On to R

On to R. Rook. The old rook. The father rook, old Joseph. With his wife Mary, who comes every night to the same trees, and who every night can't quite decide which tree-top to settle on. And so they fight and shove the air aside with their black wings, beating out, out, out. Mrs Woolf in her role as Mrs Ramsay describing the sight accurately enough. My eyes are pleased, my mind more so. The image she made lingered long over, and after, dinner where her Boeuf en Daube had been 'a perfect triumph'.
An interesting scene, the dinner, with its internal chatter, the unspoken thoughts, the private musings of all those seated around the table, but my mind, like Lily Briscoe's, kept returning to its mental note: the rooks, the rooks. Tomorrow Lily Briscoe will move the tree to the middle of her painting, and I will write of rooks, of old Joseph in particular.
Tomorrow however would not wait. I felt myself growing as irritated as Mr Bankes, impatient to be working. My fingers drumming, drumming, drumming on the table without a tablecloth. Alone, and comfortable, with a book, yet itching to write. The day was still young, though Mary and Joseph had gone to bed. Even now had their heads under their wings.
The rook, if likened to a gentleman, a seedy old gentleman (Mrs R makes that comparison), would be awake however. A top hat on his head outside a public house, playing a horn. An old man with top hat and umbrella looking at his watch. Another with the umbrella under his arm: It looks like rain. An old man with top hat and hands crossed. With top hat holding a cup, drinking coffee, eating from a plate, and standing near a stove to keep warm. An orphan man, a full-grown orphan man. A series of old rooks; a series of sketches by van Gogh.
Where can such old gentlemen be seen? Nowhere. There are no gentleman, young or old, to be had these days, with or without top hats, with the exception perhaps of theatre or ballet but then it's an act, an act of a few hours. No gentleman anywhere to give you their arms, unless you're old or in need of steadying. Have their wings been broken; have they been shot? Jasper, many Jaspers, have done away with them. Murderous little boys turn into men. Men who won't give you their arms, if you're not in obvious need of it, and even then you might have to ask, perhaps beg. 'Gentle' is unlikely now to put in front of man, though the same could be said of woman.
Old men, disreputable old birds. There Mrs R is wrong I think. Life has been lived, it shows.
They are nearing the end of the alphabet. Their youth has been drained, their strength has been given, their peak has come and gone. They are forced to play a balletic villain, a role which requires more exaggerated acting than muscular energy. Such is life.
Can an old rook be told from an old crow?
Is it the eyes, is it the nose? The shuffling gait, how he holds (and folds) the umbrella, or warms his feet by the fire? I do not know what makes rooks rooks and crows crows.
I only know old Joseph was a rook with half his wing feathers missing. Many men reach that sorry state. Pecked at. Worn down. Worn out. Old Joseph, in this case, (I speculate) does not rule the roost.
Mrs Ramsay does not see what she thinks she sees from her bedroom window, where in the glass she is looking at her neck and shoulders (but not her face) as Jasper and Rose select what jewels she should wear that evening. Which would go best with her black dress? Which might impress fifteen people? Choose dears, choose. As outside in the darkening light Mary, not Joseph, is scolding. Settle, alight, swirl, hover. Descend to rest in the topmost branches of a tree, side by side, or each perhaps in a different tree, to exchange a sharp word or two, then vexed (both with each other), flap wings and rise. Mary never satisfied with Joseph's choice, he with hers. Yet it's always Mary's tree they settle in, because (as I see it) from long habit Joseph gives in. Anything for a quiet night.
Since by day old Joseph needs to guard against little boys who want to break their wings and shoot them from their perches.

Picture credit: Old Man with a Top Hat, 1882, Vincent van Gogh (source: WikiArt).

See: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.

Written in lock-down, May 2020.

The Q of Philosophy

What is the Q of philosophy? Splendid minds, so I've learned, get stuck at Q. And whilst still stuck at Q contemplate R. Light their pipe and walk. Up and down, up and down; advance and retreat; bear down upon and turn away; stop dead and stand in silence looking at the sea. R for Ramsay. Mr Ramsay with a wife as beautiful as Helen, a now greying Helen (of Troy), and eight children. Mr Ramsay on a family holiday in Skye, and yet the man of thought must think.
Q has been reached; he is sure of Q, and has dug his heels in at Q. I'm not sure of Q, or what he could demonstrate of it, because I don't think it is to Question; and if it's not that then what is it? Quickness of mind? Quietude? A man who needs walking privacy? Walking, as other philosophers have demonstrated, is good for thinking. Is Mr Ramsay perhaps a Nietzsche scholar? And should I really be thinking on this, writing of this only forty pages in?
When the mind starts whirring though I have to work. Wait for other details to emerge, to be made explicit, and thoughts such as they were, as they occur, will be gone. And so I take risks, updating notes, adjusting perceptions, but letting earlier assumptions stay. Fool! People will think, perhaps utter, who write after digestion has taken place. That to me disturbs the process. I can only write when I am acquiring knowledge, not after I've acquired it. And perhaps I won't in this case, although I should say with full disclosure I have met Ramsay before, once before when he was then as he is now holidaying in Skye. He was stuck on Q then too, but I cannot recall whether Q was ever defined.
If I remember rightly (and my recall is not always accurate) I was at that time more taken with other members of his party. Lily Briscoe, with her 'little Chinese eyes in her small puckered face' and Charles Tansley ('the atheist, the little atheist' as the children call him) and James' relationship with his mother. I was less of a thinker, less of a writer then, but now, like Mr Ramsay though with less experience at it, I am braver in thought and have more confidence in the paths it takes me down.
I shouldn't have spoken however of Lily Briscoe, for now all I can think of is Lily, and of her painting, and of her talks, occasional walks, with William Bankes, the widower. Neither of which are an R or a Q. What is W?
Mr Ramsay is frustrated with me for my attention has drifted, my praise diverted. His arms and legs are swinging, swinging. Up, down, turn. Stop, look and turn again. Am I, with my eyes, following him? And if not, why not?
What would my gaze meet with if I did? A stern countenance, a softened expression, the face of a man tormented? I might see a soldierly figure on parade; a stick man looking out to sea, studying the weather. And whatever he decided would be right of course, and wouldn't be disagreed with. Or perhaps a man seeming to admire the potted geraniums, or the picture his wife and son made, framed by the window.
Mr Ramsay is watching, is waiting, impatiently. He is not however the type to tap his foot; he is the type to hum, to say a melancholy phrase to himself and startle everyone. He waits, outside the window, on the terrace, his eye like that of an eagle's, as he examines rather than listens to the mother reading to the child the story of the Fisherman and His Wife. I, like James, have become absorbed in it; Mr Ramsay is quite forgotten. Mrs Ramsay, as she reads aloud, is half-lost in her own thoughts. But mother first her total submergence into remoteness does not occur until she is alone, all alone, when no vocals are required. She can be silent; the one interruption the stroke of the Lighthouse, and the only sound the click of her knitting needles. Mrs Ramsay now has all my attention.
Until Mr Ramsay passes by and chuckles. Q and R it seems have left his mind, and for a time even Z. He has reached the hedge, where he comes to a halt to look into it, this great thinker. Poor little hedge, I murmur, as my eye continues its trace along and down the page. Mr Ramsay himself has assumed a sad expression. Such a change in tempers. He sighs. Ah, R...R would be something...but Hume, that enormously fat philosopher, stuck in a bog ha ha ha.

Picture credit: Philosopher, Henri Martin (source: WikiArt). 

See: To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf.

Written in lock-down, May 2020. 

The Zone of Shadow

It's possible to love, a little too much, a little too well, the shadow of a person better than the person, the flesh and blood version.
That people's shadows, those they've left behind, can prove more dear than when they're physically with you is perhaps not something I ought to give voice to. Is it wise, I ask myself. Probably not, but I cannot let it pass without some rumination and comment, and besides, we live in an age where all manner of things are said that shouldn't be. And besides that besides, there's another: the idea came not from me, but from Alain in The Cat who tiptoes around the fact that he prefers it, as does his beloved feline companion Saha, when Camille's not there.
I instantly understood, as I had on the first, and now second, reading of Colette's story. Alain, an only child is speaking to another. For no matter how old you get to be or what circumstances you find yourself in you will always be an only, and that position will form your view. There's no other position for you to take. It's not necessarily reasonable, but it's what you know; you are what you are.
And what that is in some people's eyes, as well as that of your own, is a difficult character. Alain says so himself; he knows he needs time and he knows he's not being given it. Pace, setting your own, is important; yet you can't expect others to know this, to perceive this, but if you can't express this and only act out, stubbornly, defiantly or sulkily, then it does make you seem unreasonable, intolerant, difficult. The problem for onlys is this time can stretch, so that instead of attempting to grow used to something they keep things the same and others (or experiences) at a distance. Onlys know, in some deeper layer of themselves, they are doing this, but how else can they be?
Yes, they might convince themselves they can change and then try harder than most people to do so, but these attempts will mostly fail, because 'wanting' is not the same as having to, as feeling in some way made to. Frustration builds. And might then burst out uncharacteristically or the effects of strain be seen in their physique. They, for all their sustained effort, enter the zone of the shadow, but unhappily. For while they might prefer to people their world with shadows, they don't want in waking or sleeping life to yet become one. Shadows are just easier to be with, to deal with. They don't make demands, but for them to exist and you to think more kindly of them you have to first be with them, spend time with them in solid person, and that is, as you might expect, the problem. Though the ordeal, the anxiousness of it, the preparation for it, is somewhat lessened if it's for short periods of time.
Family, of course, don't count, as they will be familiar with most of your funny little, and more difficult, ways, and be more tolerant of them. They may even know you better than you know yourself, and yet know when you have to be allowed to try, though they might have their own (unspoken) feelings on the matter. I'm thinking of Alain's mother, and even their household help. The Alain and Camille 'experiment' was never going to work; I think they sensed this, although they also, it's true, had their prejudices. Maybe they too didn't want it to work.
Did Alain? I think he had done what other onlys do: fool himself it could, perhaps without considering all that this change meant; perhaps dismissing any moments of unease, any misgivings, not realising the situation, his personal turmoil, would increase once a real commitment had been made. He really wasn't ready for the 'living' part. The shadow of Camille was what he wanted, left with him after brief instants of togetherness, not her physical presence waiting for him.
Alain is what a lot of onlys are, a loner. More comfortable alone in his own company. More relaxed in his own private space. More at home in familiar surroundings. Onlys are like cats (though they might not be cat owners or animal lovers), independent and territorial. Lapses of judgement mostly happen when they attempt or someone else attempts to domesticate them in an alien way. The thing, the person trying to possess them then becomes a rival, for their time, energy, affection. Their solution to that is to restore their Kingdom.

Picture credit: Garden, Jean Francois Millet (source: WikiArt).

See The Cat by Colette (here revisited for a second time).

Written in lock-down May 2020.