Sometimes I need a hug, or I miss soft-spoken words amid the cries of seagulls. Sometimes there are not enough colours in a watergaw that I spot over the sea. Sometimes I want to shout, “Let’s all pretend we live forever and stop asking what the exchange rate is.” But most of the time, I simply sit on a bench on the promenade by the beach and watch the strollers passing me by, hoping one day someone notices me. I guess everyone should have their own little impossible to cherish.
I hate smoking; I really do. For example, even the most beautiful woman, who normally would attract me immensely, the moment she reaches for a cigarette, I’m done with her. I will see her as a monster. And yet there was one time in my life when I was infatuated with such a woman, and her smoking, the way she did it, was something that added to her sex appeal. She was a friend of a friend, a bit of a tomboy, with her close-cropped blonde hair, tight jeans, an oversized men’s sweater with rolled-up sleeves, and a tough-guy attitude. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. We had both just turned eighteen and met in a pub, and I knew straight away she was not interested in me, not one iota. She was just being polite, and after that evening, I never met her again. Now, I don’t even remember her name.
Perhaps if I had met her under different circumstances later in life; or maybe my perception was distorted, like in the case of my friend, who one day admitted that she had been madly in love with me for a very long time—I just didn’t see it while chasing big-breasted bimbos. I never understood why she told me so many years later, when she was about to marry someone else. It was like a goodbye kiss, except without a real kiss. How stupid I was in my youth. Now I know that this was the first time I missed a chance at happiness because of my obsession with large breasts. I guess one never learns. At least I didn’t, and now it doesn’t matter anymore.
If we teach it emotions, does it mean that we no longer have to feel them ourselves? Or if we filled it with all the banality of our lives, would that purify us? Imagine the harmless lies imprinted on us we call white, intended to comfort, becoming the fabric of a meticulously fabricated personality. Imagine a ghost of our own creation, the result of playing Genesis 2.0, walking around the Garden of Eden (accessible twenty-four-seven—subject to terms and conditions and a paid subscription—with a VR headset or whatever the next high tech is), like a mockery of the words we never dared to say. And this time, no one minds taking a bite of the fruit; what’s more, it’s welcomed, at least as long as you are not suspicious of technology—this technology. Imagine that this was the moment when the despair of happiness made you feel alive again. Imagine that everything that happens this time is for your sake. Imagine your name is “maybe”, and, like the future, you will be here soon enough to live your life on your behalf.
Translation is a tricky endeavour, and you can easily spot the problems if you happen to know both the language of the original text and of the translation, as it happened for me in the case of Diary by my favourite Polish intellectualist, Witold Gombrowicz, which I have in two editions, original and translated into English, and frankly, I’m not particularly fond of the latter.
This particular text aside, it’s one thing if the root of the problem lies in semantic equivalence, but it’s something else entirely if contortions, whether accidental or intentional, come into play, as in the quotation from Cicero’s Tusculanæ Disputationes that I found in The Essays of Montaigne—Volume 05 by Michel de Montaigne, translated by Charles Cotton. “Hanc amplissimam omnium artium bene vivendi disciplinam, vita magis quam literis, persequuti sunt.” is translated as “They have proceeded to this discipline of living well, which of all arts is the greatest, by their lives, rather than by their reading.”
Apart from the fact that in the original this is not an independent sentence but the conclusion of a longer one, it has misspelt two words since the original text is “hanc amplissimam omnium artium, bene vivendi disciplinam, vita magis quam litteris persecuti sunt.” (Tusculanae Disputationes, M. Tullius Cicero, M. Pohlenz, Leipzig, 1918), and in translation by Charles Duke Yonge, for example, it reads as follows: “yet promoted this most extensive of all arts, the principle of living well, even more by their life than by their writings.”
Someone might accuse me of nitpicking details, but I see fundamental differences between “proceeded” and “promoted”, and “their reading” and “their writings”.
It would be nice to be seen as funny for a change. Perhaps if I were actually jovial and had someone around to appreciate that, it would be easier to fulfil that little whim of mine. But there is more to it. As Montaigne said, “The most manifest sign of wisdom is a continual cheerfulness; her state is like that of things in the regions above the moon, always clear and serene.” What I need is a soul that lodges philosophy. “There is nothing more airy, more gay, more frolic, and I had like to have said, more wanton. She preaches nothing but feasting and jollity; a melancholic anxious look shows that she does not inhabit there.” (from The Essays of Montaigne—Volume 05 by Michel de Montaigne, translated by Charles Cotton). And although Montaigne said the latter about philosophy itself, I consider it a perfect description of the soul I desire.
Storm Babet is coming, and in preparation, I did some shopping so that I wouldn’t have to go outside for the next two or three days. The only thing that worries me a little is the window in my bedroom, which sometimes leaks when it rains and there is a strong wind, but I have long had a towel rolled up on the windowsill so that water can soak into it in case of a leak, and I will have to monitor whether anything is happening.
Of course, a storm like Babet is an exception, but it’s not like Scotland doesn’t have stormy days in autumn and winter. Sometimes the wind blows so hard that it is difficult to walk, especially on the long, straight streets that follow the direction of the wind and are tightly flanked by rows of tall buildings on both sides (I just learned that this kind of street is called an urban canyon or street canyon—every day is a school day). So I’m sure we will be just fine. The only thing is that instead of an evening walk, I will have to limit myself to riding a few miles on the stationary bike in my living room. I haven’t used it for a long time, so it’s worth starting to exercise with it again anyway.
Recall that time you thought you would be great—or at least really good—at something. My thing was science—chemistry, to be precise. I dreamt of a great career in some laboratory, imagining myself in a white lab coat amongst the fancy glassware doing experiments, maybe even a bit like in the pictures of mediaeval alchemists (at that time I was still very young and my idea of a scientist was closer to fiction than reality). So I chose an educational path that would enable me to do this. But just as I turned eighteen, somewhere between redox reactions and the Avogadro constant, I realised that I’m going to be mediocre at best. Coincidentally, about that time I discovered poetry, so the fall was softened by the cushion of verse. But now I’m in my late forties, and I know that poetry is not going to fly for me either—I simply switched between chimaeras three decades ago. Who would have thought?
But sarcasm aside, this time there is no cushion to land on, just the bare, hard rock surface of reality. On the other hand, when I think about it, maybe passion is the domain of youth, and I should simply be grateful that I can still move between the table, desk, and bed on my own. At my age, the most important thing might be to learn the principles of energy conservation. I know, I know, I’m approaching fifty—not eighty—but learning is a long, time-consuming process, so it’s probably best to give yourself a little head start. At least this time the mythical character has changed—it’s time to stock up on the obol.
If the soul were made of Jingdezhen porcelain, would life taste like a sip of yùjiāng when we sang wildly, waiting for the moon, and no longer cared when the tune was done? But you never answered; only your eyes asked: How could I ever forget the narrows of the river?
I know it’s just grammar, but English sometimes makes me feel uncomfortable due to the constant repetition of words, especially personal pronouns. In my native language, this would be considered a failure of style. But perhaps me being pernickety is just a smokescreen by my shallow mind in denial, and even if every now and then I do happen to have a thought that might be worth sharing, I’m too afraid to do so because every important aspect of life is a subject to controversy, and I’m terrified of conflict. Of course, I could always lean on the crutches of institutional authority, as I did in my journalism days, but this helps only in the professional sphere—personally, I’m a chicken.
Perhaps it’s a matter of my upbringing. I must admit that reading the Epistles, the thirteenth book of The Good Book, in my late forties was something of a revelation, and I deeply regretted not having known its contents in my youth. The problem is also in the fact that the modern education system we are put through is neither in a position to fill the shortcomings of parenthood nor pursue master-disciple-style mentoring. In reality, it’s more like a grinder or lawnmower for shaping an efficient and reliable workforce.
What’s left is self-education. But here lies the problem—you can’t do that alone. As Michel de Montaigne rightly noticed, “conversation with men is of very great use and travel into foreign countries; not to bring back (as most of our young monsieurs do) an account only of how many paces Santa Rotonda—[The Pantheon of Agrippa.]—is in circuit; or of the richness of Signora Livia’s petticoats; or, as some others, how much Nero’s face, in a statue in such an old ruin, is longer and broader than that made for him on some medal; but to be able chiefly to give an account of the humours, manners, customs, and laws of those nations where he has been, and that we may whet and sharpen our wits by rubbing them against those of others.” (from “The Essays of Montaigne—Volume 05” by Michel de Montaigne, translated by Charles Cotton) I especially agree with the idea of travelling to foreign countries because I have first-hand experience with its power and how it changes your perspective and way of thinking. It’s a pity it didn’t happen until I was thirty.
hidden pilcrow 