Of Human Bondage

Maybe it's the warmth of the night, maybe it's the time away from home, maybe the weariness of travel, or maybe it's just age. It takes time to find what I want to say.

But, I am patient. I stare at the white square page and wait. It's not a lack of words or thoughts. They come steadily at all hours, the same parade of fruitless worries and disconnected observations. But, these I've written down a million times before. They are thin and anemic. The worst of the lot are self-criticisms, labeled and dated, enclosed in dusty glass, a forgotten museum of irrelevant personal archeology.

It's hot tonight, and the air is a bit thick. It's a good night for a beer, and it's a good night for feeling patient, and it's a good night for staring at an empty page. I watch these thoughts go by in no hurry. Who is it for that can't wait?

............................

After a while the thoughts do organize themselves. An hour later, I have written about W. Somerset Maugham.

I spent five hours reading Of Human Bondage today. The boundaries between my own feelings and those of the novel begin to blur. Though fictional, it is not a good feeling. And, in my struggle to extract and reunited myself, I think again about why I read at all, or watch movies or plays. What role does fiction really serve? Does it just remind us of some unavoidable truths? Does it drive home how we ourselves are nothing more than little narratives, all starting and ending in the same place?

It's also not a new thought. Over the weekend we saw a performance of "As You Like It" in which is the famous passage that begins, "All the world is a stage, And all the men and women merely players." I think about my friends and acquaintances, with their concerns, achievements, failures, and even their indifference. And myself among them. The stories feel more present and consuming than a novel, but that's just scale and perspective. Our narratives still have a front cover and a back cover. Yes, I find them interesting... more than that, I find them important. Because there is nothing else that matters. But somewhere along the way something changed. I don't know if it was the warmth of the night, or the time away from home, or the weariness of travel, or if it was simply age. But, I see all our worries and joys line up, page upon page, and I feel I can just close it and set it down on the night-stand, if I please. It'll still be there tomorrow.