Quick 'n' epistolatory
Apr. 19th, 2008 05:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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inoru_no_hoshi.
Letter currently to be found at the back of the top drawer of Holden's armoire, along with a braided bracelet made of hair:
Holden,
Do you remember the letters I used to write you-- in hexameters, in Greek characters-- and the short, funny ones you would scrawl back that would have me laughing till I saw you again? You used to admire my learning, but you were always more intelligent than I, and better versed in a different kind of learning, wise enough in the ways of the world to know when to hold tight and when to let go. You are right, of course, no matter how much I might want to argue; and all you have to do is smile at me in that way you always had (oh, God, how little you've changed, and how much I know I have), half loving my romantic optimism, half sorrowing over its inevitable shattering. I was always amazed at how much more you seemed to know about life, when you were so much younger than I, and now, given the life you've lived, the loves and losses you've gained and suffered, I feel so young beside you. And so old, so hopelessly old.
I think a great deal lately about what you said, the night of the strangest dinner party of my life, with our families waiting for us downstairs. That you had always wanted me to prove you wrong. About life, about the ugliness of the world, about defeat and despair and casual evil. You always laughed at me (oh, how I miss hearing you laugh at me) for my earnest, sheltered belief in an almighty god who had intelligently designed the world to some good end-- you with your pantheon of beautiful, dangerous tricksters, constantly menaced by brutish, mindless giants and ultimately doomed to destruction at their hands. Your stories were exotic and frightening to me, but I always thought mine were only laughable to you. Until you told me, that night, as our children fell asleep on one another's shoulders, that you had always hoped-- despite everything-- that I was right, that if you stayed with me I could show you the way to a world not twisted and broken in its very nature. You had hoped to be wrong. I cannot possibly tell you how much I wish you had been. I cannot tell you how much I would have liked to prove you wrong, Holden, to prove that God is good and to care for you as your gods never promised to do. There is little comfort for either of us in the end of that argument-- I can only imagine that victory tastes as bitter to you as defeat could have to me.
And there is little comfort in the end of this association, my darling, although as I started to say before I began babbling of religion, you are of course right. We are no longer who we were, and continuing to meet is only feeding ghosts with blood that they may speak to us with our own voices, as in the more gruesome tales you used to tell. But I could have told you that in a few words; this is to say more than that, though so much less than I would like. This is to say that these few meetings and visits, these glimpses of your new life and your home, have filled me with such wonder and humility as would be painful if they were not so sweet. Your life's work, passionate and worthwhile as nothing in my life but you has ever been; your dear wife, whom you trust and love as I have never trusted or loved any woman, and your intelligent, passionate daughter; the three (!) slaves whose eyes follow you with such tenderness and devotion that I marvel I ever thought to keep a boy-- a man-- with so much love to give, for myself only.
My own-- when I had the right to call you that, I loved you more than my own life. But over these years of separation, while I withered and wallowed in self-pity and self-recrimination, while I dutifully fathered and raised the children my family expected of me and wore your bracelet like a self-imposed fetter-- Holden, what you have become! A life lived as "my boy," however happy that might have made us both, could not possibly have made you the man you are today-- and I would not exchange the presence of that man in the world, even if we are not to see each other again, for anything you could name me. Not even for a life lived by your side as your gentle and attentive protector; not even for my lost belief in a God who loved us all as I loved you.
I know that you no longer love me. There is little left to love. I know you pity me, and there is much to pity. If I tell you I do not blame you for either of these things, will you try not to blame me if I find myself incapable of either pitying you, despite all your trials, or ceasing to love you? If you find it hard to understand, I think your family will speak in my behalf, especially your youngest slave, Bran, in whom something-- arrogance or humility, hope or pain-- leads me to detect a resemblance to myself as I was when I first aspired to own you. Perhaps you should have been the owner all along, and I the sheltered pet. Or perhaps, after all, things have occurred precisely as God intended. Try not to blame me for this either, if I cling, in my old age (and I am old, even if you are not) to a belief that once comforted me. Some ghosts are not as clear-sighted as yourself, and will not protest if I go on feeding them a little, here and there.
But you will, and you are wise: these visits cause us needless pain and, I think, worry your slaves. I am glad, more than glad, that we found one another again; and I am glad we live in the same world. Our children care for one another, so I expect we shall encounter one another now and again, without seeking one another out, and I hope you are content it should be so.
And if I might ask a favor, it would be that you should remember me, dear one, not as you have last seen me, but as he who loved you beyond rhyme or reason, in a time when we were both too young to fear that kind of love. Remember that you were right, when we both wanted you to be wrong, and remember that you have taught me the folly of believing that my pain at your loss could serve no greater purpose, even God's purpose, since if there were a God, I think he might well prove it by creating the man you have become. And if there is such a being, may he and all your gods and giants bless you, Holden.
Pasha (Lord Pavel Kareyev)
Οἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον οἰ δὲ πέσδων
οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ᾽ ἐπὶ γᾶν μέλαιναν
ἔμμεναι κάλλιστον ἔγω δὲ κῆν᾽
ὄττω τὶσ ἔπαται.
inoru_no_hoshi.Letter currently to be found at the back of the top drawer of Holden's armoire, along with a braided bracelet made of hair:
Holden,
Do you remember the letters I used to write you-- in hexameters, in Greek characters-- and the short, funny ones you would scrawl back that would have me laughing till I saw you again? You used to admire my learning, but you were always more intelligent than I, and better versed in a different kind of learning, wise enough in the ways of the world to know when to hold tight and when to let go. You are right, of course, no matter how much I might want to argue; and all you have to do is smile at me in that way you always had (oh, God, how little you've changed, and how much I know I have), half loving my romantic optimism, half sorrowing over its inevitable shattering. I was always amazed at how much more you seemed to know about life, when you were so much younger than I, and now, given the life you've lived, the loves and losses you've gained and suffered, I feel so young beside you. And so old, so hopelessly old.
I think a great deal lately about what you said, the night of the strangest dinner party of my life, with our families waiting for us downstairs. That you had always wanted me to prove you wrong. About life, about the ugliness of the world, about defeat and despair and casual evil. You always laughed at me (oh, how I miss hearing you laugh at me) for my earnest, sheltered belief in an almighty god who had intelligently designed the world to some good end-- you with your pantheon of beautiful, dangerous tricksters, constantly menaced by brutish, mindless giants and ultimately doomed to destruction at their hands. Your stories were exotic and frightening to me, but I always thought mine were only laughable to you. Until you told me, that night, as our children fell asleep on one another's shoulders, that you had always hoped-- despite everything-- that I was right, that if you stayed with me I could show you the way to a world not twisted and broken in its very nature. You had hoped to be wrong. I cannot possibly tell you how much I wish you had been. I cannot tell you how much I would have liked to prove you wrong, Holden, to prove that God is good and to care for you as your gods never promised to do. There is little comfort for either of us in the end of that argument-- I can only imagine that victory tastes as bitter to you as defeat could have to me.
And there is little comfort in the end of this association, my darling, although as I started to say before I began babbling of religion, you are of course right. We are no longer who we were, and continuing to meet is only feeding ghosts with blood that they may speak to us with our own voices, as in the more gruesome tales you used to tell. But I could have told you that in a few words; this is to say more than that, though so much less than I would like. This is to say that these few meetings and visits, these glimpses of your new life and your home, have filled me with such wonder and humility as would be painful if they were not so sweet. Your life's work, passionate and worthwhile as nothing in my life but you has ever been; your dear wife, whom you trust and love as I have never trusted or loved any woman, and your intelligent, passionate daughter; the three (!) slaves whose eyes follow you with such tenderness and devotion that I marvel I ever thought to keep a boy-- a man-- with so much love to give, for myself only.
My own-- when I had the right to call you that, I loved you more than my own life. But over these years of separation, while I withered and wallowed in self-pity and self-recrimination, while I dutifully fathered and raised the children my family expected of me and wore your bracelet like a self-imposed fetter-- Holden, what you have become! A life lived as "my boy," however happy that might have made us both, could not possibly have made you the man you are today-- and I would not exchange the presence of that man in the world, even if we are not to see each other again, for anything you could name me. Not even for a life lived by your side as your gentle and attentive protector; not even for my lost belief in a God who loved us all as I loved you.
I know that you no longer love me. There is little left to love. I know you pity me, and there is much to pity. If I tell you I do not blame you for either of these things, will you try not to blame me if I find myself incapable of either pitying you, despite all your trials, or ceasing to love you? If you find it hard to understand, I think your family will speak in my behalf, especially your youngest slave, Bran, in whom something-- arrogance or humility, hope or pain-- leads me to detect a resemblance to myself as I was when I first aspired to own you. Perhaps you should have been the owner all along, and I the sheltered pet. Or perhaps, after all, things have occurred precisely as God intended. Try not to blame me for this either, if I cling, in my old age (and I am old, even if you are not) to a belief that once comforted me. Some ghosts are not as clear-sighted as yourself, and will not protest if I go on feeding them a little, here and there.
But you will, and you are wise: these visits cause us needless pain and, I think, worry your slaves. I am glad, more than glad, that we found one another again; and I am glad we live in the same world. Our children care for one another, so I expect we shall encounter one another now and again, without seeking one another out, and I hope you are content it should be so.
And if I might ask a favor, it would be that you should remember me, dear one, not as you have last seen me, but as he who loved you beyond rhyme or reason, in a time when we were both too young to fear that kind of love. Remember that you were right, when we both wanted you to be wrong, and remember that you have taught me the folly of believing that my pain at your loss could serve no greater purpose, even God's purpose, since if there were a God, I think he might well prove it by creating the man you have become. And if there is such a being, may he and all your gods and giants bless you, Holden.
Pasha (Lord Pavel Kareyev)
Οἰ μὲν ἰππήων στρότον οἰ δὲ πέσδων
οἰ δὲ νάων φαῖσ᾽ ἐπὶ γᾶν μέλαιναν
ἔμμεναι κάλλιστον ἔγω δὲ κῆν᾽
ὄττω τὶσ ἔπαται.
