I Will Go Down to the Amethyst Ocean

purple oceanCan words really describe our lives?

I was listening to the REM song “Losing My Religion”, and it captured some of what I think of life, both in content and in the feeling you get from the song. “That was just a dream. That’s me in the corner.” The song makes me think of the question up above, but I think of that question also in part because when I write, that’s what I’m trying to do, describe life.

I’m not wondering whether words can be used to describe a moment or a feeling, because I think they can. What I’m thinking, as absurd as it seems to me, is whether words can capture what it is like to be human here on the earth, in this existence.

That, I believe, cannot be done. The slightest consideration shows how vast and impossible it would be. Would I describe an old woman who is widowed and cleans a church in Venice, Italy, in the Middle Ages, how she looks up every day at the sad eyes of the Virgin Mary on one of the statues? Would I describe a young man learning to fish from his father, living on a small pacific island where he has never heard of other places, the way the young man loves the feeling of his canoe gliding across the water? Would I describe a banker in Chicago being driven to work by his chauffeur in the 1950s, as he wonders where his daughter is who ran away to New York?

The very idea of “describing human life” is foolish. And yet I try, illogical as that is, even as I know I’m going to fail. It’s weird, isn’t it, to recognize that I aim at failure? I am compelled by it, driven by it, passionate about it—to aim at what is going to fail. Where can such a thing lead me?

Perhaps the impossibility of words in a logical narrative draws me to things like REM’s “Losing My Religion” or the songs of Bob Dylan or moments in the novel Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe. I’ve also been drawn to Russian decadent poetry, such as this verse from Zinaida Gippius (I’m the one guilty of the translation that follows):

Вас гонят… Словно дети малые,
Дрожат мечта и красота…
Целую ноги их усталые,
Целую старые уста.

They pursue you…as though young children,
The tremble of dream and beauty…
I kiss their weary limbs,
I kiss their worn lips.

Sometimes, when words are put together in ways that don’t make sense, they may evoke something beyond logic, something that is an indescribable part of our existence, actually beyond words.

When you think about it, words are only a very clumsy way of trying to express our thoughts, and even our thoughts cannot comprehend fully what it is to be human. Thus we have philosophy and religion and art. And words that patter and prance across the soft deep beckoning of a violet sea.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Writing While Living

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s