Allow me to provide a little context. Having to a man enthusiastically hurled ourselves at our respective pursuits of self-betterment and usefulness all morning, with brief interludes for snacking and other explosive forms of destressing, the house slips into a state of easy somnolence. First Dad found his way to his cocoon of blankets and jackets and bean pillows after a nosh-fest in the kitchen. Then yours truly found herself slumping over on The Scarlet Letter, and decided to take a legitimate snooze to minimize drool on that most hallowed of novels - an offense which in itself might have classed her in the ranks of the over-persecuted but undeniably guilty of this world, shoulder to shoulder with she of the carmine A, excoriated by the shrieking hags of justice and vengeance. Finally, Mom cozied up on my futon after a long morning of sorting e-mail and typing out my history tests for me, tuckered by the rigors of personal organization and motherly diligence in speeding me towards higher education in a timely fashion.
I was quite happy, really. Excitement over finally being able to read something for the first time in what seems like AGES was getting to me. And... of course... Nathaniel Hawthorne. Can anyone remain unmoved by his badassery?? I remember the incredible feeling I had when I was submerged in the fathomless depths of The House of the Seven Gables... "Wow, Mom," I said, "This guy is uh-MAZING... BUT THIS BOOK IS GOING NOWHERE!!" Each phrase hits home like a punch to the gut or a sharp ray of sun in your eyes. His words are charged with whimsy, his sentences over-weaved messes of meaning, and his expressions flawless. In fact, he reminds me a very, very small bit of me. Me at the top of my game is like Nathaniel Hawthorne hung-over with a bloody nose, gagged, and tied to the leg of a bed upstairs of a greasy tavern somewhere in the back streets of Belgrade. But I'm not totally unhappy with that comparison.
At any rate, his witticisms, poignancy, and perspective struck me anew this morning, and I couldn't help but be a little dopey in my happiness. As I lay on the couch in a mess of feather quilts and fuzzy blankets, face shoved into the nook formed by the arm of the couch meeting the back, I dozed and thought about his writing and listened to the music that was still playing from that morning. No one had bothered to turn it off or turn it down, but the mellifluous strains of the instruments that populate our eclectic classical music collection hadn't irked any listeners. A song began and ended. Another began, and it too ended. I considered going back to my book. But suddenly, a familiar symphonic sound swelled in the room and Luciano Pavarotti began to sing.
"La... fleur que tu m'avais jetee..."
Jaw = on the floor.
Speechless.
How does one FORGET about stuff like that???????
The flower that you threw to me, remained with me while I was in prison.
Withered and dried, the flower always maintained its sweet scent.
Don Jose sings to Carmen - they are reunited now - of how the scent intoxicated him and made him curse her and the forces of fate for the blasphemy of their love... and yet... he could feel only one desire, only one hope, one single thought.
To see you again, oh Carmen, to see you again!
For you had only to appear, only to throw your glance at me
In order to take a hold of all my being.
The crescendo comes, and the crescendo passes, and he declares only one thing more.
Carmen - I love you.
Wow. Breathe, Maria.
Almost makes you want to believe that she's not a little gypsy hussy with a shameless wardrobe of red barely-theres. Almost makes you want to forget that Don Jose is a spineless, depthless, Neanderthal type. Almost makes you want to think their love was actually worth all that amazing music.
Sigh. Oh, the highs and lows of opera. But really... what can you do.
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