An Advent Calendar: Day 21

"When I reached C Company lines, which were at the top of the hill, I paused and looked back at the camp, just coming into full view below me through the grey moist of early morning. ...

Here love had died between me an the army. ...

Here at the age of thirty-nine I began to be old. ...

Here my last love died. ...

So, on the morning of our move, I was entirely indifferent as to our destination. ...

I slept until my servant called me, rose wearily, dressed and shaved in silence. It was not till I reached the door that I asked the second-in-command, 'What's this place called?'

He told me and, on the instant, it was though someone had switched off the wireless, and a voice that had been bawling in my ears, incessantly, fatuously, for days beyond number, had been suddenly cut short; an immense silence followed, empty at first, but gradually, as my outraged sense regained authority, full of a multitude of sweet and natural and long-forgotten sounds - for he had spoken a name that was so familiar to me, a conjuror's name of such ancient power, that, at its mere sound, the phantoms of those haunted late years began to take flight." 

These fragments are from the Prologue to Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited, and they describe his unexpected return to, or rather stumbling-upon, the place where, and around which, he had lived the highest peaks of his life: from the dizzy Spring of youth with Sebastian, to the high Summer and early Fall lived with Julia.   

And yet those days are all past, now; and Sebastian, and Lady Marchmain, and (notably) Lord Marchmain - and also, and in different ways, Cordelia - and, finally, Julia - are all gone; if not gone as persons, then gone from Charles's life. Gone - and, as explained in the beginning, his life itself seemed to have ended; his last ersatz love, of duty, of the army, dying just before the "rediscovery" of Brideshead Castle.   

And yet that "death" only constitutes the prologue to the book. What follows is a recalling of those highest peaks of life, all connected in one way or another, with Brideshead. And what will follow after those lengthy recollections, will be a return to the present and... 

But where does one go, when one has died, inside? When one's life - those eagerly-climbed peaks, and honeyed meadows - seem to have passed? When the things, the places, the people one has loved have passed - if not from life, than maybe from one's life? Can there be life, after late November - and thereafter, a future?

Sebastian was gone, seemingly lost - but one evening, while all were despairing of the situation, Lady Marchmain read to them from a Father Brown story (from G.K. Chesterton); in it, 

"Father Brown said something like 'I caught him... with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread."

And Lord Marchmain's passing became something completely different, from what could or should have been expected; and Julia's decision thereafter was sober and clear, even under all the confusion of those moments; and her life now was sober and dutiful, but probably on a path of clarity (albeit without the glamour so sought-after before). All these ends were not really "ends," were they?

So, is there life, and of what kind - after what seems like the end of one's life?

If there is, certainly it is no longer the life of naïve enthusiasm (as in that early youth), nor of high passion (as in that early adulthood). If there is hope, it is not childish - but something more mature - perhaps more sober, more dutiful, yet possessed of a deep (but on the surface invisible) clarity.

So, back in the present, and back at Brideshead, Charles Ryder walks by the beautiful fountain (now deserted, and protected by wire), and to the RC chapel. In the chapel, notwithstanding all the brutal changes and the war (and the destruction, and the passing of the world), he still finds - he yet finds -     

"a small red flame 

- a beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design, relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; ... 

burning anew among the old stones."

The hope of youth and of early adulthood is the hope of transience, of the world; the hope that follows and surpasses the end of life is related to eternity.

And thus the hope and joy of Christmas, while celebrating with earthly joy the Birth of a child, also include in themselves the Death that is the purpose of this Birth - and also, and inevitably, and victoriously, the eternalized joy of the Resurrection that will conquer that Death - i.e. of the final victory of (eternal) life over (worldly) end of life.        

An Advent Calendar: Day 18

“A cold coming we had of it,

Just the worst time of the year

For a journey, and such a long journey:

The ways deep and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.”

And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,

Lying down in the melting snow.

There were times we regretted

The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,

And the silken girls bringing sherbet.

Then the camel men cursing and grumbling

And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,

And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,

And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly

And the villages dirty and charging high prices:

A hard time we had of it.

At the end we preferred to travel all night,

Sleeping in snatches,

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,

Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;

With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,

And three trees on the low sky,

And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.

Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,

Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,

And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.

But there was no information, and so we continued

And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon

Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

All this was a long time ago, I remember,

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we led all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,

But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,

With an alien people clutching their gods.

I should be glad of another death.

                                T. S. Eliot -  Journey of the Magi

During Advent we - just like the Magi - are walking the road leading toward the Birth of the Child. A birth apparently joyous for us, and for the world - although difficult, and in difficult conditions, for that young family, then. And a Birth that, although it was "the coming of the light unto the world" (and thus, in principle, an occasion of joy), "the world [which was and is in darkness] did not know him" (except for a few people - like the Magi) - and rejected it. And so, this Birth is actually a birth unto Death. As his mother will soon learn, as well: "a sword shall pierce your very soul." And thus we learn that this newborn Child is actually destined for Death - a pierced death on the cross. And yet that Death will not be the final word, either. It will be instead the death of the "old dispensation," of the "world," as it is (i.e. in darkness) - for the sake of the triumph of the Light, of Life eternal. And yet that life eternal is only conquerable at the price of death - the death of the "old man," and of the "world as it is." And thus in order to truly acquire the meaning and immense gain of this Birth, that death of the "world" (in us) needs to take place in each of us. And, as described in T.S. Eliot's poem, this is what the Magi felt, and realized.   

An Advent Calendar: Day 14

"I have often had a fancy for writing a romance about an English yachtsman who slightly miscalculated his course and discovered England under the impression that it was a new island in the South Seas.  ... There will probably be a general impression that the man who landed (armed to the teeth and talking by signs) to plant the British flag on that barbaric temple which turned out to be the Pavilion at Brighton, felt rather a fool. ... But if you imagine that he felt a fool, or at any rate that the sense of folly was his sole or his dominant emotion, then you have not studied with sufficient delicacy the rich romantic nature of the hero of this tale. His mistake was really a most enviable mistake; and he knew it, if he was the man I take him for. What could be more delightful than to have in the same few minutes all the fascinating terrors of going abroad combined with all the humane security of coming home again? What could be better than to have all the fun of discovering South Africa without the disgusting necessity of landing there? What could be more glorious than to brace one's self up to discover New South Wales and then realize, with a gush of happy tears, that it was really old South Wales. 

This at least seems to me the main problem for philosophers, and is in a manner the main problem of this book. How can we contrive to be at once astonished at the world and yet at home in it? How can this queer cosmic town, with its many-legged citizens, with its monstrous and ancient lamps, how can this world give us at once the fascination of a strange town and the comfort and honour of being our own town?

... [In this book] I wish to set forth my faith as particularly answering this double spiritual need, the need for that mixture of the familiar and the unfamiliar which Christendom has rightly named romance. ... The thing I do not propose to prove, the thing I propose to take as common ground between myself and any average reader, is this desirability of an active and imaginative life, picturesque and full of a poetical curiosity, a life such as western man at any rate always seems to have desired. .... [And] nearly all people I have ever met in this western society in which I live would agree to the general proposition that we need this life of practical romance; the combination of something that is strange with something that is secure. We need so to view the world as to combine an idea of wonder and an idea of welcome. We need to be happy in this wonderland without once being merely comfortable. It is THIS achievement of my creed that I shall chiefly pursue in these pages.

But I have a peculiar reason for mentioning the man in a yacht, who discovered England. For I am that man in a yacht. I discovered England. ... I am the man who with the utmost daring discovered what had been discovered before. ... [F]or this book explains how I fancied I was the first to set foot in Brighton and then found I was the last. It recounts my elephantine adventures in pursuit of the obvious. ... I am the fool of this story, and no rebel shall hurl me from my throne. I freely confess all the idiotic ambitions of the end of the nineteenth century. I did, like all other solemn little boys, try to be in advance of the age. Like them I tried to be some ten minutes in advance of the truth. And I found that I was eighteen hundred years behind it. I did strain my voice with a painfully juvenile exaggeration in uttering my truths. And I was punished in the fittest and funniest way, for I have kept my truths: but I have discovered, not that they were not truths, but simply that they were not mine. When I fancied that I stood alone I was really in the ridiculous position of being backed up by all Christendom. It may be, Heaven forgive me, that I did try to be original; but I only succeeded in inventing all by myself an inferior copy of the existing traditions of civilized religion. The man from the yacht thought he was the first to find England; I thought I was the first to find Europe. I did try to found a heresy of my own; and when I had put the last touches to it, I discovered that it was orthodoxy [the right faith]."

This is a fragment from G.K. Chesterton's famous introduction to his remarkable and fascinating book, Orthodoxy. It relates to the Advent path in many ways; for one, because Advent, just like any other season of the liturgical year, or any recurring feast, is an attempt and opportunity to "rediscover" the familiar, to find again the strange and the surprising in what we thought we knew so well, to be shocked anew by what we are tempted to take for granted. 

And what makes the surprise, the shock, the (re)discovery possible, is the fact that the truth, while never-changing, is ever-fresh, and ever-young - it is alive, and is life. While error, while always seemingly new and attractive and diverse, always turns out to be, at the end of the day, repetitive, the same, same old same old error - and rooted in un-living, and ultimately dead. 

One, then, is the renewed promise of romance and hope (and, as Chesterton mentioned, who does not need that?); while the other always turns out to be prosaic everydayness and mediocrity - and with the solidity and duration of dust.  

 

An Advent Calendar: Day 4

"London. ... Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth. ... Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. ... Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. ... Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. ...

On such an afternoon, if ever, ..."

This fragment from Charles Dickens' Bleak House gives us a glimpse (foggy, muddy, half-perceptible) of nineteenth-century London, more specifically of a November in nineteenth-century London. Things are as if half-seen, dark, and ill-tempered. But must this be nineteenth-century London? Could this not be any-century any-city, and any other November of inner-outer gloom? Could this not be B.C., as much as A.D.? Are we all - them, in that London; us, today; and any-November, in any-place - are we all not equally in the same desperate need for a permanent dissipation of the gloom, and for the arrival (advent) of a lasting light? Plus ça change... the more it changes, the more it stays the same; the same state, this natural state, the human condition, and its deep and indelible need for a change, a transformation, that is not transitory and impermanent, no longer just socio-political or economic - but existential, everlasting, and definitive. 

Advent is a time of expectation during which we can become again aware of this deep and fundamental human need and longing... by realizing again the contrast between the ever-November of any place and any moment in human history, and the coming Nativity of the everlasting Light that we all desire. 

Theatrum Mundi

“Theatrum mundi”: the world as a stage, the stage as the world; an expression that is congruent with what I claim to be my own ars poetica (or at least one dimension of it), namely that art finds its true meaning in the representation of reality, of existence, being the only field of human expression that truly and fully has this capacity. Other areas of human activity - such as philosophy, theology, the empirical sciences - tell us about aspects of the worlds, even essential things about those - perhaps even about the most important things of existence; however, art has the unique and specific capacity (and mission, I would say) to represent existence as it is: in its richness, complexity, even ineffability; existence, as it were, in motion, alive.

Thus, in a kind of a follow-up to the previously posted opera travelogue, what follows below is an excursion (occasioned as well, in a way, by the COVID-19 pandemic) through different authors and works from the world of theater, trying to look at how existence is reflected and is brought alive in these pieces of art.

While reading the text of a play, I usually prefer to listen to it, at the same time – or at least to watch the play, very soon thereafter. First of all, because these texts are written in order to be played, and thus the text comes alive, receives existential depth, truly and really when being acted out. Secondarily, and especially in the case of Shakespeare, listening to the play while reading it (e.g. listening to a radio play) allows me to slow down mentally and to concentrate on the words, and thus to better take in the depth and richness of the Shakespearian language.

So this is what I did, then, over a week or so – I “read” thus five plays, from five different authors, from different cultural periods and spaces – and, yes, I did find life, existence, reality - alive, in them; but, in different ways, in each of them.

Twelfth Night, or What You Will, by William Shakespeare 

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In Shakespeare’s plays life resides and pulsates in the depth and power of his language, as he creates and uses a vocabulary that is not just tremendously rich and versatile, but also relentlessly innovative. Life, then, can be found beneath and in the words – in the language – of Shakespeare’s plays; hence also the many sayings and (by now) common expressions originated and “enshrined” by these plays.

Reading his texts, therefore, can not be done in a rushed, half-attentive, superficial manner; his words and his sentences are dense, thick, and poetic; they require attention and – as I mentioned above – to be acted out, to be lived out (which helps to further reveal their richness and meanings). Indeed, Shakespeare’s relationship to language is different from other authors’ (see, below, Tennessee Williams); in fact, I personally do not know of a greater craftsman with “language”, in any language or culture. And yet this is not facile craftsmanship, that plays with language for the sake of it; no, his words are rich with life, teeming with it - they're like round leather pouches filled up to bursting, veins showing – and how Medieval, how Renaissance, this is, of him, and of his language! – to have such a virile, life-filled baggage of words! What a difference from today, from our own times, when most words seem to have lost their power, their life-power, to have been tired out, worn out, spent! But maybe it is but Shakespeare himself, and his ability to grasp life, and to imbue his language with teeming life, that makes the difference. But maybe it is also the fact that life – emotions, passions, existence – seems to have been lived more intensely, even more violently, I would say, in the Middle Ages and during the Renaissance (because I noticed the same aspects in Cervantes, as well). Because, yes, passions abound, in Shakespeare (or in Cervantes); powerful feelings, a certain violence of sentiments and of actions – that, once we start truly noticing it and taking it seriously – we realize how different it is from our less passionate times (and our less passionate words)!

So, yes, the great pleasure in reading Shakespeare is to watch, as it were, a craftsman at work; like one of those anonymous craftsmen who sculpted, with precision and imagination, with power of sentiment and of spirit, those wooden basreliefs on those magnificent cathedral doors.

And this is true even if, as it is the case with this play, what we have to deal with is a farce, a lighter piece - one probably written on commission (the Twelfth Night being probably written as a divertimento for the celebrations of the twelfth day of Christmastime, at the conclusion of that festive season; see also its other title, What You Will), by a journeyman artist who needs to make plays, in order to earn a living, as well. Yes, even so, and even here, we find the same craftsmanship at work – for example when we see Shakespeare coining expressions which concentrate life and experience with such zest and plasticity, that they have by now become part of our own vocabulary (for example, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them”; yes, this is from this specific farce, from Twelfth Night). And we can also observe in this play the craftsman’s sheer joy of creation, in his delight in wittiness - because, what is wittiness, if not the play with words and with meanings – that is, the skill to understand and to manipulate the relationship between existence and language, that goes to the very core of the craft of the writer?

And it so happens that the driving engine of this play is precisely that, wittiness – see the prominence, and the recurrence, in the play, of the character of the Fool, who is the master of wit par excellence. But being a master of wit - as another character observes – requires that one is a keen observer and true knower of human beings, and of their human nature; well, isn’t that true of Shakespeare himself, and isn’t he stating all this, implicitly, about himself, as well - and about his skill with language and about his understanding of human nature (of human existence)? Wittiness, then, is the elemental force shaping this play – and thus a lot of the play is actually taken up by such exercises in wittiness: wordplays, exhibitions of mental skill, pranks. This is why I think that stagings of this play that omit exactly these parts, these playful games with words and with existence, while focusing instead on “the action”, are in fact missing the main point, the driving force, the very meaning (in a way) of the play; especially since the plot itself is a light one, typically farce-like, being based on a case of mistaken identities, and of the conflicts, tragic and comic, arising from them; thus, a fairly thin plot, but an appropriately fitting opportunity - for wit, for wordsmithing, for mental games – and for us the spectators to delight in these fireworks – in this interplay between language and existence!

The play is even somewhat unfinished, we may say – or, to put it differently, maybe a bit imbalanced, overall; for example, Malvolio’s fate is never really and truly clarified and concluded; or, Antonio is left without a mate, while he probably should have ended up with Viola, at least for symmetry’s sake, mirroring Olivia’s final pairing with Sebastian; and so on. And yet, all this is not that important – as the purpose of the play, as said, is in our delighting in wittiness - of words and of actions; of how the characters play with the various possibilities of existence, with appearance and reality, and with the role of words in all this – each of the characters being both perpetrator and victim, at turns, of such games, pranks, and cunning plans.

Language and life, words and existence, then - and the great craftsman of language at work on them - within the framework of a delightful  - and witty - farce. 

The Cherry Orchard, by Anton Chekhov

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Apparently there is not much happening in The Cherry Orchard? It is summer and, under the oppressive heat of noonday, the crickets are chirping, and the people are... not going anywhere; neither outwardly, nor within; they are languishing, immobile, apparently. This is, anyway, the feeling - of a summery, static day (even if the action actually takes place in early spring, and then in the autumn). But, still, apparently not much is happening (although much is, in fact) - and this apparent immobility (which frustrates a few of the characters tremendously) actually covers (and reveals) life: real, human life - which is very much what is in fact happening.

But even in terms of the actual “action” of the play – aren’t there major things taking place, as well? After all, the family is in the process of losing the orchard, the house – of losing everything, in fact! Yes, everything seems to be going away, to be slipping through their fingers – just like existence itself.

And the characters? They are, obviously, tragic – and also, deeply comic. How? Well, first of all we notice the fact that most of the characters are meant to represent “types” – and thus we have comic types such as the frivolous maid, Anya; the pragmatic, business-minded, and somewhat dull Lopakhin; the idealist, revolutionary-minded Trofimov; the “slightly decadent and thoroughly impractical nobleman”, Gaev; the devious and untrustworthy servant, Yasha; the tragic, failed landowner, Lubov Andreyevna – a bit dissolute, but at the same time filled with passion; and so on. In their being “types”, there is comedy – expressed through their mannerisms and expressions... But the deeper comedy is not there, but comes from their very being – from their very tragi-comic being. In this sense, I would call the author’s perspective, his vantage point, almost god-like; in the sense that, “from a certain distance” (as the BetteMidler song goes), all of us humans are deeply and endearingly comical – but also deeply tragic, in our existential suffering.

The Chekhovian comedy, then, is the comedy of existence, of being – deep underneath.

But the most powerful aspect of this play, and of Chekhov’s artistry – is the presence of life. Life, as that great, deep river, that comes we know not wherefrom, and goes we know not whereto, and in whose middle we find ourselves, floating, taken by it – and it passes us, everywhere: above, below, and all around us. Life, or time - deep, overtaking us, carrying us, uncontrollable; it is this sensation of flowing, immense life, in which we find ourselves, which escapes our grasp and control, that feeling usually inexpressible through words - of real existence and of real time - that the play most poignantly reflects (underneath, and overall) - and this is what constitutes for me its most powerful artistic feature.

In terms of the “action” of the play proper, of what “happens”, the story is one of loss, and of human impotence in front of it. But isn’t life itself, loss? – at least, in the sense of time, continuously departing us, rushing backwards, forever slipping through our fingers, sand-like? Aren’t we all helpless - and defeated – at the end, with regards to... the time itself?

And isn’t even Lopakhin, the pragmatic and successful businessman, who has risen from nothing to great riches, who is thus the great master of the materiality of existence, of that visible aspect of life – isn’t he, in fact, also paralyzed, impotent, incapable of “action”, seemingly, when it comes to matters of the heart? And, when pressed, doesn’t he admit that, besides the moments when daily busy-ness carries him and then gives him meaning, he is at pains at explaining what it is all about? (And that they, all of them, there, in his environment, live what are ultimately grey, boring existences?)

And Trofimov, the ideas-driven and -possessed, social reform-obsessed young student – isn’t he reproached by Lubov Andreevna, gently, for his severity and unbendingly demanding attitude toward the rest, toward her? Here are her own words, to Trofimov: “What truth? You see where truth is, and where untruth is (...) You boldly settle all important questions, but tell me, dear, isn't it because you're young, because you haven't had time to suffer (...)? You boldly look forward, isn't it because you cannot foresee or expect anything terrible, because so far life has been hidden from your young eyes? You are bolder, more honest, deeper than we are, but think only, be just a little magnanimous, and have mercy on me. I was born here, (...) I love this house. I couldn't understand my life without that cherry orchard, and if it really must be sold, sell me with it! (...) My son was drowned here. (...) Have pity on me, good, kind man.” Yes, have pity on the fallen... of this battle of life (the fallen who, as you will eventually come to discover for yourself, after you have lived life – are everyone). Yes, youth is rigid and demanding , because it hasn’t had time to be “broken”, yet; because it hasn’t had time to live, to experience, life (and thus to be eventually defeated, or tired, or broken, by it).

And isn’t it similar, as with the individual person, so with entire human societies (or cultures) as well? Without trying to be too ambitious or wide-ranging with our verdicts (which would be improper and rash), could we not say that this sort of understanding of existence, of time, and of history (which, we assume, the Russian culture and society possesses), is the outcome (gain?) of that society having had time (i.e. history) to experience defeat – because the outcome of history is always, inevitably, defeat? That time wins, in the end – so that no one (person or society) can ever becomes the master of time, of history? Thus I wonder what readers (spectators) from “younger” societies (“younger’, in this sense, of societies that haven’t had enough time to truly experience history) might make of Chekhov, of these characters, and of what happens in the play; what do they make of this understanding of (or feelings about) time, life, existence?

Two more notes about certain poignant moments from the play: one, at the end, when, after everyone else has left the house, Lubov Andreevna and her brother, Gaev, embrace each other, in a muted, mutual expression of pain, and of loss. Because they have not been completely unaware, throughout the play (contrary to how it might have appeared), of all that has been taking place – they have simply been taken over, rendered incapable of acting, of changing things - by it, by life. And another moment – again at the end of the play, in fact at its very end – when Fiers, the old and loyal servant (whom they literally forgot behind, in the locked house), examines himself, and his life, stating that: “Life's gone on as if I'd never lived. [Lying down] I'll lie down. ... You've no strength left in you, nothing left at all... Oh, you... bungler!”

Chekhov great achievement, then, is this – the depiction of life, of time, in its uncontrollable, ultimately ungraspable, all-overtaking and leaving-one-and-all-behind, continued flow. And this is indeed a remarkable thing - how Chekhov succeeds in depicting exactly this commonly experienced, yet hardly expressible, sensation of existence – this life experience so common to all human beings, and yet so rarely actually expressed. 

But isn’t it true that most of what life actually is, our daily experience thereof, we neither speak of, nor is it easily expressible? Which is why we mentioned at the very beginning of this survey that only art seems to have the capacity to express – or, rather, to depict - the complexity and the inexpressibility of existence; and here is Anton Chekhov, doing exactly that. And he does that in and through the deep and rich (yet absolutely not out-of-the-ordinary) characters that he creates – in whom said life comes alive. Characters who also possess (as all human beings do, when looked at benevolently) that bittersweet combination of the tragic and of the comic, that is a feature of human existence. And all of this is so... life-like.

La cantatrice chauve (The Bald Soprano), by Eugène Ionesco

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So, how could La cantatrice chauve (title whose literal translation would be “The Bald Songstress”), which everybody knows as a play that is the very “emblem” (like Ionesco himself) of the theater of the absurd  - how could it be included in a discussion about “art as the expression of real existence”? And yet, it is, this play – it is about true human existence - and quite powerfully so.

How? an expression of existence? Well, let’s see what The Bald Soprano actually presents to us, the spectators. Well, it presents us the dull small talk, around the dinner table, in which families engage daily, instead of real interpersonal communication; and thus - see? - it presents to us a very common, quite familiar, perhaps even central aspect of everyday life. Furthermore, does this not point, also, and perhaps, toward a deeper truth of existence; namely, a certain (perhaps unbridgeable) incommunicability of the self, within human interaction? - or, perhaps, simply to the lack of real communication that plagues so many relationships?

What else? Well, the play also shows us lack of communication as it happens at a social level - as illustrated by the emptiness and monotony of social small-talk; small talk that we could define as being the objectivized, emptied of meaning, polite, externalized exchange of “words”, but not of “selves” – which, thus, does not represent real human interchange.

And what else? Well, the play also presents us the accumulated tensions that sometimes linger beneath, underlying interhuman relationships – that are there, unsaid - muted resentments (stemming from hurts past, undigested, or perhaps from guilts) that plague so many of our interhuman relationships. (Strong existential stuff, isn’t it?) And, in this sense, I found the scenes in which Ms. Smith abruptly expresses these deep-lying resentments, by suddenly and aggressively (and impotently) baring her teeth, animal-like (like a dog, or an angry cat), as being both very expressive and poignant, as well as utterly funny.

All these – the lack of communication that plagues the human relationships; the tensions and resentments that poison them; the dullness and monotony of formal social interaction – are aspects that we know very well, that are obviously part of our everyday existence. Moreover, they are (or can be) very painful aspects of said existence – and the pain (especially for the perceptive or sensitive persons) comes exactly from the incapacity of expressing these things, of pointing out these phenomena - because how can one truly communicate the lack of true communication that plagues a relationship, exactly to the other person in that relationship, the very person who is seemingly incapable or unwilling to truly communicate (what a painful, agonizing, vicious circle!)? Or think of the difficulty of becoming aware of, of grasping and of taking hold of - let alone expressing – the deep, underlying resentments that plague our own relationships with others, sometimes unconsciously or unawares, sometimes not, and that stem, as said, from past hurts or maybe guilts... 

The virtue of The Bald Soprano, then (and I don’t mean “virtue” in an utilitarian sense, i.e. that a play needs to ”do” or to achieve something, but in the sense of it being a true artistic act, expressing existence) – its main virtue, then, is exactly the powerful, raw, and artistically courageous way in which it portrays these unsaid and inexpressible “interstices” or “subterrains” of our existence; thus expressing – the unutterable.

And let us also mention that Ionesco is funny, relentlessly so – by which I mean, that he himself is funny, as a person; that the absurd itself is comedic (by virtue of the inherent clash that it contains); and also that there are specific funny moments and utterances in the play. See, for example, bon mots such as: “Beware: if you caress a circle long enough, it will become vicious!” – and so on.

I should also mention Ionesco’s connection with the artistic spirit and style of Dadaism – which, I would say, are strongly reflected in the artistic freedom and playfulness of La cantatrice chauve – and, in fact, in its very absurdity. But I am not saying by this that Ionesco was “influenced” by Dada - but only that he was obviously in a mutual dialogue with it (the movement slightly preceding him, generationally – and many of the important figures of Dada having been, like Ionesco himself, of Romanian extraction). And what had Dadaism been if not an expression, emerging during and just after World War I, of civilizational collapse – which also implies a deep and generalized loss of meaning, and of communicability?

Speaking of words that have lost all meaning, one should note that this play (which was written, of course, in French) was inspired by (if I recall correctly) language lessons from English language textbooks, which Ionesco studied while trying to learn (or to improve his knowledge of) that language. And, yes, what better example of words that have lost all connection with their existential grounding, that have been completely removed from (and out of) life – of words that have become signifiers without the signified, objects meant to illustrate not existence but “rules”, simple mannequins engaged in an artificial, mechanical game – than the words used in grammar exercises or in vocabulary lessons! And this is also why the main characters, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, are an English couple; and why all the other characters – and the chairs, and the apartment, and the dinner, and the evening - everything, really – are English (English being the foreign language, and Englishness itself being  - at least until lately - the byword for formalism, etiquette, reserve, and lack of communication.)

This play, then, expresses in a paradoxical way (through its very absence, that is) the deep and important connection between language and existence, between words and being – showing us what happens when that existential grounding of language is gone - when words become empty vessels... for what? In that sense, what a powerful illustration of an existential truth, done not in a didactical fashion, but - as any artistic act worthy of its name would do it – through a representation of existence (of life, in action – even if absurdly so)!

And I should also note that, yes, I do find the play a bit uneven (at times), in that not all the moments are of equal intensity and constancy of purpose. Yes, I think that Ionesco could have been more disciplined, artistically, as I found him - at times! only at times! -  improvising, diverging from the main, focused thrust of the play, for the sake of facile, easy divagations; thus disturbing (in my view) the aesthetic unity of the work. (It’s like making silly, easy jokes - when the humor is actually deeper down, in the action of the play, and in its characters.) And yet, there is a degree of charm in this “unevenness”, as well, reflecting (or expressing) Ionesco’s perennial youthfulness (which is also a defining characteristic of any authentic Dada), perhaps youth-like rebelliousness. (It brings to mind the acidic or parodic literary essays that he wrote in his youth, and through which he attacked his contemporaries, as a true anarchist fire-bomber on the literary scene; and it brings to mind the genre of the “essay”, as that light, inspiration-driven, quick, and thus somewhat uneven, type of writing (as cultivated in Europe, e.g. in the Francophile cultural areas.) In other words, I can write up even this unevenness to Ionesco’s charm.

To conclude: yes, this is the theater of the absurd – but, in fact, or by that very fact, it is also an artistic expression, and a very powerful one, of (some) truths of existence – and more specifically of some of the unsaid, or hardly inexpressible, aspects of existence. This is, then, real, true art - therefore.

A Streetcar Named Desire, by Tennessee Williams

[image source]

Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire also reflects life, but through means at the opposite stylistic end from Shakespeare’s (his tremendously rich and powerful poetic language) or from Ionesco’s (the deconstruction of language) – namely, by using (in Williams’ case) direct, raw, “street” language: the (recognizable) language of our everydays. And it is this directness, this recognizability of the language, that first surprises us, and then inevitably draws us into the action of the play. 

Because of this artistic language, in this case I did not need to follow my habit of simultaneously listening to the play being acted out. Instead, I listened to New Orleans jazz, which was a most fitting choice - both personally, as a suitable soundtrack to my reading of the play (the action taking place in the French Quarter of NOLA) – and also theatrically, as, according to Tennessee Williams’ instructions, New Orleans music should be playing more or less continuously during the play, providing both the atmosphere and the “street noise” for the action. So, a felicitous and most fitting choice. 

Williams’ raw, direct, “natural” language, then, is perhaps the most poignant aspect of this play. However, that is not the only way in which “everyday, street” reality is present – as another existentially realistic dimension is represented by the dramatis personae that Williams’ creates and sets before us: Stella, Stanley, Eunice, Mitch (but less so Blanche, who comes across as a bit Bovarian, and thus a bit “artificial”, overwrought, maybe). 

Overall, then, what essentially defines  - and also sets this play apart from all the others that we have discussed - is its rawness, its realism, its recognizable everydayness - expressed both through the language (first and foremost), and also as embodied by the characters (secondly).

This “raw realism”, however, coexists with certain “expressionistic” touches, as well, and with a slightly “dreamy” atmosphere; yes, and these things coexist well, and do not deny or cancel out each other. I am referring here, for example, to Williams’ stage directions – his play with lights and shades, and with the shapes of the apartment, its walls and its doors – which is meant to both set the atmosphere, and to reflect the given state (mood) of the characters. I would also include here the aforementioned, ongoing soundtrack of the NOLA streets – the ever-playing background of jazz music, which sets the entire thing within a “New Orleans atmosphere” (both raw and instinct-driven, and also with a specific, quite appealing charm - just like some of the characters in the play).

And, just like in Ionesco's case, I felt some unevenness in this play, as well (although in fewer instance than in Ionesco's) – by which I mean aspects of the play that strayed, or took away, from its dominant tone (nature). First of all, I found the very title to be somewhat infantile, like adolescent poetry; yes, there might be a street named “Desire”, in NOLA, and thus a tram that leads there, which can thus be referred to by the same name; but this is such a cheap metaphor for what takes place in the play... although, we must admit, such tricks do work; and I am pretty sure that this play would not be as widely known (its title, at least), if it would carry a different title (just like with the novel, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, of which the title is the most memorable part).

I did not find the conclusion of the play all that convincing, either - namely the way in which Stella decides to put up with, and to live with, Stanley’s egregious transgression (by ignoring it). To be clear, it is not the depiction of the act of lying to ourselves that I object to – oh, no, that is a well known reality of life  (that we all do, at times, in order not to disturb or shatter our lives); I am referring specifically to the way in which this decision is so hurriedly argued for, settled, and then left behind; too momentous a decision for me, to be bypassed just so quickly, and so abruptly - and too big for Stella to do it so "easily". (And, no I am not referring to the decision regarding Blanche - but to her decision regarding Stan.) 

Finally, some of the emotional reactions of the characters seemed to me a tad overdone, a bit overly dramatic; but that might have to do with stylistic choices pertaining to the acting styles of the time (think of the James Dean, or of the women actors of the thirties) - or maybe with Williams’ peculiar artistic sensitivity.

Having made these observations, I should however say that these aspects, albeit duly noted, do not detract from the overall impact and poignancy of the play  - which, as said, quickly grabs and powerfully engages us, exactly because of (and through) the way in which it depicts raw, everyday, natural life - through its directness and authenticity. And all this is achieved mainly through the medium of the language that Tennessee Williams’ constructs and uses; and, make no mistake, this is a testament to Williams’ artistry, because creating “realistic dialogue” and using “natural language” requires tremendous effort and implies exquisite artistic skill. Through all this, A Streetcar Named Desire is, indeed, existence – “street, raw, everyday, natural” – on the stage.

Six Characters in Search of an Author, by Luigi Pirandello

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At first glance, Luigi Pirandello’s play, Six Charactersin Search of an Author (Sei personaggi in cerca d'autore), could not be more different from Tennessee Williams’, and from that “immediate description of everyday, street reality”, Indeed, Pirandello’s piece is about six “characters” who, abandoned by their original author (!), take over the rehearsal session of a theater troupe, looking for someone to stage their story. At first glance, then, as said, this could not be more different for Williams’ play – and, in terms of artistic approach, of style, it is – being something resembling meta-theater, or (some would say) even absurdist theater. At the same time, however, Pirandello’s work could not be more focused on what is the central issue of our entire investigation - namely, the relationship between theater and life, between art and existence. Because this is, in fact, what is at the center of Pirandello’s play: the relationship between existence and text, between one’s being and one’s story. And, as one of the “characters in search of an author”, “the Father”, concludes at the end of the play: all this is about real existence - about reality!

Even before starting to read his play, we might be helped (by being introduced to its central conceit) by Pirandello’s critical and authorial “preface” (which is also a kind of “personal  confession”), preface that is meant to set the stage for said “characters in search of an author”, talking about how they (and how characters in general) emerged etc. Yes, we can be helped by such a preface – and I very much enjoyed reading it; but I do not think that we absolutely need it in order to be drawn into the play - because, immediately after it starts, we are indeed “pulled in” by, on the one hand, the dramatic story of these “characters” - and, on the other, by the essential, existential questions that this entire “search for an author” raises about life, art and the artist. (Note that I will put the word “characters” in inverted commas, when referring specifically to those “characters searching for an author".)

And some of these questions about art and existence, raised explicitly or implicitly in and by the play, concern things (problems) with which we are all very familiar. For example, the fact that there is always (and that there always remains) a distance between existence (namely, the story, or the existences, that live in the head of the author) - and the text produced by the author (which tries to express on paper those existences) – and, then, the reception of the text by the audience (i.e. how that text is at the end transformed, again, into a new existence, in the mind or soul of the reader, so that at the end we have a result that is never the same as the original existences, that existed in the head of the author, and which started the whole cycle). But wait, there's more!

Namely, that (as is known by most authors) in the process of creation, once a character is born (comes alive) in the mind of the author, it very soon gains a certain independence, a life of its own - so much so that the author becomes (almost) a “scribe” who, guided by this “existing” character, simply jots down its adventures, its experiences, its life – which will then be the story of this now independent being. Well, this is exactly what happened in this case - explains Luigi Pirandello; that  characters were born in his mind, only now the author (Pirandello himself) refused to “give them a voice”, to “give them their story”, to “write down their existences”; so that now, thus orphaned, they need to roam the world (of theater, I presume) and to look for a possibility for their beings to be expressed, for their story to be told, and thus for their existence - to come to be.

This is then what happens in this play – and by thus cutting out (and off) the “characters” from the “normal” creation process, Pirandello sets the stage for us to be able to study and then to ask several essential questions about the relationship between existence and art, and between author, the work, and the public (including the role of the intermediaries, of the actors). And  - you see! - these are the very questions that are at the center of our investigation into theatrum mundi - into theater as the representation of existence!

But I mentioned that another, immediately gripping, aspect of the play is the very real and dramatic (and very personal) story in which the “characters” are involved - which is their story. In this sense, I should note that I found it very appealing that the drama that actually shapes and defines their beings is a shared, collective, family drama; that their being is thus inseparable from, and not understandable outside, this family drama (a fact most powerfully expressed by the failed attempts of “the Son”, who never wanted to be here, on the stage - to escape the play; and yet he can not, because his being is is indivisibly entangled in, and defined by, this family story; that he does not have being outside of this story). (In this sense, I noted for myself that this play would make for some excellent didactic material for training in systemic family psychotherapy – which is the field of psychotherapy that examines how a person’s self is inescapably shaped by the story of the system – the family – of which he or she is a part.)

For how can one have being, outside of one’s story? How could one’s self be separated from one’s existence? Existence being inevitably temporal, in the sense of taking place in time, each self has (intrinsically, as part of its very self) a trajectory (history); because one’s self grows only and through this history. (Of course, one should also add here – with many others – that there is also a dimension of the self that is transcendent of temporality, of historicity; yes, but please mark the “also” – namely, that the temporal dimension of the self is an inescapable, constitutive dimension of its existence - just like the transcendent one.) But this connection between self and the self’s story (its existence) also helps us explain how and why once a character receives “being” in an author’s mind, that character immediately starts “acting out” ("wants to act out") its “being” -  that is, the existence that is peculiar and characteristic to that self; and thus, as said, the author becomes a kind of a scribe, “only” assisting at, and noting down, what these newborn, alive characters "do".

But let us not forget that in this case the author refused to “write down the story of their being”, to “put in a text their existence” - thus orphaning these “characters”; oh, what a cruel, cruel fate, for these “selves”! So now they are out there, looking for an “author”, for someone to do just that - to allow for their story to be written or acted out, and thus for their existence to come to be. (The play therefore could have been called “six existences desperately looking for a chance at expression”; but Pirandello’s title might be better.)

And so these “characters” (the Father, the Mother, the Step-Daughter, the Son, the Boy, and the Child) materialize somehow at the beginning of a rehearsal session of a company of actors that is led by a slightly arrogant and hasty, a bit obtuse, but also artistically curious, director (il capocomico). And, after some persuading and explanation, the “characters” and the “director” set out to “write down the story” of their existences, which is done by the “characters” telling or acting out their very story (and, as they desperately try to explain, what they are acting out is not an "illustration" of their existence, but it is, right there and then, their actual - and only - existence!). Meanwhile, the actors of the troupe are watching and observing (preparing to act out this “play that is just being written”, engaging in hilarious attempts at interpreting or overacting what they see); at the same time, the prompter (who, as we know, is in charge of the script) is taking furious notes - composing, in fact, the script (the story), based on what he sees (the characters acting out the story). And all this, all this conundrum and hullabaloo, represents an excellent “stage” for illustrating and discussing the difficulties inherent in transferring existence into text - of the artistic process, from creation, to consumption - and even pointing out to the essential incommunicability of the self (the impossibility of complete and perfect communication).

And the play ends, as mentioned, with the Father exclaiming that all this is by no means pretense or make-belief - as the director keeps believing and stating; that this is reality, real existence - it is their existence! Indeed, and it is strange, isn’t it, how at the end of the play the “characters” – who, of course, are not supposed to be “real people” – seem to us spectators more “real”, more “flesh-and-blood”, believable beings, than the director and the actors and the technical staff of the acting troupe (who are supposed to be the “real people” in this play). Why is it so? Well, perhaps because by the end of the play the “characters’” story is the one that has been presented and fleshed out the most - and that is what gives their being reality; because, as we get to know and understand their drama, their own story, and how each of them acted or behaved throughout their story, we actually begin to understand and to know them as specific human beings. Yes, because, as discussed, the self is inseparable from its story (from its existence, which is inherently temporal). And thus we discover, with surprise perhaps, that the “beings” of the “real people” in the play - the director and the actors and the prompter and the technicians - appear in comparison “paler”, weaker, more superficial; in other words, that the “characters” are, by the end of the play, more “real”, than the presumably “real director and real actors”, whose beings seem like fleeting, surface-only existences. And the reason for this is exactly what we mentioned: that in the case of the director and of the actors we do not actually know their “stories”, but the only thing that we know about them are the superficial social interactions in which they engage during the rehearsal, including their outbursts of ego, the apparent power dynamics etc. – that is, the masks (!) that we put up at our workplace, or in social contexts. In other words, the drama told and manifested by the “characters” seems a more - "really and truly" - human story, an honest and poignant one – than the superficial interactions that, in this play, represent the “story” of the members of the theater troupe. It is understandable, then, why the selves of the “characters” appear to us more “real”, more poignant, more true... than those of the presumably “real people” from the play.

However, is not this superficiality of the social selves of the actors and of the director, a very accurate description, in fact, of how we ourselves actually live and behave? Are we not (at least some, if not most of the time), as it were, skating only on the surface of temporality, without actually taking hold of our selves, without truly getting assuming our own real existences? And even if we would want to actually “get hold” of our own self and of our existence, aren’t such efforts inevitably limited by the partiality of our capacities, by the ultimate obscurity of our own self, by the ultimate ungraspability of our existence - in other words, by the fact that the only one who truly and fully knows us, our self and our existence, is God?

If this is true, then, are not the “superficial” (and annoyingly so!) existences of the director and of the actors more reflective of our lived experience - than the “characters” who, although possessing a clear and well-defined being and story, are, exactly because of that, fictional (that is, clarified, simplified, already comprehended expressions of reality)? I suppose that the truth is somewhere in the middle - and we can not stop being annoyed at the waste of existence that the director and the actors are engaged in.

Anyway, these – and other such – questions arise, inevitably, from Pirandello’s engaging play, which involves us emotionally, intellectually, and existentially as well, by dealing with real questions about the self and existence - and also about art, the artistic process, and life; and doing this not through some dry pedagogical nonsense, but through the “real” and passion-filled drama of “real” and full-blooded (they are Italian, after all!) characters.

***

And thus we reach the end of this survey of five plays, from five different authors, from five different periods or cultural milieus – representing, it turns out, five distinct artistic approaches, as well. And yet, notwithstanding this variety, we discover – surprisingly? unsurprisingly? – that they all, all these plays, deal with, represent, and express, what we have been looking for: existence – and (implicitly or explicitly) the relationship between art and existence. Thus they seem most fitting illustrations of that fragment of ars poetica mentioned at the beginning – namely, that the mission of art is to express existence, because art is that field of human expression (and of human knowledge) that is uniquely and specifically able to express existence - lived existence, in its complexity and even ineffability.

The Correspondence Between Paul Claudel and André Gide

(1899-1926)

I went to this book driven by my attraction toward, and interest in, the French intellectual life of the end of the 19^th, and first half of the 20^th century. Yes, this is an intellectual milieu (era and location) that I find very appealing  - thus what I was looking for in this book was to encounter a slice (a living, pulsating slice) of this life, and thus to engage in a vicarious partaking in “the life of the artist”. And I did find this, or a good measure of it; however, what this Claudel-Gide correspondence is (ultimately) about is something else – namely, a spiritual struggle, whose protagonists are the Catholic convert (and artist) Paul Claudel, and the struggling and prideful (intellectual) André Gide; and this is a struggle about Gide’s soul.

I used the word “prideful”, about Gide, and yet by that I do not mean “pridefulness” in his relationship with Claudel; if anything, Gide seemed to generally humble himself, in his relationship with Claudel - humility rooted in his genuine admiration for Claudel the artist, but also in the fact that Claudel played a role of spiritual reference point for Gide (in his searching, in his struggles). “Prideful,” however, does refer to a core part of Gide’s personality – of his spiritual, moral and intellectual being - and this side of Gide will eventually play its part in the undoing of their friendship - of their relationship.

Because their relationship was one of friendship – which might seem surprising, at first, based on the retrospective image that we have of the two; as said, one being the epitomic Catholic convert (prominent socially, artistically, even politically, in early twentieth century France), the other (retrospectively) a flag-bearer of unbelief, and (even) of an inimical relationship to the faith - or at least to the Church.

Inimical, yes, but not to every kind of faith - as Gide will later (famously) become a fellow traveler of the totalitarian Soviet regime...; yes, that ersatz religion of ideology, to which so many subscribed, in the West, under the pale cover of good, progressive, even humanistic intentions.

So I did not find exactly what I went looking for, in this volume of correspondence, but what I did find, and what I did learn, from reading it, did in fact clarify some aspects of what I went looking for (and I will explain what I mean by this in a moment). Yes, there is a lot, in this correspondence, about the daily work in the artist’s workshop; minutia about typesetting, editing, about struggling with publishing houses; about launching (and about failing) publications; about contributing to this or to that magazine; and so on. Yes, I did enjoy this part, just as I enjoyed the behind the scenes information about Claudel’s efforts to balance his diplomatic career (endeavored mostly in far-off China, but also in Poland) with his artistic work (which was more important, of course; but one does need to earn, as well, to support one’s family). There were also interesting bits about their relationship to Pascal, and (partially) Jansenism; it seems to me that Pascal has faded, to a large degree, from our interests, which is why it is striking to discover how important he (and Port-Royal, the center of Jansenism) was for these two protagonists. Some of this minutia also has the inevitable drabness of the daily grind of the working artist (yet not in an unpleasant, but rather in an instructive way, I find); and sometimes the discussion of other artists veers close, perhaps, to gossip, or at least to “politicking” (which does not interest me, but which is informative as a sort of anthropology of the artistic milieu).

And their discussions about other cultural figures of the day, with whom they had personal and intellectual entanglements, were also most welcome, because for me one of the great gains of reading, say, intellectual autobiographies, monographies about a specific era, or collections of correspondence such as this one, is the opportunity to discover new figures, artists and thinkers, with whom I am less, or not at all, familiar. Since often these (new) figures are (intellectually or personally) close and akin to the author whose memoirs I have chosen to read, there is a good chance that they might appeal to me, as well; in any case, this is a good way for them to enter my own intellectual purview (to be looked at, and to be engaged, later); to obtain further “road markers” for one’s own intellectual journey. And the same thing happened here – names I jotted down, people and works that I need to look into.

*

Paul Claudel

But I mentioned that, although I did not find exactly what I started after, I did however find aspects that helped me in that regard, as well. What do I mean by this? Well, the very fact that the “on art and artists” dimension of this correspondence is soon enough taken over, even overwhelmed, by a different theme, namely of the spiritual struggle, reveals certain useful things about the relationship of art to spirituality, for Claudel. What do I mean by this?

Well, not long after reading this volume, I picked up and read Second Thoughts, which is a book of essays (on art and life) by François Mauriac. And what a soothing and liberating encounter that was – in comparison! – for me... And what I mean by this is that I found Mauriac’s approach to the relationship between life and art – and, inevitably, and centrally, faith – much more akin, or suitable, to me, than Claudel’s. Paul Claudel, of whom I am, and have always been, quite fond; but whom I have always found just a bit “heavy,” a tad cumbersome, maybe... in ways that are not easy to explain. And I am not necessarily referring here to his art – although it is reflected in that, as well; but more, I don’t know, in terms of his personality (maybe spirituality). I am talking here about a certain “angularity,” rigidity even; about an embodiment - of an otherwise honest, genuine, deeply devout soul - that I find a tad bit heavier, more burdensome, than I would prefer. To put it differently, it seems to me that Claudel’s artistic “flight” is much more burdened by... well, by other considerations; while, in comparison, Mauriac appears to see and approach everything through art, which in turn endows it (his art) with a kind of inner freedom (which I much prefer). There is, then, a certain "weightiness" to Claudel - which (for lack of a better way of expressing it) is related to how his (genuine, clear) soul manifests itself outwardly - toward others, and in art.  

Let me try to explain this a bit further. Well, it seems to me (but I might be wrong) that Mauriac lives faith through and by being an artist, through art, with an artist’s soul; on the other hand, in Claudel’s case, while his exquisite artistry is very much rooted in and expressive of his faith, the two seem to follow different paths, and to ultimately part ways, overall. To put it differently – art can be seen as the very way of living faith (Mauriac) - or, instead, as a craft, that is put in the service of, that expresses, yet also remains somewhat externally related to, faith (Claudel). Or so it seems to me. But let us not push these distinctions too far, because I also do not think that one can draw too thick of a line of separation, as the artist’s engagement with his artistry fluctuates and takes different shapes, at different times. But there is a difference between the two, I dare say, in this regard; and I do find Mauriac’s way more akin, and more attractive, to me.

But let me also add here, before anyone gets the wrong idea, that I was always, and remain, quite fond of Claudel; and that he is one of the greatest playwrights of the last century, and also one of its major poets. So what I am discussing here is not about the quality of his artistry, but about a specific existential approach, a specific take on the condition of the artist, and on the relationship between art and faith.

*

However, this essay is not intended to be a comparison between Claudel and Mauriac – nor would it be able to endeavor such a thing, based solely on these two books. So, going back to our Claudel-Gide subject, let us pick up the thread of the conversation by continuing our discussion of (what I called) Claudel’s “angularity,” that "heaviness". Well, what do we learn from this book - did Gide also notice this (or does it only exist in my own reading, in my fantasy)? He did, and in this sense I recall a fragment from a Gide journal (which is included in the book) in which he describes (and this is toward the end of their friendship) the aesthetic and psychological impact that Claudel’s physical presence made on him, in one occasion - referring to (and I paraphrase) Claudel’s stoutness, rockiness, to his straight-lined solidity (as he was sitting there, in his armchair). And these remarks are not, in fact, about Claudel’s physicality, are they? No, they seem to be expressions of the way in which the overly-sensitive Gide perceived, then, Claudel’s being.

And my concern is, of course, not with physical angularity, heaviness - but with interior angularity or rigidity. An example of this "rigidity" in action might be the somewhat abrupt way in which Claudel (eventually) handled Gide’s spiritual (and especially moral) struggles. Yes, Claudel was right, in his positions – but his imperative tone, his norms-based suggestions, instructions even, struck me as counterproductive – especially given Gide’s over-sensitive nature. But Claudel did have, I think, a harsh(er), perhaps more volcanic (although I think also a bit melancholic) temperament; and temperament is not something that we can choose, no more than we can skip over our own shadow. (In addition, we always live in a state of “inherent ignorance”, represented by the limits of our understanding or wisdom at the given moment; limits which, by their very nature, are invisible to us, at that moment; and which we sometimes discover later, retrospectively, realizing “how stupid I was!”, or, “how blind we were!”) Thus I am not emitting a judgment on Claudel – of whom I've always been quite fond. To the contrary, it is because I admire Claudel, that I am interested in understanding him better (as an artist, as a man of faith, and as a human being).

So, that Gidean spiritual struggle – what was it about? Why was there a “struggle”? And why was that a theme, a central theme, of their correspondence? Well - God, the faith, and religion being at the center of Claudel’s life (and how could they not be, as what else is there, in ultimate terms?), they naturally became central topics of conversation with Gide, as well. And not because Claudel "pushed" them. No, Gide himself (like many other figures of that time and of that place) was deeply preoccupied with the ideas of faith, God, the Church; he was, as it were, searching, or seeking, struggling - with all this. Furthermore, as mentioned before, Claudel represented for Gide both an admired (genius) artist, and also a spiritual partner of conversation, point of reference, even tentative guide (recall here again Claudel’s very prominent position, in France, at that time, as the emblematic Catholic artist).

So what was Gide's struggle about? Well, I would classify these inner conflicts into two categories: on the one hand, there seemed to be the specifically modern conflict between a “Cartesian” approach to reality (in which something is, only inasmuch as I can demonstrate its being; I think, therefore I am - instead of I am, which then allows me to think) - and (the nature and condition of) faith. And, if this was Gide's spiritual-intellectual struggle, there was also another one, of a moral nature, which was related to Gide’s sensuality (which included his homosexuality, and, some say, his ephebo-, even pedo-philia) – all in all, what I would more broadly call his sensuality, or the role and burden of the sensuous within one's self. So, on the one hand, the intellectual-spiritual conflict involving modern rationality and faith; and, on the other, the moral struggle with one’s overbearing sensual drives.

Sadly, both of these will bring their contributions to the radical break which will intervene after decades of intellectual and personal friendship between the two; as on both accounts Gide will take (as said) a proud and stubborn path of radical defiance - and even, at times, of enmity - toward faith (or at least the Church) and (from Claudel’s and from our perspective) toward the truth. And I do not know (nor do I recall if this is ever made clear) which came first: Gide’s turn (away), or Claudel break with him. Overall, I think that these happened more or less at the same time, in parallel - one action responding to and reinforcing the other. One key moment that I do seem to recall is Gide asking to use a Claudel quote as a motto or epigraph for one of his books, which Claudel agreed to, only to be horrified to discover the use (or, rather, misuse) to which that quote was put - the book reflecting the very opposite of what that quote (and Claudel) intended, and stood for. But, all in all, it seems that Gide was already going (down) on a certain route, notwithstanding his conversations with Claudel.

And I mentioned heaviness, and rigidity – and here’s again why; because I do think that, notwithstanding Gide’s doings, even the more egregious ones, Claudel could have remained at least at an arm’s length, or somewhere, removed, but still within Gide’s line of sight - as a possible (because, who knows what can happen?) life line, a secours in a time of desperate need. But take this with a grain of salt - as I am equally quick to note here that some of the things that Gide did (read: wrote) became so egregious (for Claudel), that they became simply unacceptable, and unassumable (for Claudel). And I understand that – just as I understand that expecting from Claudel to be someone else, of a different temperament, personality, personal history - would be nonsensical, an impossibility.

And perhaps their paths were destined to break off from each other, to split... After all, weren’t they just too different? Weren’t they not set on completely different paths? And Gide, after all, made his own decisions - notwithstanding everything, notwithstanding their conversations.

*

But let’s get back to the aforementioned two aspects of the struggle. Regarding the first aspect, Gide seems to have been stuck, indeed, in that Cartesian position that leads to an inability to even understand what faith might be, i.e. to understand faith as a “different” kind of knowing. And, indeed, it is very, very difficult, to even come to grasp the distinctiveness of faith, if one’s criterion of truth, i.e. of accepting what there is, is one’s own powers and ability to demonstrate it. (And isn’t this a very familiar position? – so familiar, that it seems to be the only possible position, the only possible approach to the idea of knowledge, today?)

The Cartesian position – by which I mean, rooted not necessarily in what Descartes thought (who was a believer), but in the ulterior implications of his “cogito ergo sum”.

But, but... am I really the measure of what there is – or, as classical philosophy has affirmed, am I only a guest in a cosmos that is not of my doing and making, an invitee, whose purpose and mission is to acquire, recognize, and pursue the truth that is out there? Am I the truth, and thus its measure - or is reality, what there is, out there, the (measure of) truth? And yes, today many, millions of people encounter these same questions, and find themselves stuck in this struggle, simply by virtue of the fact that in our intellectual and cultural context (which was shaped, to a good degree, by the Enlightenment – by its deep errors as much as by its relative gains) we just do not know of any other means of pursuing the truth... And yet, if this limited I is the criterion of truth – instead of being the pursuer thereof... If we measure a grander reality with a limited instrument, will not the result be a limited (image of) reality? The measure used does determine the results obtained.

But what is the solution? I mentioned the word "pride" – and the word has its due place here. The limiting and centering of our pursuit of the truth in the I carries with it an inherent pridefulness (even if the pursuer does not intend it that way) and stubbornness. What is then the alternative? The alternative is a position of inherent humility - of the pursuit of truth that starts from wonder, from an acknowledgment of one’s inherent ignorance; from knowing that one is not the truth, nor its measure; that Truth is out there, and one is only its pursuer; and thus from the desire to shape oneself according to this Truth - and not vice versa. And this humility also understands – it is forced to – that natural reason has its inherent limits; that just because our intellective powers are finite, it does not mean that the truth is equally finite; thus opening us to other ways of knowing – namely faith, which is not in contradiction, but in continuation of, and in complementarity with, natural reason; rational faith, and faithful reason. (But to have access to this kind of knowledge one needs the humility to at least be open to the fact that, after a certain point, our understanding fails; and to be open to the gift of understanding that one receives, beyond and above the limits of one's own intellective powers; to grace, therefore.)¹

*

The other dimension or kind of struggle, as said, related to Gide’s sexuality; or, more broadly understood, to the tremendous pull and weight and burden of the sensuous within the person. And, in Gide’s case (as evidenced by his life, up to its end), this was not something that he was able or willing to part with, or to fight against – to not allow for it to become the determinant force in his life. (A heavy burden, indeed - and is this struggle any easier today, in this age of mass addiction to, and boundless consumption of, pornography? Another issue, then, from this correspondence – and from his struggles – that is very much of current relevance.)  And in this aspect Gide was equally indecisive, and coy - perpetually oscillating, perpetually pulled in various directions – yet gradually and consistently pursuing, in fact, a chosen path - the path away from Claudel and from what Claudel stood for. (Oh, yes, not all major decisions are taken in one clear moment, through one definite act; many, perhaps most choices, are gradual, incremental - often being a sliding down that is not noticeable in the moment, but whose accumulated effects will become clear in time...)

*

This, then, is the story that emerges from this volume: of two writers of whom we usually think as representing radically different positions on the spiritual-literary spectrum, but who, for many years, were in close intellectual and personal contact, even friendship. And, yes, I did not find exactly what I went looking for, in this book – not entirely. I did learn, however, things about Claudel (some of which I had perceived before, to a degree); things that, together with what I learned later from Mauriac, further clarified certain important aspects about art, faith, and the condition of the artist.

Finally, this volume of correspondence also illuminated some of the dramas which remain also core dramas of our age, of our own existence: one, the difficulty that we face in even beginning to approach faith, let alone comprehend it as a distinct way of knowledge, because of our embeddedness in a Cartesian understanding of the very nature of knowing; and, two, the heavy burden of the sensuous, which is very much a contemporary challenge, as well, and which is related to said Cartesian limitations on our understanding (after all, isn’t “follow your desires” one of the dominant ways of defining living truthfully and meaningfully, today? following your desires, appetites, isn't this proposed today as a "recipe for happiness"? while Plato characterized the same appetites as the unruly, wild horses which, uncontrolled, will devastate the soul?)²

A very instructive reading, then – both for reasons of personal ruminations on art, faith, and the artist – and for additional illuminations on some of our peculiarly modern dilemmas.

***

FOOTNOTES

1. And, to continue this discussion – there is also an opposite type of error, which comes however from the same separation of reason and faith; in this, one "take the side" of a faith that is understood in opposition to reason - a-rational, even ir-rational. And this position has of course its roots (to a good degree) in Luther - and in his distrust, even dismissal, of reason. This approach to faith as the irrational goes counter, however, to the millennium and a half old Tradition that preceded Luther (Tradition that continued after him, as well); a Tradition in which reason and faith are seen as two different (and complementary) forms of human understanding, i.e. of the human pursuit of the same Truth. 

And, lo and behold, Gide was indeed raised as a Huguenot, as a Calvinist (i.e. at this other end of the spectrum) - which might have contributed to his struggle with integrating faith and reason, in the sense of swinging from one end (dismissal of reason, following irrational faith) to the other (dismissal of faith, as irrational, and only trusting what empirical reason can certify). Indeed, the position of equilibrium, the balanced integration of faith and reason, as the "two wings on which the human spirit rises to the contemplation of truth", while harmonious, may be the hardest to hold, especially if one does not have a tradition or an authority to reinforce this position.).

2. See Plato’s discussion of the soul which, like a chariot, is aimless and gets ravaged, when pulled hither and thither, back and forth, right and left, by the uncontrolled, unruly, wild horses of the desires, of our appetites. To the contrary, in the ordered, harmonious soul of the wise person, the higher understanding (nous) takes charge and orders these unruly forces of the appetites (knowing their power and dangerousness), directing them according to what it (the higher understanding) knows to be the Truth.

So why or how is this relevant to us? Do we not live in an age in which “science” (which is supposed to be the pinnacle and also the sole path of knowledge) is meant to be the measure and ruler of everything? To be the most powerful force, governing (in a sense) society? But, then, how come that we are still, society-wide, ravaged by these unruly desires and appetites; how come that, simultaneously with the apparent worship of science, we are also told that the goal of life is to “follow your desires”, that “fulfilling one’s appetites” is so essential that it becomes a "basic right" of the human being? And, implicitly, that chasing one’s appetites is the path to happiness, to truth? So, how can we reconcile these two, apparently opposite things – praising a form of rationality (science), but ultimately being driven by one’s appetites?

Our classical friends can come to our aid here, as well. Yes, we do seem to (at least apparently, or formally) worship (or at least pretend to respect) reason; yes, but this is not the type of reason (or understanding) that, in Plato, leads to the knowledge of the Truth; instead, it is a lower kind of rationality, that Aristotle refers to as techne: instrumental, technical knowledge, which helps us to explain and to manipulate how things work – but which is not able to tell us anything about the why, about meaning and purpose. 

Techne, in other words, does not and can not talk about the Truth; and yet, only the kind of knowledge that can talk about it, that can attain to the Truth (or the Good) can give the human being – the self – a direction. Still, even bringing up the need for this kind of knowledge, the need for asking these questions, about Truth, about the Good, is no longer socially acceptable, kosher, "in polite society", today. So we renounce asking these questions (the most important questions) - and pursuing the (only) answers (that can give direction to our lives). And, then, what remains? 

Well, our selves (just like a chariot) never remain driverless. Just because we fail to, or give up on, putting a driver on the chariot  (a driver that can take us home), it does not mean that the chariot will not be driven (pulled). But, driverless, it will be be pulled - hither and thither - by the unleashed, unruly, wild and self-seeking horses  - namely, our powerful appetites, the desires - pulling the entire chariot (our self) to its destruction.