The room I'm in has two doorways. One led me in, and the other leads out.
I've been in this room for a while now, but I've been going through rooms like it almost for as long as I can remember. I'm looking for something, and all I know is that it is in one of these rooms. If I keep searching, sooner or later I'm going to find it. When I do, I'll be able to stop, but until then my feet burn and there is no rest.
The rooms come one after another in a regular procession, each a little more spacious, each a little better lit, each a little more unsettling than the one before it. And though I enter the room nervously, the result has been the same each time. After a few weeks, I relax and feel at home until, eventually, I notice a pungent smell and I'm forced to move on, further up and further in.
Sometimes I don't know where my journey is leading me, whether to a frozen sea with men submerged in the ice up to their necks, or even deeper a few miles further; or to the warm brilliance that outshone Beatrice. But wherever it leads, this is the journey I am walking, and will follow it to the end. Once you pass through the wicker-gate there is no way to leave the road, not even when the light fails, as it often will.
I feel like I'm getting closer, that the end of my search may lie just beyond the next door, but I've felt that way before.
And now I am at the door, and my hand is upon the handle. In all probability, one of two things lies in the room beyond: a body, badly decomposed, or Nothing. And if there is another door on the far side of the room, my search will continue.
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Monday, February 28, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
Seeing the stitches
I wonder what it was that first made Victor Frankenstein view his creation with such horror.
He was in a state of euphoria as he worked on the monster. It was the culmination of his work in natural philosophy, the act by which he was surpassing every scholar who had gone before him. It was going to lay the foundation for his remaining life's work. He worked, he gave the creature structure and form, and he gave it life.
And then, Shelley notes, he started to hate it.
Was it the size of his creation that drove him mad? Now that it had come to life, was it too big for him to properly understand? Now that it was living, had it suddenly grown into something too large and too complex for him to wrap even his great mind around? Did he foresee that this simple idea of creating, now that he had invested himself in it, would take him places he never would want to go? Did he realize even then the grief it would bring him?
Or maybe it was, now that the blind zeal of his initial faith had worn off, that he noticed imperfections he hadn't allowed him to see in those months leading up to its creation. Its skin was too thin, the toes weren't on straight, the arms weren't the same length, and overall it lacked the grace and polish he had convinced himself that it had.
When he looked at it objectively, perhaps Frankenstein realized that what he had achieved, what he had believed in, and what he had dedicated his life to, made no sense.
The monster lived, and moved, and breathed, but it had no business doing any of those things. It was assembled piecemeal from different sources that had too little in common with one another to give the creature true coherence. Here was an eye from Albrecht the doctor, there a forearm from Kleber, and there was a heart from Herr Blücher. Still other pieces came cobbled from one grave or another, from places and persons he never knew, but that surely weren't as radiant as those he did.
By the evidence of his eyes and his reason, Frankenstein knew the parts didn't belong together, no matter how he had tried to edit them together. He could see the thousands of sutures it took to hold them together. The sheer folly of attempting to cobble together a living creature from all these different sources, imposing harmony where none existed, drove him to despair.
One wonders how each of us will respond when we have such moments of clarity about our life's work. God grant that we are spared Frankenstein's fate.
Copyright © 2011 by David Learn. Used with permission.
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He was in a state of euphoria as he worked on the monster. It was the culmination of his work in natural philosophy, the act by which he was surpassing every scholar who had gone before him. It was going to lay the foundation for his remaining life's work. He worked, he gave the creature structure and form, and he gave it life.
And then, Shelley notes, he started to hate it.
Was it the size of his creation that drove him mad? Now that it had come to life, was it too big for him to properly understand? Now that it was living, had it suddenly grown into something too large and too complex for him to wrap even his great mind around? Did he foresee that this simple idea of creating, now that he had invested himself in it, would take him places he never would want to go? Did he realize even then the grief it would bring him?
Or maybe it was, now that the blind zeal of his initial faith had worn off, that he noticed imperfections he hadn't allowed him to see in those months leading up to its creation. Its skin was too thin, the toes weren't on straight, the arms weren't the same length, and overall it lacked the grace and polish he had convinced himself that it had.
When he looked at it objectively, perhaps Frankenstein realized that what he had achieved, what he had believed in, and what he had dedicated his life to, made no sense.
The monster lived, and moved, and breathed, but it had no business doing any of those things. It was assembled piecemeal from different sources that had too little in common with one another to give the creature true coherence. Here was an eye from Albrecht the doctor, there a forearm from Kleber, and there was a heart from Herr Blücher. Still other pieces came cobbled from one grave or another, from places and persons he never knew, but that surely weren't as radiant as those he did.
By the evidence of his eyes and his reason, Frankenstein knew the parts didn't belong together, no matter how he had tried to edit them together. He could see the thousands of sutures it took to hold them together. The sheer folly of attempting to cobble together a living creature from all these different sources, imposing harmony where none existed, drove him to despair.
One wonders how each of us will respond when we have such moments of clarity about our life's work. God grant that we are spared Frankenstein's fate.
Copyright © 2011 by David Learn. Used with permission.
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Monday, February 07, 2011
On the road with the pilgrim
The pilgrim emerged from the valley just as the sun was breaking clear of the mountains on the eastern horizon. He stopped for a moment, to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and to steady his shaking hands.
"You look like you've had a rough time of it," said a voice, and though its tone was gentle, the pilgrim started from the rock where he was sitting and drew back a space.
"I'm sorry," the man said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
The pilgrim nodded nervously, and took his seat on the rock again, a small space from where the man now sat. His face was warm and concerned, and the pilgrim relaxed a little.
"It was a difficult voyage through the valley," he finally said. "I thought I would never make it out."
He looked back over his shoulder at the ravine he had just come through. Even now with the morning light spilling over the cliffside, the valley was remarkable more for what its shadows concealed than for what the light revealed. He could see motion in the shadows, and heard the echo of long, sibilant hisses that came from the creatures that lived in the darkness. Something scuttled along the wall, almost seen; while other things slithered or scraped their way across the valley floor.
Somehow, he had gained safe passage through that, and at night. Even now, with the morning sun warm on his face, just the memory of the mouthless whispering that he had endured in the dark was enough to make the pilgrim shudder. He put his hands to his face and held them there a moment, until he regained himself.
The man placed his hand on the pilgrim's right shoulder, and that human touch nearly pushed him over the edge.
"I had to go through it, you see," the pilgrim said desperately, more to himself than to the man beside him. "I was following the path set before me, by the lord of the road, and I thought it would be safe."
"Was it?" The man took the cloak from his shoulders, and draped it over the pilgrim, to warm him.
"At first." The pilgrim shuddered, and as he drew the heavy cloak about himself, a deep pain crept into his eyes. "At first it was easy. I'd followed his directions before, and had come to no real harm, and I thought it would be the same this time as well. But by the time I had gone a quarter-mile, the sun had begun to set, and by the time I had walked an hour, it was gone completely, and the only light I had was from the few stars I could see."
The man said nothing, but as the pilgrim talked, he began a small fire for the pilgrim to warm himself at, and produced a biscuit for him to eat and a flask of brandy to drink.
"I didn't know what to do," the pilgrim said, and it seemed even now as he spoke that he was back in that darkness, lost and struggling to find his way. "I knew if I went back that I would never find my way again, and I knew that if I stayed, then the things I could hear rustling in the dust around me would take me. I didn't have any choice but to take one step, and then another, and then another, never knowing if each step would be the last one."
"That must have been difficult," said the man.
"That wasn't even the worst part," said the pilgrim.
"No?"
"No." The pilgrim laughed bitterly. "The worst part," he said, "was that I was not alone. I was being followed. It was moving in complete silence. It didn't breathe, and it didn't disturb even the smallest stone as it moved, but I knew it was there the entire time, just a few steps behind me. I didn't dare look back, or it would have me, and if I tried to run, I would only trip and be caught. So I had to walk the entire night, with this thing stalking me, with all the patience in the world. It seemed like months, and while it was going on, I wished and hoped so hard to be out of those shadows that sometimes I even convinced myself I had escaped, only to realize a moment later that I had deceived myself, and I was still trapped."
"It's all right," the man said. "You've made it through. You're safe, and it won't get you now."
As soon as the words were said, the pilgrim knew they were true, and he relaxed, and soon fell asleep. When he woke, the man gave him cakes baked on the coals of the fire, and let him drink his fill, until at least it seemed the terror of the valley was gone. As a new day dawned, the pilgrim tied his satchel to his walking stick and glanced back one final time at the valley and its shifting shadows.
"I hope," he said, "that I never go through a valley like that again."
The lord of the road sighed.
"You will," he said. "And some of them will be far worse. By the time you have finished, you may even curse the day you set your foot on my path."
Copyright © 2011 by David Learn. Used with permission.
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"You look like you've had a rough time of it," said a voice, and though its tone was gentle, the pilgrim started from the rock where he was sitting and drew back a space.
"I'm sorry," the man said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
The pilgrim nodded nervously, and took his seat on the rock again, a small space from where the man now sat. His face was warm and concerned, and the pilgrim relaxed a little.
"It was a difficult voyage through the valley," he finally said. "I thought I would never make it out."
He looked back over his shoulder at the ravine he had just come through. Even now with the morning light spilling over the cliffside, the valley was remarkable more for what its shadows concealed than for what the light revealed. He could see motion in the shadows, and heard the echo of long, sibilant hisses that came from the creatures that lived in the darkness. Something scuttled along the wall, almost seen; while other things slithered or scraped their way across the valley floor.
Somehow, he had gained safe passage through that, and at night. Even now, with the morning sun warm on his face, just the memory of the mouthless whispering that he had endured in the dark was enough to make the pilgrim shudder. He put his hands to his face and held them there a moment, until he regained himself.
The man placed his hand on the pilgrim's right shoulder, and that human touch nearly pushed him over the edge.
"I had to go through it, you see," the pilgrim said desperately, more to himself than to the man beside him. "I was following the path set before me, by the lord of the road, and I thought it would be safe."
"Was it?" The man took the cloak from his shoulders, and draped it over the pilgrim, to warm him.
The man said nothing, but as the pilgrim talked, he began a small fire for the pilgrim to warm himself at, and produced a biscuit for him to eat and a flask of brandy to drink.
"I didn't know what to do," the pilgrim said, and it seemed even now as he spoke that he was back in that darkness, lost and struggling to find his way. "I knew if I went back that I would never find my way again, and I knew that if I stayed, then the things I could hear rustling in the dust around me would take me. I didn't have any choice but to take one step, and then another, and then another, never knowing if each step would be the last one."
"That must have been difficult," said the man.
"That wasn't even the worst part," said the pilgrim.
"No?"
"No." The pilgrim laughed bitterly. "The worst part," he said, "was that I was not alone. I was being followed. It was moving in complete silence. It didn't breathe, and it didn't disturb even the smallest stone as it moved, but I knew it was there the entire time, just a few steps behind me. I didn't dare look back, or it would have me, and if I tried to run, I would only trip and be caught. So I had to walk the entire night, with this thing stalking me, with all the patience in the world. It seemed like months, and while it was going on, I wished and hoped so hard to be out of those shadows that sometimes I even convinced myself I had escaped, only to realize a moment later that I had deceived myself, and I was still trapped."
"It's all right," the man said. "You've made it through. You're safe, and it won't get you now."
As soon as the words were said, the pilgrim knew they were true, and he relaxed, and soon fell asleep. When he woke, the man gave him cakes baked on the coals of the fire, and let him drink his fill, until at least it seemed the terror of the valley was gone. As a new day dawned, the pilgrim tied his satchel to his walking stick and glanced back one final time at the valley and its shifting shadows.
"I hope," he said, "that I never go through a valley like that again."
The lord of the road sighed.
"You will," he said. "And some of them will be far worse. By the time you have finished, you may even curse the day you set your foot on my path."
Copyright © 2011 by David Learn. Used with permission.
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