the moment, furnished her world with and what the question of ‘living’, as he put it to her, living by option, by volition…

she had been treated—hadn’t she?–as if it were in her power to live; and yet one wasn’t treated so—was one?–unless it came up, quite as much, that one might die… But the beauty of the idea of a great adventure, a big dim experiment or struggle in which she might, more responsibly than ever before, take a hand, had been offered her instead.

(173) Here doubtless were hundreds of others just in the same box. Their box, their great common anxiety, what was it, in this grim breathing-space, but the practical question of life? They could live if they would; that is, like herself, they had been told so; she saw them all about her, on seats, digesting the information… the blessed old truth that they would live if they could.

(176) It was perhaps superficially more striking that one could live if one would; but it was more appealing, insinuating, irresistible, in short, that one would live if one could.

Good stuff. Moments like these don’t happen often in James, but when they do, they’re like a flash of lightning. Just like day to day existence: sometimes it feels like you’re going through one murky day after another, and you don’t know what it adds up to, and you don’t know what it means, and then all of a sudden—BAM! Some insight that you didn’t have before hits you clearly, and all of a sudden you seen your life in a different way than you did before. And then just as quickly as it came it’s gone, and you’re back to your nail-chewing ways, spilling lentils on the floor of your apartment, hoping that the toilet isn’t clogged and eating the last of your stale Special K flakes with the last few drops squeezed out of the soy milk carton. It’s a shame that such beautiful, illuminating flashes of insight don’t come around more often. Though I guess if they did, they wouldn’t be that special, would they? Now that sounds like a form of hard-fought wisdom…

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Filed under consciousness, Henry James, Mexico, mindfulness, Nuevo Laredo, wisdom