Once upon a time, a girl gets into a doctoral program in literature. She aspires to be a medievalist, because medieval things are cool. But more importantly, because she'd get to spend years learning and writing and researching in the midst of brilliant, strange people.
However, forces in the universe conspire to remind her that she is a poet, and has always been so, and life is short. Doing things for the sake of their coolness begins to feel dubious.
She begins the program and announces her desire to study poetry. This is a compromise, and the gods can smell it. She manages to piss off the program - "betrayed!" - as well as herself - "now what?"
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The "what" has a long, long way to go before it is settled - something like another 9 months of my contract.
But in the meantime, fuck it. I'll read Rilke, and I will write about Rilke, and The Academly can't fucking stop me.
Rilke's Duino Elegies stop me in my tracks. By god, am I glad I've learned German! I catch myself muttering "Ein jeder Engel ist shrechlick" under my breath; it floats so gorgeously, caught up in waves of tongue. Every language really should be all about tongue contortions, if you ask me.
Anyway, the Third Elegy (Die dritte Elegie) in particular has remained with me for the past few days:
Du nicht hast ihm, wehe, nicht seine Mutter / hat ihm die Bogen der Braun so zur Erwartung gespannt. / Nicht an dir, ihn fuhlendes Madchen, an dir nicht / bog seine Lippe sich zum fruchtbarern Ausdruck. / Meinst du wirklich, ihn hatte dein leichter Auftritt / also erschuttert, du, die wandelt die Fruhwind? (14-19)
The not-quite-amazing translation goes something like this...
No, it really wasn't you, nor was it his mother / who arched his brow with so much expectation. / Girl who's holding him now, not for yours, not for your lips did his thicken with passion . / You who wander like the morning breeze, do you really / thinking your gentle coming could convulse him so?
And then, oh my god:
Zwar du erschrakst ihm das Herz; doch altere Schrecken / sturzten in ihn bei dem beruhrenden Anstoss. (20-21)
True, you scared his heart; but more ancient terrors rushed into him with your shocking touch.
(Despite the miniature disasters of life, I can always read of "more ancient terrors" convulsing the heart. Quality consolation!)
What I find so fascinating in this Elegy is typical of my predeliction for pscyhoanaltical theory. I mean, c'mon - his mother and his lover are mentioned in the same line?! What a hideously beautiful paradox! And frankly, more true than most people care to admit (which is not to neglect the equally detrimental effects of an overpowering father, but I digress).
Who indeed has arched his brown with expectation? Expectation for what? Something about the women just mentioned - their proximity, their corporeal reality - leads me to assume he's craving feminine presence, love. But it can't be that simple. Expectation: the poet knows exactly what he wants, and the Desired She is an ideal - a construct of his mind, that neither mother nor lover could ever, or can ever, supply the infinite, selfless, complete love we desperately imagine ourselves as entitled to. They can approximate the Anima Soulmate, of course (particularly on a cold night, har har), but he's beyond fulfillment. He's too hyper-aware of Woman's perpetual/impending disappointment.
My heart breaks for the "Girl". Not even a woman; at least not in his eyes - comfortably infantilized and metaphysically distanced; should we believe the poet's external references to the "he," the "him"? At the risk of imposing, I daresay the poet resorts to emotional detachment, using this third-person perspective to distance himself further from his his misery. Perhaps this sadness is, as usual, linked to the apparently uncontrollable passion which once "thickened his lips", as though the physical acted before the spiritual kicked in - as though a lover's contract has taken place, as it inevitably will do, amidst all the embraces and kisses. The poet has entered into a contract that his spirit, upon reflection, cannot fulfill.
He tries to recognize her and extend some courtesy, some kindness: "You who wander like the morning breeze..." But even this attempt to reach out collapses into a bitter self-critique: "do you really / think your gentle coming could convulse him so?" The poet views himself as the center, the Girl as mere periphery. Worse yet, his center is a vortex, devoid of joy, love, hope - he wallows in his unattainability.
And then the killer line: "more ancient terrors rushed into him with your shocking touch." However, 'shocking' is a poor translation here; I started trying to sort out my own version, but then remembered that I am a)not paid to do so and b)no one is reading this so I might as well do it later.
Anyway. Ancient terrors. I mean, obviously he goes on from here, and I could really go on, but I shan't. See the reasons stated above.
I dig the whole metaphysical, mystical, existential vibe. I love that it's an elegy, and therefore evocative of a great heritage, ancestry, marble columns, etc. I love that despite all of that, it's scorchingly human and simple - love between two human beings, and yet that very act is not so simple at all. It is fraught with power, difference, distance, and ego.
Fabulously depressing. You see? Rilke is keepin' it real. I appreciate that, now, particularly.
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