"[...] everything was linked to a certain ability to create delusions, to an ardent aspiration towards something that was nor memory, nor expectation, nor hope, nor regret, but desire in all its consuming intensity. She lived like this for weeks and months beneath the tropical sky, loving, knowing, cherishing only a shadow, going only more deeply into a dream."
Maybe due to this "dreaming", she was all the more desperate to give herself to the embodiment of this ideal- or what she thought was her ideal. Do dreams bear desperation?
"She made for herself a world apart, which consoled her fro the one in which she was forced to live."
"Who can relate the dreams of the poet before his emotion has cooled so that he can write them down for us?"
He still loses something...he distorts it so that the mind's of cattle can criticize it. This sick reality is so cruel- this process of transferring from the dream to the practical.
"It was with these thoughts in mind that I asked you to put on this white dress; it's your wedding-dress, and that rock jutting out over the lake is the altar that awaits us."
Morbid romanticism.
"[...] and how the things of this life appear in their true light just when we are about to put an end to them."
And how miserably ironic. As if destiny mocks the pathetic attempt, letting us know that we still don't know the whole story. Oh, to live as if it was our last day! How different that would be!
"[...] there are memories we take the sine off by recounting them."
Memories can be pried open too much by the increasing dependence of the joy they provided. Then, they cease to become memories and instead turn into a source of a high, just like any other drug. This distorts their essence.
"What can the heart that has not suffered understand of happiness?"
One simple word: contrast!
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Which was stronger?- Ralph or Indiana? Indiana truly did sacrifice herself for most of her life, but then gave vent to her passions and wished to escape her vitues- claiming she deserved this freeedom. While Ralph had all the virtues of Indiana, and yet buried it within himself. I think Ralph was stronger because he didn't expect a reward unlike Indiana. He thought himself beneath a reward, giving him a noble character. Indiana broke and gave in to "temptation" over and over, even George Sand called her character weak.
The concept of suicide, and discovering this world once again is extremely interesting. (Of course, I only mean this from a literary point of view, since suicide in real life is of course tragic.) For only when we have nothing left to lose do we have everything to gain. To get to the pont where verything is viewed as temporary and insignificant-to treasure nothing-that requires a lot of suffering. And yet, when we let go of life, then we can truly grasp it, then one can become part of the "harmony", to quote Rilke. When one takes himself OUT of his existence, only then can he truly admire and observe it. But easily said, when one has things to treasure, one has the luxury of looking at this as a concept (even from a literary point of view), as a possible choice. How does one let go of one's treasures consciously, without any suffering required? Is it even possible, and if so, is it really sincere? It is so sad, because being "sober"one desires this uncaring attitude, and yet, it cannot soberly be achieved. It will remain an idea, something vague...
Suicide as a literary concept has a very romantic feel to it- a couple of books come to mind such as Balzac's Lost Illusions. The poet, through despair, knows there isn't a way out, and so- coward that he is (because they usually are cowards, and that's what makes them passive)- and weak, he gives in to the ultimate lure of the ideal suicide. And of course it is very tempting, to take control of the world and show fate that they too can choose their destiny, even though in reality they cannot. But after all, that is the charm of the poet, his weakness and loneliness makes him sensitive to Genius. I don't condemn them at all- actually I personally think that for the literary poet, happiness is impossible, and suicide is their only suitable death. Because there is this wonderful drama and tragedy about it, that gives their death such feeling and emotion. Which is so individual, depicting one last time the trace of their existence.
I was curious what the blogging world would say on such a topic: suicide as a literary concept. This blog was interesting, giving a historical view on this concept through literature. Then, unexpectedly, Wikipedia comes up with "Suicide in 19th Century Russian Literature" and there is Gogol! I did read the Nevsky Prospekt, and am very surprised that I haven't commented on it. Poor Liza by Karamzin was already on my to-read list. Must get to it! (I actually found it here in pdf format!)
In art, I found a marvelous blog that features this excellent collection of paintings/images on the topic of suicide. Tastefully picked.
My favorite, and appropriately French, The Suicide by Édouard Manet:
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