|
Reflecting - after finishing 'Interview' for the ninth time |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
~~:. * .:~~
What is it about the weave of the words in that book, Interview With the Vampire, which I prize more highly than any other work to grace paper with ink, that lingers and teases some strange ethereal intelligence out of me? What spell is it that draws these beautiful words from my thoughts, my fingertips beckoning them into being with the irregular clicking and tapping of computer keys? Do the words transform me? Or do they merely influence me, like some divine evanescent drug.
I wonder what it would be like to wander around in this state of mind for all eternity, like the vampire Louis, who in self-torment despairs between the pages of that book. Torture, perhaps. And yet I want to experience it, because the meaning of Louis’s frustration at the end is clear enough: No being truly grasps what he has not experienced for himself firsthand, and therefore, no amount of vibrant storytelling and souring morals can convey the wisdom that seems so obviously unfair, and is thusly deemed untrue by the listener. The boy with the recorder, in a ghostly similarity to Armand, sought to find the passion and reverence in an everlasting life, and Louis--poor faithless infinitely wise Louis--like a mentor with a stubborn unruly student, grows angry that his meaning is lost on this mortal boy.
It makes perfect sense that he should expect this short stupid life to understand in hours what Louis himself has learned in decades, and unthinkable that the impertinent boy should not instantly drop to his hands and knees, kissing the hem of Louis’s cloak with prostrate fervence, and say that it is the absolute truth of everything and he shall never need look for meaning in anything beyond that ever again for as long as the flicker of his trivial life lasts.
Perhaps my sarcasm is too obvious, but; how could Louis expect that boy to understand, when he himself had already subconsciously deemed him to be so naïve, simply by referring to him as a ‘boy’. How could he expect that ‘boy’ to take to heart a lesson that he did not want to understand, did not want to believe was true?
Louis wanted to tell his story; he wanted to make another soul, one that had not fallen into the same pit as he, understand his pain, his mistakes, his flaws, eventhough he fully expected that this same soul would never walk the path that he had. What then, was his purpose in sharing such knowledge, when it would be carried around by that one mortal man, utterly useless to him until the day his mortal life ended: It was a simple insecurity, which is embedded deeply in all things that live or once lived, to not go unnoticed in the passage of time. Louis wished to live, to exist, and did so in being witnessed by another living soul, and by exposing himself to that ‘boy’, gave his seemingly empty existence a purpose which even he did not know or understand. With that, we can still see--if only with a clarity like fine mist falling through the air--that there is still the jaded shadow of a mortal man in him, and in all of us, and that he has yet to completely die as a mortal.
This last faint shred of humanity only makes Louis more endearing, and I feel drawn to him again, in much the way that Armand must have been.
This is the ninth time I have finished that book. I found that I had missed so much of it before; so many small parts that had either escaped me or eluded me were discovered in those pages. Whether I was discovering them again or for the first lucid time; each one rang true, deep in a part of me that everyone has and keeps hidden from others as if jealously guarding their own souls. It was those moments of subtle feelings, feelings described so exactly that I could feel them again and with utter clarity, that I valued the most. That is the skill I want.
I want the power to make another soul feel an emotion so subtle that they have no name for it, and in feeling it again, to make them realize that they had overlooked this small but overwhelming feeling, and through that, make it acutely real.
Why do I want this, you would wonder?
I don’t know why.
Perhaps because it gives me some absolute satisfaction to imagine being able to master a craft to that degree. And perhaps there is no further explanation needed, other than the fact that it is what I want.
Who really has anything but trivial reasons as to why they love what they love so deeply? And why should they need even those trivial reasons?
But those are not real questions; merely loaded statements intended to make you draw your own conclusions, and thus give you the answers that you would not quite have understood unless you arrived at them on your own.
If Louis possessed the magnitude of wisdom that Armand commanded, then he would have realized that was the proper way to make the ‘boy’ understand; to question the boy in such a way that he would tell Louis exactly what he was trying to make the boy comprehend. To put the answers on his tongue, and therefore, directly into his understanding.
Perhaps, in answer to my own wondering, it is the beautiful words this book puts into my head that draws these gilded sentiments from me. Perhaps, like baited questions, they force me to expose the potential of my own pretty words, and in doing so, teach me more and more about the things mere words are capable of.
I wonder if I am learning from myself, or if I am learning from this book.
Or maybe it is the words themselves that are teaching me their mysterious ways.
Whichever it is, I know only that I wish for one other person to feel a connection in these words, not unlike those subtle and fleeting nameless emotions that I discovered in the pages of the book.
Like Louis’s hidden desire to exist through the eyes of a witness, I hope that my love of words echoes in someone who reads them, and reinforces a small piece of their own purpose, which they can then take away from this modest reflection for themselves.
In this way, I believe that we all justify the pursuit of what we love: in the search for a kindred spirit.
Even if it is one we think we may never find.
~~:. * .:~~
 Mitsukeru Furidomu · Thu Oct 11, 2007 @ 07:41pm · 0 Comments |
|
|
|
|
|
