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

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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.

Three Scripts by Ingmar Bergman

Through a Glass Darkly; Winter Light; The Silence

The book was translated into English by
Bergman's brother in law, Paul Britten Austin. 

While reading these scripts, one is involuntarily - and voluntarily – thinking about, and making comparisons with, the movies themselves. I saw Through a Glass Darkly a few years ago, thus before reading the script; Winter Light I saw many, many years ago, so I re-watched it after reading the script; and The Silence I have never seen before, so I watched it only after reading the script. I chose to read these scripts (this book) for several reasons: out of curiosity; because I like Bergman (and was in the mood for it); because I find reading scripts interesting and useful; and because I have read a Bergman novel (!) years ago, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. So, a combination of these – this much for the reasons. But I kind of forgot all these initial impulses, once I started reading the book itself.

As said, I have read a Bergman novel many years ago, and I remember liking his writing style very much, and finding it very cinematic, and also curt, summary, brisk (bringing to mind Hemingway or F. Scott Fitzgerald – that interwar style of modern American literature – a style that I am very fond of). Browsing through the book (while deciding whether to pick it up and read it) I noticed that these scripts are formatted not quite like the usual scripts, but in a more easy-to-read, almost novel-like format (or like a play, but more fluid than that). Not like the usual movie scripts – as regular scripts follow very hard, formal rules, which makes them a bit awkward to read (as texts). For example, in these Bergman scripts one can find fairly lengthy descriptions of what characters are thinking or feeling, or of actions, which one would not find in a usual film script. So, I guess the genre employed in this book is something in-between a novel and a script (or viceversa) - and all that makes for an even more pleasurable reading experience. By the way, the script for The Silence has the most and the longest of such descriptions (or indications) – and rightly so, because a significant part of that movie’s “message” is conveyed through the presence of silence (and of related states) - expressed through sounds, through images, and through actions. Since dialogue can not “depict” those states and perceptions, one needs to add lengthier descriptions.

This is also why I found the script itself (for The Silence) the least satisfactory and engaging (as a text) - because it works much better as a movie, with images and sounds. Conversely, Through a Glass Darkly worked better for me as a text, not because the movie would be poor in any way, but because reading the script clarified certain things and in fact made the film more intelligible. And, since I am in the process of classifying (or so it seems), I should add that the script for, and the actual movie, Winter Light, were equally satisfactory - that "it" works equally well, in both mediums.

But what does it mean, that "it" - "works well?” Well, I find that a “characteristic” of Bergman’s movies is that they tend to start slow and somewhat underwhelming – and then, as soon as you are into them, that they grip you powerfully; and I found that this characteristic, which I have discovered while watching his movies, is also present and “palpable” and “working” in the texts, as well. Take Through a Glass Darkly, for example; it starts with a fairly inconspicuous scene of four people (two men, a woman, and a teenager) coming out of the sea, somewhere along the gray coasts of Sweden. (The color palette does not help in these three Bergman movies, as they are all variations of an overcast or closed - or wintry – sky, and of a fairly desolate land; or so one perceives them – remember, the movies are black and white; and Through a Glass Darkly actually takes place in the summer!). So, they might start a bit un-engaging - because what would one have in common with a mid-twentieth century middle-class Swedish family, spending time in these fairly desolate seaside environs? But, very soon, you enter into the meat and guts of the dissection of the human soul – and you are gripped; because Bergman’s movies are about that, about relationships and about our tempestuous and passion-filled inner lives.

And this is the thing at which Bergman is indeed best, masterful even – depicting relationships and inner happenings – the truth of existence in that sense – something one can not help but find gripping, and be gripped by. I have never encountered - not yet – any other director who does this as well as Bergman does (although I also have movies within his oeuvre that I do not like - like Fanny and Alexander, or like Saraband; the latter being especially disappointing, since it is supposed to be a sort of a sequel to Scenes from a Marriage, which is a perfect exemplar of Bergman at his best, and which might well be my favorite Bergman film). So it was surprising to see how this characteristics of Bergman’s films – and this foremost Bergmanian skill – of dissecting and presenting human relationships, and the inner happenings of the human soul, are also present and “working” in the scripts, as texts – just as much as on the screen, in the images-cum-audio medium.

But why is this? Why is the same thing effective both in the movie (the image-and-sound medium) and in the text (a different medium) - in Bergman's films? To understand why we should even ask this question, let’s take another example – say, Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev; now, I have not read the script for that movie, nor am I interested in reading it – or, rather, I would be interested, but only on a technical level, of how does one write a script for such a movie (that is, if he actually did use a traditional script). In other words, how could a text, a script, “describe” the poetic sweep of what is presented in Tarkovsky’s movies only through images, movement, camera, sound? The specificity of the medium of cinema is that its main tool of expression is the moving images – to which one ads sound, color etc.; that is what sets it apart, that is what gives it its specificity, that is its language (with its specific powers and limitations).

So what is the specific position (or status) of the word, and of dialogue, in a movie? It is but one component of it - sometimes necessary, but not always; a film is a film because of the moving pictures (with sound); and there have been some exquisite movies that have only used that, the moving images with sound (for example, Into Great Silence). Yes, words are necessary in a specific kind of movies - well, in most types, nowadays; but not in all. So what is then the status of “the word” in Bergman’s movies? Well, if Tarkovsky’s principal mean of expression is the poetic image (images, movement, faces and actions, sounds), in Bergman dialogue (expressing relationships and inner states) is essential (even if as a monologue). And this is not because Bergman would be wordy, or because his films would be “filmed theater plays” (although he also wrote plays), but because his films’ essence is the dissection and unveiling of the deeper realms of the human interiors (heart, soul, mind) - and of the human relationships. And while this can be done – and is done, The Silence comes to mind – through wordless acting, through faces - words, especially by expressing and revealing relationships, are central to what these movies are and do. But, of course, this does not mean, ever, verbosity or cheap loquaciousness; his style is restrained, like his characters (very often) are. (Bergman is no Woody Allen.) But because of the role that dialogue and words play in his movies, both the scripts and the movies work similarly, and in parallel, and we perceive things around similar points in the narrative - both while watching the movie, and while reading the texts (the exception, as said, is The Silence, which works much better as “moving images with sound,” than as text - because we need to perceive “the silence,” whether it is manifested as a street’s cacophonous noise, or as the alien and slightly threatening presence of an unknown building; but all these, we need to see and to hear, and a script can not do justice to these forms of perception).

I mentioned that I really like Bergman’s writing, qua writing (his style). Although these are scripts (or a variety of that genre), the same briskness that I saw used in his novels – get to the point! do not explain too extensively! let actions speak for themselves! let the reader fill out the rest (emotions and images) within himself! – is also a trait of these scripts. But I am repeating myself.

What I did not like, or what I liked less, in these scripts (and movies) were those moments or dialogues (not many, though) which came across as slightly artificial – words that were probably meant to underline something that Bergman wanted us to know, and that were forced in incongruously with the previously built characters and actions. I am referring to moments or words that did not seem to be rooted in, and to follow naturally from, where the given persons were and what they were, and what had gone on before. I include here the concluding words spoken by the boy in Through a Glass Darkly, or the lengthy self-exhibiting diatribe directed by Tomas, the pastor, to Jonas, the farmer, in Winter Light. The latter, for example, would be uncharacteristic for the reserved Pastor Tomas, especially versus a fairly anonymous (in terms of the existing relationship between the two) parishioner. And, in Through a Glass Darkly, those concluding words from Minus... - who talks like that? I guess that my concern is with the groundedness of these episodes in the actual reality of the people, contexts, and actions, as we have come to know them from the film itself - and from our own general understanding of human behavior and of everyday existence (and this groundedness is what I refer to as “realism”).

My answer to this problem is that I think that we should trust the reader (spectator), and his understanding – we do not have to tell him what to understand, but the skill is to shape the action and the characters so that what is to be understood will emerge and will be felt “naturally,” through (and along) the unraveling of the events.

Another technical detail – and related half-question that I would have – regards the fact that the movies themselves (as filmed) follow these scripts very closely (except for very few, very minor deviations); so, I am wondering whether these scripts were (re)written, for publication, after making the movies - or whether Bergman’s movies, as a rule, had to follow their scripts with utmost faithfulness, even strictness. (In other words, this is a question about his directorial style and approach, and about his relationship with the actors.) In any case, I found that the actors followed the attitudes and feelings depicted on paper very faithfully; or, of course, vice versa.

Reading, then, these scripts – or these stories, or these “novelettes” – one finds them gripping and fascinating, mostly for the same reasons that Ingmar Bergman’s movies are thus. A very rewarding reading, therefore.

***

Finally, let me add here a formal or ‘quasi-official’ clarification, namely that these three movies are part of Bergman’s “faith” or “God” trilogy – which one might describe more accurately as stories about the search for, or the lack of, God – or, about spiritual life as experienced in (a fairly desolate) mid-twentieth century Scandinavian country.

The Theban Plays, by Sophocles

Antigone; Oedipus Tyrannos; Oedipus at Colonus

It is interesting to note that, while the chronological order of the events (if we take these three plays as part of one overarching story, of the Theban royal family - of Oedipus and of his daughter Antigone) would be Oedipus Tyrannos, Oedipus at Colonus, and then Antigone, the order in which these different moments or themes were treated by Sophocles during his lifetime was, in fact, Antigone first, then sometime later Oedipus Tyrannos, and (I think toward the end of his life) Oedipus at Colonus.

Amazon  - I like this translation

And now to the plays. Why is one still surprised to “discover” how “contemporary” any true artist (of any age or period) is and “sounds" to our "modern" experience? It is indeed somewhat frustrating to still catch oneself being (if ever so slightly) “surprised” by such a "discovery." As if the human experience would not be the same, both in its highest and in its lowest aspects, throughout human time! And as if those who came before us would have been in any ways more “naive” or "innocently ignorant" (now these are some infuriating prejudices)! 

At such moments of apparent “discovery" and "surprise” about the "modernity" of an author I like to remind my students - for example - of the sheer, bone-on-bone brutality of the hand-to-hand combat that was typical of most wars, throughout history, before modernity; and also how in the “ancient times” the outcome of a conquest was usually the general massacre of all adult males, and the enslavement of all women and children – and the complete burning down of the given city. I remind them of these when we discuss Socrates, for example, informing them also that Socrates was a recognized and honored veteran of such wars, and thus that “philosopher” did not mean (and does not mean, or should not mean) some ivory-tower, impractical, aloof, removed from reality fuddy-duddy; if anyone knew brute reality, and human nature at its worse, then it was Socrates. 

Well, all this is to say that one should not be surprised to find hints and indications about some of the most perverse aspects of human nature, in Sophocles - aspects that we might feel are only transparent to a specifically modern awareness; and one should not be "surprised" to find in Sophocles expressions of emotions and dilemmas that are all too familiar to us “moderns." But perhaps one of the explanations for such modern biases (notice also that the adjective “modern” is implicitly understood as having a positive connotation... oh, my!) is that in terms of style art was indeed more bound to certain restraints (regarding expression) and to stricter coordinates of form, before contemporaneity. This formality of style, then, and this restraint of vocabulary, for example, did not mean however - in the case of the true artists - that their vision was dimmer, that they did not see, know, and express (through their specific means) the worse, most monstrous, and best, of the human condition. Furthermore, now that we have loosened or got rid of most or all formal bounds and expressive restraints, does that mean that we have "better" (or even more truthful) art? Well, it is enough to look around, to realize that that is not the case.

The Theban plays, then, deal (among others things) with some eternal conundrums which, being unchanging, i.e. belonging to the human condition qua human condition, are also "modern" ones. One such persistent dilemma of the human condition also determines the main conflict in Antigone, and it is the clash between one's duty to the “invisible” (or, let’s say, transcendent) norms or truth, and the interests and norms of the visible (surrounding) society. In a satisfactory fashion, Antigone ends with the transcendent (eternal) truth being justified – not before and not without wreaking havoc on all those involved - on all sides.

Wreaking havoc - indeed, another thing that stands out from these plays is the intensity of the passions, of the action, of the conflicts described. We need to remind ourselves that these are indeed “plays,” that they were written to be performed, and not as literary works designed for private, silent reading. Writing for public performance, the dramatist needs to know how to grab the attention, and how to stir the emotions, of the audience – and Sophocles knows indeed how to do all this, and does it very, very effectively; no wonder that he won so many theatrical competitions. The other aspect to be noted is how fast and intense is the action in these plays: it keeps moving, it keeps going; well, as said, the playwright does need to take and to keep hold of the audience’s attention and involvement. Oedipus at Colonus might be slightly “slower,” in this sense – but it is by no means "slow," and the action really picks up once Creon makes his appearance. (At the same time, I found the same play, Oedipus at Colonus, to be among the most rewarding  of the three, due to the richness of its dialogue.)

However, due to its powerful theme (the aforementioned clash between the order of Truth, and the “civic” or political order) and also to its strong central character, Antigone might be my overall favorite, among the three plays. Also in Antigone one can find a wonderful little dialogue between Creon and his son, Haemon - which moves from a somewhat formal exchange, exhibiting all the necessary codes of filial respect, to a conversation laced with irony, a biting and furious exchange that, again, sounds so truthful and (that dreaded word!) “modern” in the way it depicts the frustration of the young with what appear to be the slow, old (and, in this case, wrong) ways of the parent. An exchange that could be part, in its gist, of Death of a Salesman.

Oedipus Tyrannos is for me the play that seems “most remote,” specifically because of the “fated mechanisms” at play: the way in which the wheels of the gods, impersonal, it seems, shape the overall action. On the other hand, this play is maybe the most action-packed of all; the conflict starts right away, and it really helps that Oedipus is such a strong and violent (in his passions) character – he does drive the conflict.

In fact, each of these plays has a central protagonist whose character is defined by violence (of emotions, passions), rashness (of decisions, impulses), and arrogance (haughtiness). In this sense it is interesting that, if Creon comes across as the voice of balanced reason in Oedipus Tyrannos (as opposed to the rash and haughty Oedipus), in Oedipus at Colonus the relationship will be reversed (at least to a degree), Creon being the violent one, while Oedipus less so; meanwhile, in Antigone Creon is simply the "bad guy," with all the corresponding negative traits. Yet one could not say that Oedipus is entirely changed, even in Oedipus at Colonus; his volcanic temperament subsists, underneath, and it manifests itself at occasions, in small fits and starts, but it is much tempered and slowed down by Oedipus's blindness, old age, and (presumably) the sufferings and humiliations he'd endured.

As a general note, perhaps the main reason why these plays leave one with the impression of having encountered outstanding, memorable works of art is their inner unity and balance. This has to do, among others, with the author’s economy of means – by which I am referring to how the length and pacing of the action fits the story to be told (don’t say more, and don’t say less, than what the story absolutely needs!). This briskness, which does not fall into heedless rushing along because it fits the inner logic of the action of the story – and, in fact and overall, the harmony between the form and the content  - is indeed why you leave the texts knowing that these are full, well-rounded, complete works of art. (Compare this with Aristophanes’ “all over the place” style, at least in The Clouds - which reminds me of what happens in some of Adam Sandler’s movies.)        

Speaking of briskness, amusingly enough there are several instances in which characters either announce that “I will have to be short in my speech, for once,” or ask their interlocutor “to be short in what they have to say, this time;” for me, it is as if Sophocles is giving himself leeway, allowing himself the “foreshortening” of the speeches; because, indeed, some of the speeches do have a tendency to be a bit too baroque, too rich and lengthy (mostly, perhaps, in Oedipus at Colonus).

But the intensity of the passions driving the protagonists; the strong characters; the fierceness of the conflicts; the implicit (but also explicit) violence (although most of the physical violence happens off-stage); Sophocles’ undoubtable technical skills as a playwright; and, overall and foremostly, the aforementioned harmony of form and content - all these contribute to making these plays memorable and thoroughly engaging - and to making us desire to see them staged as well. 

Indeed, reading these plays one itches to go to an amphitheater and to see them being brought to life – but in their original form and intent. Or, one would also be interested in seeing them in a contemporary staging – but hopefully not in a needlessly “modernized” one.

“Maltaverne,” by François Mauriac

I was surprised to discover, upon reading this book, how much it affected me, or how much it spoke to me; I mean, in comparison with previous books I’ve read from Mauriac. It also was not what I expected it to be – it was not a dark and brooding, as if "framed" portrait of a mid-nineteenth to early-twentieth century bourgeois household. I am making reference here to the vague memories I have of Thérèse Desqueyroux or The Knot of Vipers. Then again, each book might have a corresponding “age” or state, when we connect the best, or the most, with it, and when it makes most sense to us. Which does not exclude perennial “matches” between book and reader – in terms of subject, theme, tone etc. In any case, this book came seemingly at a good time, and it also exhibited an overall tone that - as said - was a bit unexpected.

[Amazon]

Perhaps the part of the novel that spoke to me the most was the beginning, with its description of the hopeful and clear-eyed adolescent, Alain (who is the main character of the novel, and in whose voice we hear the narration, retrospectively) - namely, of a certain character and age which I can identify all too well, and which also hearkens to other favorite readings of mine. Alain is the young intellectual and person of faith, who thinks and who sees the world perhaps more wisely than the adults (and, partially, that is true; and, partially, life will teach him later how much he does not know, in fact). And this is also the young man who sees the whole world, and his future, through those intellectual-spiritual prisms, with much hope, and with many plans (which will also change, partially - but not essentially, as he himself  - and we ourselves - can not change, essentially). 

After this initial stage, the novel moves on to a darker territory, more familiar to readers of Mauriac. Let’s not forget, Mauriac’s vocation as a writer was (as he seemingly acknowledged) to examine and to reveal the truth of the darker recesses of the human heart, and of the human existence. The world of sin – but not the glittery, commercially-sold sin, the glamorized one – but of everyday sin, of our daily failings - and also of the much, much darker undergrounds of what at the surface is common existence – in brief, of the human being’s capacity for evil. In many ways, what he talks about in his works is the “bourgeois sin" – which is no less dark, no less terrible, than the most glamorous and public ones, as no economic or social class is excepted and excluded from carrying both the darkest and the brightest dimensions of the spiritual condition of man. Envy, lack of love, misunderstanding – these are the true dark elements of our daily lives, these are the areas of shade in our everyday existence - and not the strident and glittery “bad things,” “bad words” and “bad thoughts” bandied about in the public discourse, or in the noise of the media, social or otherwise.

Because the initial part of the novel reached me on a personal level, I was already invested personally in the main character, Alain, by the time we moved on to the next stage of the story. This is why I found it somewhat irritating and unpleasant to have to bear the weight of the Mother figure throughout most of the book – as I could not relate to it (unlike with the initial part of the book), and as I found it suffocating.

The final turn(s) of events of the novel, however, changed yet again the tone and meaning of the events and of the book, and changed the impact and meaning of the Mother figure as well – for the better. It also clarified and, perhaps, humanized the figures populating the book, and the dynamic between her and Alain. The events affecting Jeanette Séris (the “Louse”) added yet another layer of meaning that, yes, further humanized the characters (including that of the Louse) - while also fleshing out the interstices of human existence in a very realistic and truthful way.

And this, this truthfulness, the accuracy with which life is reflected and described, might be one of the strengths of the novel, and why it stayed with me – because Mauriac is a real writer, a writer pur sang, who can but write, and whose writing is in the service of presenting the truth of life, in all its ugliness, and also with its shining edges. This everydayness of existence that actually constitutes our existence, but which – surprisingly – is scarcely talked about, at least in the public discourse, or in the cultural products consumed and distributed en masse - or, why not, in what passes for our everyday conversations.

The writer as a worker in the service of the real, of existence as it presents itself, morning, noon, and later toward the end of the day.

But it is hard to write this way, because we are so quick (and keen) to slide into commonplaces, clichés, into superficial exaggerations and haughty shortcuts, into “ideas” and “principles” - instead of “life as it is.” Because it is easier that way.

Since the writer, while writing, is churning out in fact his own existence and being, real writing, Mauriac’s sort of writing, is a painful process - of facing one’s own mortality and frailty and cowardice and dark shades, and all that one and one's existence actually is. 

(Yet this, this is the reality that is, or is not redeemed. More often than not, and perhaps even most of the time, we try to redeem reality by covering it with a sheen or veil of interpretations, phantasms, omissions, forgetting, or wishful thinking. But it is the everyday that is redeemed, and it is there that we need to seek and to find the redemption, and the Redemptor – there, or nowhere.)

Because there is redemption in this novel, and at the end of the story – and there is also hope, and there are also plans for a future. Which might be another reason why it appealed to me.

Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (2)

Continuing thus with our overview of the greatest hits of the famous 80s-and-early-90s band, Happy Mondays (not),

here is Dylan Moran, who for me is the foremost “stand-up comedian” of today. “Stand-up” sounds cheap, and it often is; but Moran (who is Irish) stands out, because he accomplishes this role in a way that is very close to what humor – and humorists - should, in fact, be.

On the one hand, the humorist (or the jester) is the observer that points out that the world is, actually, topsy-turvy. For that, however, he (or she) needs to have the acuity and the courage of perceiving the truth, and of pointing out that what we take for everydayness, for the generally acquiesced normalcy (the king and his clothes) is actually in an absurd and paradoxical conflict with the truth of existence (the king has no clothes). It is this conflict between the reality that we all perceive, of which we are all aware, deep down – and the quotidian compromise and going-along, or downright lie, of the generally accepted, that creates the absurd or the paradox that gives rise to laughter. This ability to see underneath, to look at the deeper layer, is what sets a true humorist apart.

Oh, but how few comedians or humorists are able to do this, and to be this! It takes a certain acuity and existential honesty that, well, not everyone has, or dares to possess.

On the other hand, Moran is also a wordsmith, a literate person, and a literary mind - a writer, in other words. His words, stories, his construction of the “jokes” can be savored as a text that is rich, multifaceted, inventive, witty; this is smart and intellectually enjoyable writing. This is why the term humorist fits him as much as that of (stand-up) comedian; only that he tells these mini-texts in front of an audience.

Here are therefore three excerpts: two from a stand-up routine (or album – Monster), and the other an ultra-short film on (how appropriately) a bitter moment from the life of a writer (regarding the latter, see also Moran's brilliant TV series, Black Books).

"The End of the Affair," by Graham Greene

[audiobook, narrated by Colin Firth]

I found this version of the (audio)book while searching on YouTube for free audiobooks, and stumbling upon audiobook “trailers” (a new genre of videos, for me) to an “award-winning” narration of Graham Greene’s book, The End of the Affair, featuring British actor Colin Firth. I have read the book before, certainly, but this perked up my attention. I was not disappointed; Firth’s reading has depth - his words and the world that he portrays have depth, they “have been lived in”. I would also say that Firth is now at just the right age to read aloud such a text that expresses a certain tiredness with existence, of having hurt and having been hurt – which is what the main character of the book exhibits and does.

It also helps that I have not read the book in a good while, and that I’ve also seen the not-so-good movie adaptation (featuring Ralph Fiennes and Julianne Moore); all of this contributed to blurring out the details of the plot, and to making me forget the tone of the book. Although I wonder if I’ve really perceived this tone before, when I read the book before - or if I did so fully. If not, that might have to do both with age – my age when I read the book vs. my age now, and also with how this tone is conveyed by Colin Firth’s reading.

And it is this specific tone that most stands out from (listening to) this book. Firth conveys it masterfully: it is weary, most of all; cynical (but not in a cheap way); spiritually bitter and angry; somewhere deep down, at the deepest levels of the self, perhaps almost crying. Of course, this is all “underneath” the text; what we hear and understand at the beginning is only (or mostly) the world-weariness, and the expressed anger of the main character and narrator of the story, Bendrix (what a good choice for his name!). After finishing the story, however, we understand what's been underneath all along, from the beginning; as the story is told in retrospective, by the person who actually lived through it, already in the tone of the beginning of the narration there are the echoes of the end - “of the affair.”

So listening to this narration brought it (the story, the book) to life in a way that I sincerely did not expect. I have been using audiobooks, for the past few years, to fill some of my long drives, and especially when coming back from hiking; yet most of the audiobooks that I have thus consumed have been on the lighter side, because I did not want to “waste” a good (or “real”) book, by listening to it (which I found, and in a way still find, to be a more superficial engagement with the text), before I actually read the text. However, listening to a book that you’ve already read works, works very well. I am referring here, of course, to real books, to real literature; e.g. one should actually "read" Dostoevsky, before “listening” to a rendition of it. (There is something about the encounter with the text, versus that with the sound of it. There are some exceptions, which I will talk about later.) Having thus listened to mostly easier fare, beforehand, (of the John Grisham kind, let’s say), the juxtaposition of that kind of writing with - well, real writing - was, although by no means surprising, still quite revelatory and informative. Yet again, it illustrated the difference between real literature (and superior actor’s craft), on the one hand – and, broadly speaking, tosh or commercial fare, on the other. The difference? - one could call it of existential depth, namely of how close the thing is to life – as lived, in its polysemantic complexity, depth and breadth, and eventual inexpressibility. 

And, speaking of “tone,” I remember that I was somewhat surprised by the tone and “position“ on which the book actually ended; I did not remember him choosing, so to speak, the bleak nothingness, the dull non-committal, the temporal limbo... at the end.

Here is a montage with short interviews and excerpts from reading sessions - to Colin Firth’s audiobook of Graham Greene's The End of the Affair: