2004-06-30
The Cygnets and The Ducklings
hearing: Tisbury Lane - Mae
reading: nothing
wearing: some crappy clothes I put on this morning...wet hair
Finally, after many weeks, and many many intervals of neglecting to read, I have finished Middlemarch last night.
I believe, that that might be my favorite book which I have ever read. Or at least, that book has reached a pretty high spot on my list. The intricacies of character, the intertwining themes, all in all, the book was fabulous. And I loved the titles of the "books" the entire book was divided into. The manifold meanings were fabulous. "The Dead Hand" and "The Wife And The Widow" come to mind immediately. It applied to both sides of the story being told.
I was disappointed with the ending though. It was too happy. Books where everything seems to work out rather perfectly annoy me. Although the ending wasn't quite perfect. I admit. The frustration of Dr. Lydgate's plans to revolutionize medical treatments and his marriage (which he probably found tiresome and unsatisfactory all of his life) satisfied, to a degree my yearning for seeing the unhappiness and imperfection. How did Dorothea's life go? Would it be considered that her own high aspiriations were fulfilled in the course of life she took? Or did she feel stifled? Or would she always? Always be yearning... Mr. Bulstrode did not end happily of course. That was to be expected. Fred Vincy had the best life of all of them I believe, although he was less of a central character than some of the others.
In any case, it isn't worth it to continue. The book was marvelous. I am not sure that I enjoyed it so much because I have grown more discerning and learned to evaluate better, or if it was simply that excellent of a book. I shall have to try reading War and Peace or Vanity Fair again and test this theory. If I find myself understanding either of those books better, I could say it is myself. If not, I will know it was simply Middlemarch.
No no, I should try my hand at The Golden Bowl again. I think I might be able to read and understand it this time. And farther than the third (fourth?) chapter. I hope. I want to read that book someday. It isn't that hard to read...
I have had another thought. Perhaps, this book was so much loved by myself, because the central longing of Dorothea's breast resonated closely to mine. I could never claim to be a Dorothea, but I wonder if my soul yearns somewhat as her's does. Deep down. The part of me which keeps being hindered and stifled and overlooked and forgotten. It was stirred to struggle up again by some recent events in my own spiritual life. Am I only being a silly, pretentious girl again? Most likely.
Despite this ...uhm...recent triumph in my intelligence, I feel extremely ignorant and devoid of much understanding this morning. The feelings began last night.
I was propounding much in my mind, and finding more and more, that really, I believe I know next to nothing. I get into very long phases of believing myself rather advanced in the knowledge of many...urm...spirtual matters ? Character discernments? Perhaps I'm just looking to say that I feel I have more wisdom than the average teenager.
But after last night, I realized my own incompetance and idiocy again. Which isn't to say that I hate myself or anything of the sort. It is simply to say that I realize that I have a very humoungous gap and shortcoming in myself and need to work more diligently to fill it.
But even with what I say now, I feel I touch subjects I should not venture to touch. I feel that I am too far under them and incompetant as of yet to touch. But I shall still strain. I shall still swipe and whisper and explain what I see in a glance. However wrong, sometimes, we must be wrong before we can be right. But perhaps I shall hold these wrong thoughts within myself until I can prove them wrong and correct them. As I have done this morning. As I usually do. Withhold my thoughts, until I may prove them right or wrong and make corrections accordingly.
Here and there, a cygnet is reared uneasily among the ducklings in the brown pond, and never finds the living stream in fellowship with its own oary-footed kind. Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hinderances, instead of centering in some long-recognizable deed.
Post Script Its in moods like this... When thoughts like these occupy me...I feel like no one understands. I feel alone in an airy world of light and death and eternity and striving ever forward and fearful submission and yearning and longing and proper subserviance and inferiority... No one quite knows or understands what I am feeling. No one stands near me to share in my dim vision or to teach me to open my eyes more to this shining world I see spread before my vision. I feel thusly, that I must be absurd and ill informed and ignorant and silly. I am caught up in a useless fantasy world. I wish I had a kindred spirit to encourage me through. Or at least someone to crash this castle and show me how wrong I am. If wrong I be.