Beauty, Longing, Sexuality, Shame, Devotion

Beauty, Longing, Sexuality, Shame, Devotion
-a school essay in response to a short story by Thomas Mann.

I'm having a terrible time coming up with what I want to write concerning Tonio Kroger. I want it to be something with the separation between the artist and the normal people as he calls them; the separation between the secluded life and the normal one so to speak; the separation between living in a neutral relationship to feeling, where one can be ironic and skeptical and put feelings into words using intuitive tact and form, compared to just simply having a full heart, full of deeply felt emotion, and not trying to explain it. For to explain it without forfeiting life to many years of seclusion, where study of knowledge and refined art actually replace one's own feelings, is to cross a gulf between the artist and the normal much too late; because, you are not then an artist, damned from the beginning, but a dilettante, who believes he can live life and be an artist on occasion, a lieutenant who recites deeply felt poetry at a dinner party to a bored and uncomfortable audience, someone whose middle class job is art, whose chest is puffed out from his charming and artistic life, but who is really to be scorned; because, he does not know that an upright, respectable person of any form will never act, compose, create; and that it is only the artist who must die who is fully creative. But it is in this death, this forfeiting of one's life to the demonic, to the refined, and the intellect, this shutting oneself off to the world, that comes a yearning for normality, for friendship, for real human feeling and compassion. Not normality which tries to be artistic, but pure innocent normality, like the life of a fisherman, or blacksmith, or a young girl who bakes bread at a bakery. What I want to say comes somewhere out of here.

I am not an artist, but I am lonely. For three years I have given much time to learning Greek and Latin languages. I've wished them to be my purpose of living. I do not have a job nor any friends at school; I mean, not friends with whom I go places, watch movies or drink coffee, but only acquaintances. I spend so much time alone in my apartment. But then I go to a health food store and this girl is working there; she makes all other pursuits a waste of time. Her loveliness becomes a definition of beauty to which anything I read, or at least, any feeling I get from whatever form of art does not compare. I say little to her, and though pains me, wish to leave it so; for she becomes a sort of fragile image I live by, and I fear that knowing her more might shatter this image I find so beautiful. Seeing her only brief moments is motivating to live and be happy. But then I can no longer take it: I write a letter and give it to her before I leave for the summer. I fill it with emotions I feel for her, express it in my own words and in poems of better writers. When, after three months, every day wanting to see her, I return to school, she is indifferent to me, will not even look at me, even avoids me, seems almost afraid of me. Not quite knowing what to do, I go to the store, hoping she is there, and find her alone at the register. I apologize for the letter, saying I kind of wish not to have given it, since now I am ashamed of it. She looks at me kindly. But then there is haziness about what happens. I go away from store knowing I heard her say my letter 'weird', but also thinking she could have meant situation, as a whole, 'wasn't too weird'. Either way, I go away, further into solitude, hating myself for what I am, hating the weirdness that comes with devotion and focus on study. I realize I can never be one to be admired by people like her, finding consolation mostly in learning, yet hating that doing so causes me not to know how to act in ways to make beautiful people like me. To her I am weird and devotion is ugly.

When Tonio Kroger tells Lisabeta he loves life, of course he means the simple, beautiful things about it, not the complex, refined, and demonic life of art. He tells her:

Life is the eternal antithesis to intellect and art, and it's not as a vision of utter grandeur and savage beauty, it's not as something unusual that it presents itself to us, the unusual beings. No, the normal, the decent, the lovable, are the realm of our yearning: they are life in all its seductive banality! A man is anything but an artist, my dear, if he ultimately and profoundly worships the refined, the eccentric, the satanic, if he never longs for what is simple, harmless and alive, for a little friendship, devotion, intimacy, and human happiness, the furtive and devouring yearning, Lisabeta, for the bliss of the ordinary! (translated from German by Joachim Neugroschel, 1998).

Tonio loves the blue-eyed people who do not need the mind, the brightly living, lovable, happy, and normal ones. He well knows the feeling I have for that girl. I'm not sure what he would think about my lines of best writing I gave to her. I mean I don't write too often, but I'm always reading. Those lines were expressed from an emotion deeply felt--they meant so much to me! Does this mean I became overly sentimental, something gawky, awkward and boring? Is this why those lines failed? Or is it the opposite, the artist trying his hand at life, someone with a mark on his forehead trying to hide it, trying to fulfill his yearning for normality, and failing, dancing horribly and finding people laughing? I'm not sure. I guess if I were damned from the beginning, and were to have discovered the neutral relationship that an artist has to feeling, I would be called an artist, but I've only cared about literature since college, so I guess I'm a dilettante.

But consider two of the three sonnets I gave to her: 29 and 30 from Shakespeare. I wrote in letter that these sonnets describe so well the feeling I get when seeing her, and much more beautifully than I could render:

[please pardon lack of indenting couplets; text box does not correctly do this].

Sonnet 29:

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heav'n with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising,
From sullen earth sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Sonnet 30:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste;
Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow)
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long sing cancelled woe,
And moan th'expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay, as if not paid before;
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.

[paragraph in progress/idle]. Shakespeare doesn't seem to be neutral in his emotion toward the boy; his emotion is a muse and shows through in the sonnet. It seems Tonio Kroger, on the other hand, draws a line where life ends and art begins. And I guess it is possible to do this: the second a feeling of life is expressed in someway, it becomes art. But that isn't what he is saying. He says an artist is not allowed to feel, that all art created from feeling is bad art, the art of a botcher, always boring. And I don't quite understand this. While it is true, I'm sure, the lieutenant's verse on love was boring, Mann's story is based on Tonio's feeling for beautiful normal people. Tonio Kroger (at least when ranting) is an elitist; he doesn't like the art of people who have not dedicated their life to artistic production, who are not as talented or advanced as he is. He uses 'deep feeling=bad art' to have them, and too, I think, his own snootiness, 'taken care of'. But strangely there is also this yearning he has for these people who aren't so dedicated--only so long as they are beautiful.

So this girl at health food store: I don't know her personality--I do not know her at all. She could be smart or average or below average--I don't care. I still love her. She doesn't seem to have a liking or at least a complete dedication to literature or any other pursuit of the mind--it doesn't matter. She is beautiful. But it's not even extraordinary physical beauty she has; her hands for instance are not so finely shaped, but small, almost out of proportion to her arm. Not everyone finds her sexually attractive, classmate Jim for instance. But for me there's something about her that goes beyond sexual yearning, though this is there too, but something else that makes her beautiful. I don't know exactly what it is. I first saw her from afar and thought: 'this is the loveliest person I've ever seen.' I cannot really explain why I thought this, but I know it is different from: 'man I want to have sex with her.'

I think she is one of those people, at least to me, who don't keep falling down, who don't attend lectures given by poets or study Greek or live in seclusion. AHHHH! How can I say this? She may do these things, and even if she did, or should write terrible poetry, or do anything unseemly to mar her beauty, it would not matter. It is not so much the fact she is normal and doesn't worship art and its creation I like; for everyone worships beauty somewhat, and wishes to form their own to some extent--and she seems to be the artistic type anyway! No, it is because she is beautiful and I am not; devotion and seclusion mar my personality and make me ugly. So then I would rather be someone she loves than myself, and he is more normal than me, but it doesn't really matter (to me) how normal or devoted she is. So the comparison then between me and Tonio regarding this is: we both want to be what we are not and yearn for beauty we cannot have.

[paragraph in progress/idle] But still, what is this beauty and how much of it is sexual yearning? This is very troubling to me. What I said earlier about her not being all that beautiful was sort of cover up for an attraction I want not to be sexual. It should be something more divine; it feels so pure and brilliant, quite opposite sexual desire, at times so dirty and shameful. Tonio too comes to despise his lechery, and goes back home in search of the purity of his love for Hans and Inga. I too know this purity. It can be found in refined art, there is no denying it, in the looking at sculpture, or painting, or hearing a verse of Homer. I want this to be the exact feeling I get for this girl, except it is not. It's the same kind of feeling, but she is so much more exciting and beautiful! Is it because she could feel same for me and wish to return that love? Or is it me wanting her sexually? Or an unconscious desire to create life, to have a child? Or all of these things? I don't know. But there's an added feeling with her I don't find in beautiful art, a sexual coloring or overtone added to her beauty, which, I think, remains beautiful, or at least intoxicating, so long as it is not tainted by orgasm. But I cannot be admired by one such as her, and neither can Tonio; because things like that don't happen on earth, at least to sexually confused people like us.

[deleted paragraph - in progress/idle]

[deleted paragraph - in progress/idle]

[paragraph in progress/idle] After that, I admired the beauty of many others both male and female, yet sometimes feeling ashamed of this love, and never being able to express the emotion correctly. In turn, it was around these people I felt gawky, overly sentimental, someone weird. This was my expression of emotion too deeply felt, and it came out wrong. Having no idea who I was or what I wanted from life, I took to learning. Certain ideas, or lines of poetry would stir within me those old feelings once felt for my mother, those pure feelings given by beauty, and I wasn't ashamed of them. The books could not hurt or reject me, or be tainted by sexuality. I saw the beauty of art as the most divine thing on earth. It was sexless, pure, and loving. I devoted myself to it daily for three years, let it absorb my life, take my time and energy. I shut myself off from the world, from television, movies, and other people. The rest of my life was in front of me; there was a certain satisfaction with what I was doing. But then I saw that girl, and devotion grows old and looks pale.

[paragraph in progress/idle] So I guess then it is these early sexual feelings and experiences with their confusion, embarrassment, and shame which have pushed me into this seclusion I now dwell in. Similar feelings in Tonio may have pushed him to his devotion in writing, and many others to their own callings, or I guess these are forms of healing or coping. I said before I wish I could see her only in the way I look at sculpture or Homer, as then I could admire her and still remain devoted to my work. But I cannot, there is no escaping my longing for her. I must feel it and accept it and not try to heal it or be ashamed of it. Nor must I hate myself for what I am, not for my sexuality, not for my devotion; but accept these things and make the most of any happiness they give me. For the only other alternative is death and I am very scared of it.

__________________

 

This reminds me of a time when I let someone read a book and then took it back saying '5 minutes is up.'

 

deleted post.

 

Thank you for sharing your work.
How can anyone post a response when each line forks into so many different options?

I will say that it is the intent of the kiss and not the act itself.

How do we make all that we do sacred?

How do we become the honoring of the essential feminine?
How do we become the honoring of the essential masculine?
How do we become the divine child, centered in the heart;
a balance of all opposites.

Trusting ourselves and seeing ourselves as connected to all that is.

A welcoming home to the family of remembrance.
A celebration of unique diversity, alone but not lonely.
Vulnerable and sensitive yet immortal and detached.

Whole, yet meeting all where they are.
We act even without bodies and penetrate beyond description into the sameness of spirit.

Give yourself space and time to linger.

All is choice.
All is sacred.
Be gentle with yourself.

Sink the mind into the heart and know that what you feel, with your eyes closed, is what remains.

 

deleted post.

 

deleted post.

 

deleted post.

 

hi there

just going through this piece

and felt i had to say
read some michael moorcock..

dancers at the end of time....

i will finish reading this now
lovenpeace ffrom saff

 

deleted post.

 

zee GerManns would be impressed!
very well done, honest...
cheers, dilettante (original, pejorative-free definition)!

 

deleted post.

 

wow! i find this peice of amazing writing so inspiring , thank you 4 writing it.....
there were so many contemplations and musings here it is hard 2 find where 2 respond..
i find it 2 be beautifully honest, delving into the essence of sexuality, admiration

 

deleted post.

 

Even after 4 yrs in a different city, I at times think about her and find myself as love-struck as I ever was. I get mad at myself for this. I think I simplify what she represents to me into something too perfect. The fact that I didn't know her at all makes this easier, but it's unrealistic. I find myself thinking I would sacrifice most anything I have for this ideal image, and believe that I mean it. But is any human really worth that?

*edit: not that I had, or would ever have, a chance to sacrifice anything. I'm not being delusional here. I don't even know her name. all I have is this post-dreads photo from the store website. A sad story to be sure.

 

I am so lame..

 

its a nice piece, ...

 

hey, thanks. most of the ideas are Thomas Mann's, and there may be much in need of a working out, but I still feel this was as good as I could do at the time, given the time. Even if the emotions are immature, the whole thing still pains me to think of.

man, reading through parts of this essay, now I'm in pain! How embarrassing. It's terrible! I said above paragraph from memory. Revenge of the semicolon! I didn't have much time to revise before handing in, caring most about getting ideas down, though even some of those are making me cringe, and ported this copy straight from MS Word a few years ago. It's still pretty bad.

*as though I could do any better now though. all I do now is stupid soldering.

 

Thanks for sharing the picture too...

Great to see this thread resurface.

 

and should anyone from Clifton ever find this, last five minutes of your life shall be forgotten. I mean it, spell in affect...now!

 

I went to Clifton Natural Foods for first time in 4 years. Emily has moved away. I had made a box of things with letter to leave for her, if she were still there. It makes me sad. I wanted to believe in love. I thought that if I truly felt this strongly for someone, and maintained this feeling, things would have a way of working out in time. now I'll probably never see her again.