it rained all night
and i couldnt sleep
i sat on the terrace
in the driving rain
getting drenched
reliving the evening, the past week, the past month, the the past year, the past life ... random fragments ...
i finished reading "Mrs Dalloway"
again - it hits me as strange and amazing
that these books, these thoughts, these philosophies
come to me when I am thinking, feeling as I do
clarrissa analysing the septimus's suicide
as i stand at the bars and I feel the wet coldness of the wrought iron table behind me. strange
the book still had me in its grip. im still stuck there. i read a lot of reviews online. One of them said ...
"Like Septimus, Clarissa has the potential to be overwhelmed by life. Hearing of Septimus' suicide, she withdraws to consider her party's deeper meaning for her. She imaginatively recreates Smith's suicide and recalls that "she had thrown a shilling into the Serpentine, never anything more. But he had flung it away" (241). It is clear that Clarissa shares Spetimus' suicidal impulses as she went on imagine "But this young man who had killed himself - had he plunged holding his treasure? 'If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy, she had said to herself once."(242). However, Clarissa only needs to die in imagination by identifying herself with Septimus. Clarissa survived from her suicidal instinct as she acknowledges that her subsistence depends on the death of Septimus, the darker sides of her nature, so she sacrifices it gladly. "
this is the part that haunted me most. but what hit me most was wondering how much of it was autobiographical? idshe feel like septimus did. if she did then was it because she was, really, going crazy or does everyone, at times?
"Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate, people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded; one was alone. There was an embrace in death.
But this young man who had killed himself-had he plunged holding his treasure ? "If I were to die now, 'tweve now to be most happy," she had said to herself once, coming down, in white.
Or there were the poets and thinkers. Suppose he had had that passion, and had gone to Sir William Bradshaw, a great doctor, yet to her obscurely evil, without sex or lust, extremely polite to women, but capable of some indescribable outrage-forcing your soul, that was it-if this young man had gone to him, and Sir William had impressed him, like that, with his power, might he not then have said (indeed she felt it now), Life is made intolerable; they make life intolerable, men like that ?
Then (she had felt it only this morning) there was the terror; the overwhelming incapacity, one's parents giving it into one's hands, this life, to be lived to the end, to be walked with serenely; there was in the depths of her heart an awful fear. Even now, quite often if Richard had not been there reading the Times, so that she could crouch like a bird and gradually revive, send roaring up that incommensurable delight, rubbing stick to stick, one thing with another, she must have perished. She had escaped. But that young man had killed himself."
sister of my soul. what is family? what are fraternal feelings in a family? is it any different from friendship? how? sister of my soul, bonded by heart-blood, same bricks, same mortar, so different, yet just the same. in time displaced. upgraded. what is family. how do people who live together in families all their lives feel? think? act? sister of my soul, bonded by heart-blood, blood so weak, thinner than water. we above it, we below it. running away. running to it everyday. with eyes shut tight. shouting out in terrified, unending, wails echoing, silently, twice over, 184 months apart. i dont know you. i dont want to see you. u only exist in the slices i choose.
No comments:
Post a Comment