Dear O,

일기

2015. 9. 4. 08:35


 It’s the passages below that finally made me write back to you. They’re from a short story called Tonio Kröger by Thomas Mann.




"He surrendered himself utterly to that power which he felt to be the sublimest power on earth, to the service of which he felt called and which promised him honour and renown: the power of intellect and words, a power that sits smilingly enthroned above mere inarticulate, unconscious life."


"And with the torment and the pride of such insight came loneliness; for he could not feel at ease among the innocent, among the light of heart and dark of understanding, and they shrank from the sign on his brow. But at the same time he savoured ever more sweetly the delight of words and of form, for he would often remark (and had already written the observation down) that mere knowledge of human psychology would in itself infallibly make us desondent if we were not cheered and kept alert by the satisfaction of expressing it…"





 It’s been a month since I’ve been alone in this foreign country, and now that I scarcely have access to internet (or people to talk to) I feel that I’ve never really been alone in the home city. Sure, I spent a lot of time alone, but that was only in a physical sense. My mind was always restless with email pushes, instant messages and lots of other convenient, informational, or entertaining things that my iphone/laptop provided. They kept me connected to outside world, and blocked me from ‘thinking' at all. That’s why, I think, I was so eager in working out. The hours in the gym were the only way I knew for getting rid of all the external stimuli. It helped me ease my mind, but it never got me thinking or contemplating on myself. I feel I was impoverished in inner state. I had no soul, culture, or whatever to that matter. You might think I am exaggerating, but that’s what I felt when I met someone with sparkling singularity and strong selfhood. I had nothing comparable, to express who I am and what’s worse is that I couldn’t even contribute to the communication. I was busy merely understanding what s/he has just said or being struck with admiration. And it is partly in this regard that I found it hard to respond to your letter. 


  If I can go on a little more with personal account, I am reading (for pleasure) a lot here, and as I now have all the time in the world to stay in the pages and sentences as long as I feel like, I find it enriching. It helps me develop my views on world and life. It was of little use to be surrounded in what people call ‘art’ when I was just merely receptive. Emotions did form in reaction but however strong they grew, if it wasn't expressed in my own words they soon fainted. I’ve always been secretly obsessed and frustrated with words and expressions for they remained inarticulate however I tried. It is just now that I am giving words to the obsession/frustration that I’ve had for so long. (This ‘obsesstration' goes for the letters I tried to write back to you too and yes, I am making another excuse for this absurdly late reply.) Allow me to continue on a little more with banalities, I’ll get to the point soon; if words/expressions are step one, I believe reflection/profoundness are completely different things that are on another level, things that one can only gain through another extensive time alone, through the process of putting one’s active thoughts into the (expressed) experiences and external stimuli of any sort that caught one’s attention. These are the things that I think mold into fierce singularity. And these are the things that I think you've had for all those years. 


 I think I was mildly threatened by your presence, that I named as profoundness and singularity above. So often I felt dumb and colorless. The things you said were always interesting, they had something dense and refined in meaning (Don’t worry, this is not a letter of sudden, awkward compliments and flatteries), which I guess might have cost you long hours all by yourself. But if only practicing what one knows was as easy as knowing; I knew that I had to be by myself and calm my mind, but I just never succeeded to be in such state. In any sense, I hope you could still recall some of the parts in the story that I once recommended to you long time ago, Letter to a young lady in Paris. In the very beginning it goes : "Andrea, I didn’t want to come live in your apartment in Calle Suipacha. Not so much because of the bunnies, but rather that it offends me to intrude on a compact order, built even to the finest nets of air … It hurts me to come into an ambience where someone lives beautifully has arranged everything like a visible affirmation of her soul, …” To my subject interpretation, the primary emotion that the nameless narrator had towards the addressee of the letter was rather a mixture of admiration and discomfort that springs when I am near someone of singular presence, unique character and profound mind. I remember that you saw it as a nostalgia, but for me it was something that propels the sense of inferiority and causes suffering. 


 Then there were the rabbits, the rabbits he coughed up at about once a month. At first he would kill the rabbits (with small amount of liquor) for he had no idea as to the matter, but soon he figured an adequate solution (giving them to the lady living downstairs... who would probably cook them). Not so great or special, but such was his life. I believe it was described in neutral nuance ("Vomiting bunnies wasn’t so terrible once one had gotten into the unvarying cycle, into the method."). The rabbits were always small and white. Feeding clovers, he felt some affection and connection to them for some time, and later he let go of them. For me these rabbits were the occasional urges to express the things going on inside of me, or the sentences that I cough up on my blog as a result. For long I didn’t know what it is that I am feeling inside, or how to process it (and alcohols always are effective self-medication for an instant ease, you may know by now, how much I appreciate them) but later I managed to entice the rabbits onto blank pages. No reflection, they are just sentimental notes, or earnest attempts to translate the abstract emotions to concrete language, but I rest to be content with the words I come up. It was, and still is a big part of me that I keep as a secret (in a sense that I show them to no one). He could have made better use of the rabbits and I could do better with my writing, but again, living up to one’s belief is not as easy as believing. Some people are just too frail to step up.


 Just as a yearning never met would deteriorate into frustration like you said, once small, warm and fluffy rabbits could turn into ferocious, untamable creatures. I feel the apartment, or the presence of the absent owner, Andrea, was the cause of all the anomalies: the uncontrollable proliferation of rabbits, the change of their color, losing ways of getting by with them and letting them turn into furniture-ruining nuisances, or most importantly, the break down and suicide. I wonder if you've ever been shaken by someone else’s intellect or sensibility just so hard, that it changes you from the bottom? This is what happens when someone with sensitive soul and artistic temperament, but whose mind is too fragile clashes into strong individuality. It stimulates you in a confusing way, the powerful spirit gets hold of you and you can’t go back dwelling on the safe, comfortable and mediocre place that you’ve built with your life. I confess, I did suffer a little after reading your writings especially when it was for the first time. I wasn’t fine with the mediocrities that I had written anymore, or it was more like that it made me feel so shallow - I felt way below mediocrity.


 So it changes you. You cough up rabbits that are now sometimes black, or of mixed color - grey - in an ever-increasing pace. You let them grow, but it is only within the apartment that they can get around. The apartment is their universe; the wardrobe is their night, the lamps in the living room are their sun. It occurred to me once, being locked and lost in the idolized universe. I drifted with the sentences that I hastily wrote out of insecurity (which thus grew into ugly pieces and made me suffer even more), until I finally renounced writing at all. Would you say it's dramatic if I call it the death of the rabbits? In any sense, this is why I felt so attached to the story, it felt like my portrait in which my faiblesse was so beautifully painted. 



 On another note, the followings are from the same piece, Tonio Kröger, however contradicting they might seem to the ones on the first page.




"As for “words”, I wonder if they really redeem our passions: is it not rather that they refrigerate them and put them in cold storage? Don’t you seriously think that there is a chilling, outrageous effrontery in the instant, facile process by which literary language eliminates emotion?"


"It is absurd to love life and nevertheless to be trying with all the skill at one’s command to entice it from its proper course, to interest it in our melancholy subtleties, in the whole sick aristocracy of literature."

 



 I started writing with vague but intense feelings and ideas but now that I have put them into words… I wonder if they truly represent the urges, feelings and thoughts that I had. I wonder again, if it’s because the fragments of the emotion were not wholly (or coherently) pieced together or if it is a common symptom found among people who are obsessed in language. Well but now they are formed into words anyway, pinned permanent onto this paper and set to be delivered, it is as it is. Considering the time and effort some people put into the words and expressions, isn’t it ironic that they could feel like lacking something (the original passion maybe), instead of being integrated and fulfilling? (and at the same time with the impression that the emotion is now eliminated, the words that came out of you, sometimes, suddenly seem so distant and alien. I wonder if it’s only me?) Maybe it’s all just a lousy writer’s excuse. If it has ever occurred to you too, however, sensing the emotion is now gone after expressing it into words, I suggest you read Tonio Kröger (and other short stories like Disillusionment and the Death in Venice) - and perhaps share your thoughts someday.


 After all, this lengthy writing is in return for your letter (that’s dated long long ago), for that I know hours could be poured into a letter which may be read in a few minutes. I appreciate your time, and the quality of reflection. 


Best,


E.


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