Wednesday, October 23, 2019

Translation into English of poem by EDUARD BAGRITSKY, " Я сладко изнемог от тишины и снов," "So sweetly enervated I, by silence and by dreams"


                                                                        Max Ernst




Eduard Bagritsky

(1895-1934)


Я сладко изнемог от тишины и снов,
От скуки медленной и песен неумелых,
Мне любы петухи на полотенцах белых
И копоть древняя суровых образов.

Под жаркий шорох мух проходит день за днем,
Благочестивейшим исполненный смиреньем,
Бормочет перепел под низким потолком,
Да пахнет в праздники малиновым вареньем.

А по ночам томит гусиный нежный пух,
Лампада душная мучительно мигает,
И, шею вытянув, протяжно запевает
На полотенце вышитый петух.

Так мне, о господи, ты скромный дал приют,
Под кровом благостным, не знающим волненья,
Где дни тяжелые, как с ложечки варенье,
Густыми каплями текут, текут, текут.
 
                                                                                       1919


Literal Translation

Silence and dreams, and a languid boredom
Have left me sweetly enervated,
I’m fond of the roosters on white dishtowels
And of ancient soot on austere icons.

Day after day goes by to the hot rustle of flies,
Each day replete with the most pious humility,
A quail murmurs beneath the low ceiling,
And on festive days there’s the aroma of raspberry jam.

And at night you languish in soft goose-down feathers,
The stifling icon lamp blinks agonizingly,
And the embroidered rooster on the dishtowel
Stretches out his neck and crows at length.

And so, O Lord, you’ve given me a modest hideaway,
Beneath a soothing roof that knows not agitation,
Where the heavy [oppressive] days, as jam from a spoon,
In thick droplets go dripping, dripping, dripping.





Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie


So sweetly enervated I, by silence and by dreams,
By boredom creeping slowly past, and songs ineptly sung,
I love the crowing roosters on the dishtowel barnyard scenes,
The ancient soot on icons, in the parlor corner hung.

Day follows day, the flies toil on, exacerbating rustle,
My life abounds with piety, with actions cautionary,  
Beneath the placid eaves above the cooing pigeons bustle,
On festive days the air is rife with jam of lingonberry.

With night’s unease I turn and writhe in goose-down feathers soft,
The stifling icon lamp’s aglitter, blinking misery,
Then one embroidered rooster in the dishtowel barnyard loft
Extends his scrawny neck, exults, and crows his reveille.

O Lord, thou hast provided me a modest warm cocoon,
Beneath a tranquil roof that holds my life in trusteeship,  
Where day by viscous day seeps by, as jam from kitchen spoon,
In thick and gooey droplets falls,
With drip, and drip, and drip.






Translator’s Notes

Biographical Information on Bagritsky, from the Internet
(Translation of Highlights Here, Full Text in Russian Below)

Eduard Georgievich Bagritsky, whose real surname was Dzjubin or Dzjuban), was born on October 22 (Nov. 3, NS), 1895, in Odessa to a Jewish family that practiced its religion seriously. He studied to be a land surveyor but never worked at that profession.
Beginning in 1915, he published his verses under various pseudonyms, both male and female (Eduard Bagritsky, Nina Voskresenskaja), and soon he had become one of the most remarkable of the young Odessa writers who were later to be stars in the pantheon of Soviet Literature: Yury Olesha, Ilya Il’f, Valentin Kataev, Vera Inber, and others.
In 1918 he joined the Red Army during the Civil War, working in the political arm of the partisan movement, writing politically motivational verses. After the war he worked in Odessa as a poet and artist, publishing his works in newspapers and humor magazines under various pseudonyms: A Guy Named Vasya, Nina Voskresenskaja (again), and The People’s Correspondent Gortsev.
In 1925 he moved to Moscow and joined various literary circles then in mode, including the Constructivists. In 1928 his verse collection titled “Southwest” came out, and a second collection, “The Victors,” appeared in 1932.
Beginning with the year 1930 his asthma intensified—a disease from which he had suffered since childhood; he died on February 16, 1934, in Moscow. His widow, Lidia Suok, was arrested in 1937 and sent to a labor camp; she was released only in 1956. Their son Vsevolod fought in The Great Patriotic War (WW II), died at the front in 1942.
dddfffffffffddddddddd
Эдуард Георгиевич Багрицкий (настоящая фамилия Дзюбин (Дзюбан); 1895—1934) — русский поэт, переводчик и драматург, родился 22 октября (3 ноября) 1895 г. в Одессе в буржуазной еврейской семье с сильными религиозными традициями. Окончил землемерные курсы, но по профессии не работал.
С 1915 г. под псевдонимом «Эдуард Багрицкий» и женской маской «Нина Воскресенская» начал публиковать свои стихи в одесских литературных альманахах и вскоре стал одной из самых заметных фигур в группе молодых одесских литераторов, впоследствии ставших крупными советскими писателями (Юрий Олеша, Илья Ильф, Валентин Катаев, Лев Славин, Семён Кирсанов, Вера Инбер).
В 1918 г., во время Гражданской войны, добровольцем вступил в Красную Армию, работал в политотделе особого партизанского отряда имени ВЦИК, писал агитационные стихи.
После войны работал в Одессе, сотрудничая, как поэт и художник, в ЮгРОСТА (Южное бюро Украинского отделения Российского телеграфного агентства) вместе с Ю. Олешей, В. Нарбутом, С. Бондариным, В. Катаевым. Публиковался в одесских газетах и юмористических журналах под псевдонимами «Некто Вася», «Нина Воскресенская», «Рабкор Горцев».
В 1925г. Багрицкий приехал в Москву и стал членом литературной группы «Перевал», через год примкнул к конструктивистам. В 1928г. у него вышел сборник стихов «Юго-запад». Второй сборник, «Победители», появился в 1932г.
С начала 1930г.  у Багрицкого обострилась астма — болезнь, от которой он страдал с детства. Он умер 16 февраля 1934г. в Москве. Вдова поэта, Лидия Густавовна Суок, была репрессирована в 1937 (вернулась из заключения в 1956). Сын Всеволод погиб на фронте в 1942 г.


Friday, October 4, 2019

Translation of Poem by SERGEI ESENIN, "Мы теперь уходим понемногу" "One by One We All Are Now Departing"

Sergei Esenin with Isadora Duncan



Sergei Esenin
(1895-1925)

Мы теперь уходим понемногу
В ту страну, где тишь и благодать.
Может быть, и скоро мне в дорогу
Бренные пожитки собирать.
Милые березовые чащи!
Ты, земля! И вы, равнин пески!
Перед этим сонмом уходящих
Я не в силах скрыть своей тоски.
Слишком я любил на этом свете
Все, что душу облекает в плоть.
Мир осинам, что, раскинув ветви,
Загляделись в розовую водь.
Много дум я в тишине продумал,
Много песен про себя сложил,
И на этой на земле угрюмой
Счастлив тем, что я дышал и жил.
Счастлив тем, что целовал я женщин,
Мял цветы, валялся на траве,
И зверье, как братьев наших меньших,
Никогда не бил по голове.
Знаю я, что не цветут там чащи,
Не звенит лебяжьей шеей рожь.
Оттого пред сонмом уходящих
Я всегда испытываю дрожь.
Знаю я, что в той стране не будет
Этих нив, златящихся во мгле.
Оттого и дороги мне люди,
Что живут со мною на земле.
1924

Literal Translation

Little by little we all are departing
For the land of quiet and abundant grace.
Could be that soon it’s time for me as well
To pack my bag and baggage for the trip.

Dear groves of birch!
And you, o earth, you, sandy plains!
Faced with this assemblage of departers,
I cannot hide my anguish.

I have loved too much in this world
All that clothes the soul with flesh.
Peace be unto the aspens that, spreading their branches,
Have gazed into the rose-colored waters.

Many thoughts I have pondered over in silence,
Many songs I have composed in my mind,
And on this gloomy earth
I’m happy to have lived and breathed.

I’m happy that I’ve had women to kiss,
That I’ve crumpled flowers and lolled about on the grass,
And never have beaten on the head
The animals, our little brothers.

I know that Over There no thickets blossom,
Nor do rye-stalks jingle their swan necks.
That’s why when faced with the throngs of departers,
I always tend to shake and tremble.

I know that in the land to come
There will be no rye fields gleaming golden in the haze.
That’s why so dear to me are the people
Who live with me upon this earth.

d

Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

One by one we all are now departing
For realms where silence and beatitude abide.
And I as well, perhaps, will soon be starting
To pack my bag and baggage for the ride.

Dear groves of oak and birches so resplendent,
And you, O earth! You too, sand-laden plains!
In parting with these things that drift ascendant,
An anguish in me reeks, my soul constrains.

All things that clothe the weary soul with flesh,
This world of transient charm too much I’ve loved.
Like aspen trees that spread their limbs afresh
And gaze on rosy waters from above.

The thoughts in silence that I’ve often pondered,
The many songs inside myself composed,
And notwithstanding worldly joys I’ve squandered,
I’m happy that I’ve lived and breathed, reposed,

That I’ve had women’s kisses I’m content,
Lolled on the grass, communed with flower beds,
And never to vindictiveness gave vent
By beating cats or doggies on the heads.

I know that Over There no thickets bloom resplendent,
No rye stalks bend their swan’s necks in the breeze.
That’s why the parting with the lovely things ascendant
Leaves plagued with pain my heart, with anguish squeezed. 

I know that distant realm is lacking sorely
In golden-tufted wheat fields broadly spread.
That’s why I cherish friends, the ones who warmly
Clap me on the back and break black bread.

d

Translator’s Notes
In the original manuscript of this poem the title is “Ровесникам” (“To My Coevals” [persons of the same age as I]). The poem is dedicated to a good friend of Esenin, the poet Александр Ширяевец (Aleksandr Vasilievich Shirjaevets [1887-1924]). In Moscow, on May 15, 1924, Shirjaevets died suddenly of meningitis, and Esenin was deeply shaken by his death.



                              Gravesite Monument to Great Russian Actor and Comedian Yuri Nikulin  
                                                             Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow




 Performance in Song of the Esenin Poem by Efimich (Oleg Sharandanov)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PF8kFRBnKfA



Translation of Poem by NIKOLAI TIKHONOV, "The Wind" "ВЕТЕР"

Mikhail Nesterov



Nikolai Tikhonov
(1896-1979)


ВЕТЕР
Вперебежку, вприпрыжку, по перекрытым
Проходам рынка, хромая влет
Стеной, бульваром, газетой рваной,
Еще не дочитанной, не дораскрытой,
Вчера родилась — сейчас умрет,
Над старой стеною часы проверив,
У моря отрезал углы, как раз —
Ты помнишь ветер над зимним рассветом,
Что прыгал, что все перепутывал сети,
Что выкуп просил за себя и за нас?
Сегодня он тот же в трубе и, редея,
Рассыпался в цепь, как стрелки, холодея,
И, грудью ударив, растаял, как залп,
Но что б он сказал, залетев в наши стены,
Мы квиты с ним, правда, но что б он сказал?


Literal Translation

The Wind

Running full tilt, skipping along, past the covered
Passageways of the marketplace, limping on the fly,
By way of the wall, the boulevard, the ripped-up newspaper,
The one not read all the way through, not all the way unfolded,
The one born yesterday—only soon to die.

Having checked out the clock on the old wall,
He lopped off the corners of the sea, just like that.
You remember the wind over the dawn of winter,
He who kept jumping, who entangled all the nets,
Who demanded a ransom be paid, for himself and for us.

Today he’s in the chimney same as before, and, slackening off,
He’s spreading out, deploying in a line like infantry troops, growing colder,
Then, bursting out into hand-to-hand fighting, he’s melted away like a salvo.
But what would he say, if he flew inside our walls?
True, we’ve settled accounts with him, we’re quits, but what would he say?


Literary Translation/Adaptation by U.R. Bowie

The Wind

Full-tilt racer, skip along, gusty guy,
Blows through the marketplace,
Limping on the fly,
Skirting walls blustery,
Making streets sigh,
Poor tattered newspaper, not yet read,
Pages in disarray, not widespread,
Born only yesterday, soon to be dead,

Checks out a wall clock on the town hall,
Lops off the corners of the sea-scape mall,
Do you recall the early morns
Of winters and the wind,
‘Member how he agitated,
Tangled nets and skimmed
All about the central square,
“Pay the ransom, folks,
If you don’t I’ll go on gusting,
Wrack your ribs with pokes”?

Today he blows the same sufflation,
Wheezing in the chimney still,
Same old windbag, same jactation,
Dressed in flimsy dishabille,  
Hear him slacken off his flurry?
He double-times his marching troops,
Watches as they scamper-scurry,
Whips away their headgear, whoops,  
Stings their eyesight, makes it blurry,
Mustering his feints, employs
His biggest guns in booms of noise,

But what would he say,
Were he to fly right now
Inside our walls?
True, we’ve long since settled
Accounts with him; we and he are quits.
But still, what would he say?



                                                        Marc Chagall, "Over the Town"











Sunday, September 15, 2019

Book Review Article, Ian McEwan, "ENDURING LOVE"




Book Review Article


Series: Looking Back at Great Literary Fiction from the Past


Ian McEwan, Enduring Love, Random House (Anchor Books), 1999, 262 pp.; originally published by Doubleday in1997.

THE BRAVURA BEGINNING

The beginning of this novel, pervaded, as one reviewer writes, with “dazzling cinematic bravura,” is worth citing at some length. The protagonist Joe Rose, a science writer, and his wife Clarissa Mellon—a university professor who has just returned to London from the U.S., where she was doing research on the poet John Keats—are about to have a picnic.
“This was the moment, this was the pinprick on the time map: I was stretching out my hand [for the bottle of wine], and as the cool neck and the black foil touched my palm, we heard a man’s shout. We turned to look across the field and saw the danger. Next thing, I was running toward it. The transformation was absolute: I don’t recall dropping the corkscrew, or getting to my feet, or making a decision, or hearing the caution Clarissa called after me. What idiocy, to be racing into this story and its labyrinths, sprinting away from our happiness among the fresh spring grasses by the oak. There was the shout again, and a child’s cry, enfeebled by the wind that roared in the tall trees along the hedgerows. I ran faster. And there, suddenly, from different points around the field, four other men were converging on the scene, running like me.

“I see us from two hundred feet up, through the eyes of the buzzard we had watched earlier, soaring, circling, and dipping in the tumult of currents: five men running silently toward the center of a hundred-acre field . . . the motorist, John Logan, whose car was banked on the grass verge with its door, or doors, wide open. Knowing what I know now, it’s odd to evoke the figure of Jed Parry directly ahead of me, emerging from a line of beeches on the far side of the field, a quarter of a mile away, running into the wind. To the buzzard, Parry and I were tiny forms, our white shirts brilliant against the green, rushing toward each other like lovers, innocent of the grief this entanglement would bring. The encounter that would unhinge us was minutes away, its enormity disguised from us by the colossus in the center of the field, which drew us in with the power of a terrible ratio that set fabulous magnitude against the puny human distress at its base.”

The protagonist and narrator makes his living writing articles and books on science. What he is describing here is “an enormous balloon filled with helium, [and here comes the science], that elemental gas forged from hydrogen in the nuclear furnace of the stars, first step along the way in the generation of multiplicity and variety of matter in the universe, including ourselves and all our thoughts.” A child is trapped in the gondola, his grandfather, the pilot, is outside the balloon, on the ground, struggling to control its movements, and four other men run to the rescue, try to grab onto ropes hanging from that runaway balloon and pull it down.

Seldom will you read a better beginning for a novel, a scene that would seem to guarantee a soon-to-be notation on the paperback cover: “Now a major motion picture.” Note also the filming from above (the buzzard’s eye view), so favored by cinematographers these days. The title as well, “Enduring Love,” appears custom-made for Hollywood, perfect for a movie about erotomania, like, say, “Fatal Attraction.” But, as we shall discuss later on, Ian McEwan can be a subversive writer, his title is all wrapped up in irony, and Hollywood is subverted at every step of the way. In fact, one of the underlying themes of the novel is how life, and literary fiction, does not accommodate itself to filmmaking.

The bravura beginning, furthermore, describes how five men struggle to control the balloon, grabbing ropes and hanging on, until a gust of wind pulls the monstrous thing up and away, and one by one the men drop their ropes, all but one man, Dr. John Logan, who hangs on and is pulled up too high to let go, and, finally, cannot hold on any longer and drops to his death. Soon after this a look passes between Joe Rose and Jed Parry, an unhinged young man who decides that look is full or import: God has sent him Joe Rose as the object of his love, and he has been anointed to bring Joe Rose to God.

THE PERFECT/IMPERFECT CONJUGAL UNION

So you’re happy and in love with Clarissa, you have the perfect conjugal union, but then one fine day comes “the touch of a wine bottle and a cry of distress,” after which you find yourself “sprinting away from your happiness,” and then nothing is ever the same again. The rest of the book describes how Jed Parry, a stalker—the word is never used—inserts himself into Joe’s life, infringes upon his discreteness, and ruins his perfect union with Clarissa.

Parry, it seems, is afflicted with a type of erotomania, De Clerambault’s Syndrome, but Joe the scientist becomes aware of this only more than a hundred pages into the book (133), when he recalls having read about a French woman obsessed with King George V, a woman who believing she is in love with the king and he with her, hangs around outside Buckingham Palace, waiting for him to send her a sign by manipulating the curtains in the palace windows. “She lived her life in the prison gloom of this delusion. Her forlorn and embittered love was identified as a syndrome by the French psychiatrist who treated her, and who gave his name to her morbid passion. De Clerambault.”

While the action of the novel revolves around Parry’s mad pursuit of his destined love—his hanging around outside Joe’s and Clarissa’s London apartment, his obsessive sending of love letters—the subtext of the novel, which is a novel of ideas, delves into any number of other issues. Some things are mentioned only in passing: the discovery of DNA in 1869, a discovery whose importance remained long unacknowledged, the meaning of the human smile, the universality of the greeting ritual at airports (“fifty theatrical happy endings”).

Many of the divagations into any number of issues are subtly connected to major themes of the novel. Take the smile. Joe Rose is set to write a long piece about the smile for an American science magazine. He plans on a slant directed more at nature than nurture. Nature, in fact, has of late been more in vogue than nurture: “The word from the human biologists bears Darwin out: the way we wear our emotions on our faces is pretty much the same in all cultures, and the infant smile is one social signal that is particularly easy to isolate and study . . . In Edward O. Wilson’s cool phrase, it ‘triggers a more abundant share or parental love and affection.’”

Clarissa, however, who teaches British Romantic poetry, and whose present research interest is focused on finding lost love letters of the poet John Keats, disdains Wilson: “What a zoologist had to say about a baby’s smile could be of no real interest. The truth of that smile was in the eye and heart of the parent, and in the unfolding love that only had meaning through time.” Following this line of discussion, and, in particular, Joe’s and Clarissa’s different takes on the smile, we are into the novel’s major question: What is love?

Of course nobody knows what love is, but Clarissa thinks she does. At the beginning of the book she and Joe live by the ideal of total contentment in the love they have for each other. They believe deeply in this ideal, but it is never more than a delusion and is ripe for bursting. “Friends considered Clarissa to be successful and happy, and most of the time they were right” (34). The same could be said of Joe. His bouts of unhappiness are associated largely with what he considers his failure to become a genuine scientific researcher and hold a position in a university. Her bouts of gloom are occasioned by her inability to bear a child.

Until unhinged Jed Parry comes into their lives, neither Joe nor Clarissa seems to realize that they are not very compatible in basic ways. She teaches a seminar on Romantic poetry and searches for the lost love letters of Keats, while he, the ultimate rationalist, does not much believe in romance. They are opposites, the Humanities vs. the Sciences, and they have frequent arguments, but their emotions are somehow in perfect balance, so that discussions between them do not become heated, the tone never querulous and rigid—until that day the balloon arrives.

When Parry begins leaving repetitive messages on his answering machine—“Joe, God’s love will seek you out.”—it suddenly dawns on Joe: “I’m in a relationship.” He would never have thought to apply that New Agey word to his union with Clarissa, but, alas, after Parry appears, Joe and Clarissa are suddenly in the same gruesome thing: a relationship. The sad implication is that even without the episode of the balloon, even without Parry, their ideal union had long-term prospects of turning into something far from ideal.

At any rate, the balloon, and Parry, precipitate Joe and Clarissa—very rapidly, almost too rapidly to believe—out of ideal contentment and into a place from which return to the ideal is probably impossible. Early on Parry, who believes in a God who intervenes directly in human affairs, tells Joe, “I’m just the messenger,” and this turns out to be egregiously true. His message is this: your previous life is over. 

Clarissa and Joe have together witnessed a tragedy, or, as she says, “We’ve seen something terrible together. It won’t go away, and we have to help each other. And that means we’ll have to love each other even harder (36).” But the word “hard” is not applicable to the ideal love they once experienced—maybe not to any love. It all came easy, and trying hard had nothing to do with it. Clarissa’s words here, furthermore, remind you of what people say to each other when they’ve lost a child. Going through such a personal tragedy should bring the spouses, as well as the whole family, closer. But the fact is that no, on the contrary: it often sends the survivors off in all different directions. The spouses who have lost a child often end up divorced.

Later Joe mentions “all this talking and listening that’s supposed to be good for couples,” suggesting that the talking and listening is beside the point, especially after things take a turn toward estrangement: “there’s so much luck involved, as well as the million branching consequences of your unconscious choice of mate, that no one and no amount of talking can untangle it if it turns out unhappily.”

As their life together begins unraveling (“we had lost the trick of love”), they try to reassure each other. “‘You’re working too hard,’ said Clarissa. ‘Go easy on yourself. And remember that I love you. I love you.’ We kissed again, deeply.” Now she loves him too hard. Of all the “I love yous” uttered all across the U.S.A. or U.K. on any given day, by phone or face to face, how many of them are genuinely sincere? The one uttered here by Clarissa is already rough about the edges. She’s trying too hard.  What are we talking about when we talk about love?

Apropos to the argument about why babies smile, Joe says, “We had had this conversation in different forms on many occasions. What we were really talking about this time was the absence of babies from our lives.” You might say that what Clarissa is often talking about when she talks about love is her deep disappointment in being unable to bear a child, and what Joe is talking about is his deep disappointment in being unable to be a genuine scientific researcher, instead of a journalist who recycles the ideas of others.

Given all the above discussion, the reader still has trouble believing that what Joe and Clarissa had together can fall apart so disastrously, and so quickly. One reader at least (me) can never quite believe that Clarissa could be so casual about Parry, and so quick to blame Joe for being fearful and upset. After all, they are dealing with a deranged stalker, who, potentially, could be dangerous. Even before he invades their apartment with a knife, there are numerous confirmations of this. All she has to do is read some of the letters he sends. Take this passage: “My love for you is hard and fierce, it won’t take no for an answer, and it’s moving steadily toward you, coming to claim you and deliver you.” That’s a threat, and it’s scary.

For me Clarissa’s behavior is a flaw in the narrative verisimilitude of the novel. Would the union begin to break up under the tension that crazy Parry brings into their lives? Yes, of course. As mentioned above, there are some indications that even without Parry the ideal conjugal bliss could not last. Would the union dissolve rapidly, in the way the author describes it? Would Clarissa be almost insouciant in her attitude toward Parry? Right up to the day when he puts a knife at her throat? Doubtful.

HOW THE HUMAN CONSCIOUSNESS, AND SUBCONSCIOUSNESS WORKS

This brilliant, highly intelligent novel of ideas is about love, yes, but it also touches upon a multitude of other issues concerning human nature. Take Chapter Three for example, describing how Joe and Clarissa sit up late into the night on the day of the tragedy, trying to work their way out of the horror. “We hadn’t said much in the car. It had seemed enough to be coming through the traffic unharmed. Now it came out in a torrent, a postmortem, a reliving, a debriefing, the rehearsal of grief and the exorcism of terror.”

What we have here are liminal incantations designed for threshold crossings. “An element of ritual was in play . . . these were not only descriptions but incantations also.” Joe and Clarissa talk and talk, telling and retelling the story of what has happened, making it into an orderly narrative that they can live with, “dedicated craftsmen at work, grinding the jagged edge of memories, hammering the unspeakable into forms of words.” Mired in feelings of guilt, Joe hopes to convince others, and himself, that he was not the first of the men to let go of the rope. Interesting fact: even at the end of the book no one apparently knows who was the first.

“Over the days and weeks, Clarissa and I told our story many times to friends, colleagues, and relatives. I found myself using the same phrases, the same adjectives in the same order. It became possible to recount the events without reliving them in the faintest degree, without even remembering them.” We are all fiction writers, making up stories. Faced with a raw tragedy, we construct a tale around it, giving it structure, order—taming it, making it into our own private fiction.

While the narratives we create and tell most frequently help us cope, sometimes our imaginations work against us. Faced with the death of her husband, Dr. John Logan, the man who dangled from a rope too long and then fell to his death, his wife, Jean Logan convinces herself that he had a lover, a woman who was with him at the time of the accident. He died, surmises Jean, showing off for that young woman, who had accompanied him on a picnic. Utterly convinced of the fictional narrative she has created—based solely on a picnic lunch and a woman’s scarf that was found in Logan’s car after his death—Jean becomes trapped in her own bitterness.

Such myth-making can be contagious. A few pages later Joe Rose finds himself describing in his mind that same imaginary woman. “She wouldn’t have been able to see where he landed. I imagined her, pretty, in her early twenties, frantic in distress, running back up the road to the nearest village . . . I stood there in her place and daydreamed of the secret phone calls or notes that might have preceded their picnic. Perhaps they were in love.” At the end of the novel it turns out that no such woman ever existed. Logan, rather, had given a ride to two lovers, a middle-aged professor and his student, to whom the scarf belonged.

After some hideous event we sometimes conjure up a different scenario in our minds and wish it could have turned out that way. Midway in the novel, an innocent man is shot in a restaurant, by Parry’s hired killers, who mistake that man for Joe. “What, in fantasy, could I have done to persuade Clarissa and Jocelyn and the strangers at the next table to leave their meals and run with me up the stairs to find by interconnecting doors a way down into the street? On a score of sleepless nights I’ve been back to plead with them to leave. Look, I say to our neighbors, you don’t know me, but I know what is about to happen. I’m from a tainted future. It was a mistake, it doesn’t have to happen. We could choose another outcome.” This kind of myth-making is typical of ex post facto human thinking; highly imaginative, it also is, basically, insane. At one point Clarissa even suggests that Joe’s obsession with Parry is an act of imagination that somehow transcends Parry’s obsession with Joe: “You were so intense about him as soon as you met him. It’s like you invented him.”

Enduring Love keeps asking a central question: why do human beings behave the way they do? Take this: “He [Joe, arguing with Clarissa] speaks in a quiet, breathy tone, exaggeratedly slow. Where do we learn such tricks? Are they inscribed, along with the rest of our emotional repertoire? Or do we get them from the movies?” Most likely both, but McEwan, along with his protagonist Joe, emphasizes that much of human behavior has been imprinted on our psyches eons ago—like the instinctual smile of babies, or the way travelers from anywhere in the world greet each other in the same identical fashion at airports. We live by “deep emotional reactions that duck the censure of the higher reasoning processes.” We lie or tell half truths, not only to others, but to our very selves as well, since over thousands of eons evolution has favored the best liars. As Joe remarks, “I thought how the brain was such a delicate, fine-filigreed thing that it could not even fake a change in its emotional state without transforming the condition of a million other unfelt circuits.” That would make a good alternative title for this novel: The Brain Is A Fine-Filigreed Thing.

As recent neuroscience has established, certain neurons deep in our brains fight things out and decide what insights will be allowed in the full light of consciousness. We have the sensation of remembering, or half-remembering something important; we fight through the maze of countervailing neurons to bring this something up to where we can see it. Then some concatenation of circumstances come together to lift the veil. So it is with Joe Rose, who senses that what Parry has told him about his ostensible secret sending of signals by way of manipulating curtains is familiar and important. Only when the two Logan children play a game that includes winding the curtains around themselves—and when they incidentally mention the word “king”—does the lost recollection finally come through: one of the earliest examples of De Clerambault Syndrome involved a French woman who thought that her love, King George V of England, was sending her messages by moving a curtain in Buckingham Palace.

Nowadays the old adage, “Seeing is believing” has been turned inside out. Now it’s “Believing is seeing,” cited twice in Enduring Love. What this means is that our brains play tricks on us, and we see not what is actually there, but what some neuron in our brain considers it most advantageous for us to see. It is a truism in legal circles these days that eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable. Relating his story about the restaurant shooting in the police station, Joe soon learns that the eyewitnesses cannot agree on much of anything, including what flavor of ice cream they were eating. “We lived in a mist of half-shared, unreliable perception, and our sense data came warped by a prism of desire and belief, which tilted our memories too . . . Pitiless objectivity, especially about ourselves, was always a doomed social strategy. We’re descended from the indignant, passionate tellers of half-truths, who, in order to convince others, simultaneously convinced themselves. Over generations success had winnowed us out, and with success came our defect, carved deep in the genes like ruts in a cart track: when it didn’t suit us, we couldn’t agree on what was in front of us. Believing is seeing.” This quotation is from page 196, the whole of which demonstrates convincingly how human nature and the process of evolution militate against rationalism. All too aware of these sad truths, the rationalist Joe Rose plods on through his life, holding high the beacon of science.

HOLLYWOOD AND ITS DISCONTENTS

As you read through Enduring Love you cannot help thinking, repeatedly, how much of Hollywood there is in the plot and structure of the novel. At the very beginning we have the highly cinematic balloon scene, and later on Hollywood’s most beloved artifacts of all, firearms, step into the story and go off. There is the attempted murder in the restaurant, in which assassins whom Parry has hired shoot the wrong man, who is sitting at a table next to Clarissa and Joe. After which Joe himself, fearful for his life,  acquires a handgun.

Then, the phone call from the bad guy, Parry: “I’ve got Clarissa.” We’re into a tired Hollywood cliché at this point. Armed with a handgun, the righteous hero must rush to the aid of the damsel in distress. Then comes the confrontation, in which the bad guy holds a knife on the heroine, eventually decides to cut his own throat instead, but is forestalled when the gallant hero shoots him in the arm. Even earlier there is the inevitable Hollywood plot twist, when Joe’s story about the restaurant shooting is given no credence by the police, and the reader is led to believe that maybe Clarissa is right: Parry had nothing to do with the shooting, was not present in the restaurant, and Joe himself is half mad and making things up.

Of course, what happens after Joe rescues Clarissa? In Hollywood the music rises as they rush into one another’s arms, the movie is over, and the implication is that all their conjugal strife is over as well. The madman has been foiled, they will go on living out their lives as before, exulting in their ideal love. But that’s not what happens in McEwan’s novel, which is in many ways a parody of a Hollywood movie. 

At the end of the book it appears highly doubtful that Joe and Clarissa will ever get back to where they were. He cannot forgive her for taking Parry so lightly and assuming even that he himself bears much of the blame for the Parry business. She cannot forgive him for attempting—as she sees it—to go alone in his efforts to foil Parry, for retreating into a kind of monomania. Parry has ruined their lives together for all time.

The author did, in fact, sell the rights to this novel and something of a Hollywood movie was made in 2004, starring Daniel Craig as Joe, Rhys Ifans as Parry, and Samantha Morton as Clarissa (renamed Claire). The director was Roger Michelle. The screenwriter, Joe Penhall, took only the bare-bones plot from the novel and smoothed over a lot of complications. Clarissa/Claire has been totally revamped, made into a sculptor instead of a professor who loves Keats; most of her roundness and complexity is lost. Joe is now a university professor. Practically all of the subtext about why and how human beings behave is lost as well, and we end up with a rather typical thriller movie about a stalker. The sad fact is that you can’t really make a novel of ideas into a film, inasmuch there is no room on the celluloid for the complexity of ideas. The best thing about the movie is probably Rhys Ifans, with his eerie portrayal of deranged Parry, smiling his vacant grin.

LETTERS

Enduring Love is in some ways an epistolary novel. The book is full of letters, especially love letters. First of all, we have mention of Keats and Clarissa’s pursuit of his lost love letters. “Might one of them be addressed to Fanny Brawne? . . . [In the throes of the TB that would soon kill him] He knew he’d never see Fanny again,” Clarissa said . . . but he never stopped thinking about her. He was strong enough those days in December, and he loved her so much. It’s easy to imagine him writing a letter he never intended to send.” Apropos of this, Joe remarks, “Lately I’d had the idea that Clarissa’s interest in these hypothetical letters had something to do with our own situation, and with her conviction that love that did not find its expression in a letter was not perfect. In the months after we met and before we bought the apartment, she had written me some beauties, passionately abstract in their exploration of the ways our love was different from and superior to any that ever existed.”

Can’t you just imagine E.O. Wilson reading that line and smiling knowingly? A love that is in one lover’s mind “superior to any that ever existed” seems tailor-made for a big fall. Much later in the book, in the scene at the restaurant, Keats and his poems about love are discussed again. You can read them on line. They are, most certainly, beautiful and heartfelt letters. No need to demean Keats or his brilliant writings, but what, after all, could he have known about love, especially about long-term conjugal love? He never married Fanny Brawne, and he died of TB at age twenty-four.

Whole chapters consist solely of letters to Joe: e.g., Parry’s love letters in Ch. 11 and 16. Near the end of the book, in a letter comprising all of Ch. 23, Clarissa apologizes in passing, for not having taken the threat of crazed Parry more seriously, but the bulk of her letter justifies her behavior and puts most of the blame for the Parry affair on Joe. (1) “I can’t quite get rid of the idea that there might have been a less frightening outcome if you had behaved differently.” (2) “I watched you go deeper into yourself and further and further away from me.” (3) “Isn’t it possible that Parry presented you with an escape from your guilt?” (4) “I can understand how he might have formed the impression that you were leading him on.” (5) “A stranger invaded our lives, and the first thing that happened was that you became a stranger to me.”

PARRY’S LOVE: INSANE, ENDURING

In Appendix One to the novel, McEwan plays a Nabokovian game. The scholarly article here on De Clerambault Syndrome, including a case study that mirrors almost exactly the action of the novel, is, supposedly, “reprinted from the British Review of Psychiatry.” Its authors are Robert Wenn and Antonio Camia. Bibliographical references at the end of the article point, apparently, to actual published articles, but the final one in the list, titled “Homosexual erotomania,” is, once again, authored by “Wenn, R. and Camia, A.” Critics have determined that the letters of the authors’ names make up an anagram of the writer’s name: Ian McEwan. 

Furthermore, in a clever twist that points to the Hollywood parody, McEwan smuggles into the case study the potential for a happy ending to the story of Joe and Clarissa: “R and M were reconciled and later successfully adopted a child.” Possible final scene for a movie never made: Joe, Clarissa, along with bouncy dog and lovely, curly-haired Emily (age four), all out on a picnic in sunshine, romping around a field where the grass is greener than shrill green.

Appendix Two, the final pages of the novel, consists of another love letter from Parry to Joe, this one never sent but confiscated in the mental institution where Parry is incarcerated, and passed on to Dr. R. Wenn, the fictitious author of the fictitious article in Appendix One. Here, at the end of the novel, Parry exults in the happiness his love has brought him.

What about Parry’s love, mired in the De Clerambault Syndrome? Joe muses as follows: “a man who had a theory about pathological love and who had given his name to it, like a bridegroom at the altar, must surely reveal, even if unwittingly, the nature of love itself. For there to be a pathology, there had to be a lurking concept of health. De Clerambault’s syndrome was a dark, distorting mirror that reflected and parodied a brighter world of lovers whose reckless abandon to their cause was sane” (137). Taken as a whole, however, the subject matter of this novel suggests no such sane world of normality among lovers. On the contrary. The last pair of lovers to appear in the book are an old professor of logic and his much much younger student. Like any other lovers, they are “aloft on the wings of love” and behaving in ways that are far from logical: “thirty years between us, but we’re in love.”

Jed Parry, immured as he is in his own private world of insanity, turns out, nonetheless, to be the most devoted slave of love. Passages from his letters to Joe could be taken—maybe some passages are—directly from the letters of Keats to Fanny Brawne. “I’m sitting at a small wooden table on a covered balcony that extends from the study and looks out over the inner courtyard. The rain is falling on two flowering cherry trees. The branch of one grows through the railings, so that I am close enough to see how the water forms into oval beads tinged by the flowers’ pale pink. Love has given me new eyes, I see with such clarity, in such detail. The grain of the old wooden posts, each separate blade of grass on the wet lawn below, the little tickly black legs of the lady bird walking across my hand a minute ago. Everything I see I want to touch and stroke. At last I’m awake. I feel so alive, so alert with love” (104).

In the book’s final love letter, crazed Parry writes to Joe as if he were in communication with him, apparently seeing signs in every movement of a leaf outside his window—as he had once assumed that Joe were leaving messages in the privet hedge outside his apartment building. “The old tears streaming, but the joy! The thousandth day, my thousandth letter, and you telling me that what I’m doing is right! At first you didn’t see the sense of it, and you cursed our separation. Now you know that every day I spend here brings you one tiny step closer to that glorious light, His love . . . This happiness is almost an embarrassment to me . . . You know it already, but I need to tell you again that I adore you, I live for you. I love you” . . . etc., etc.
The title is perfect: Enduring Love. Here is the dictionary definition of the word “enduring”: (1) lasting, durable; (2) chronic, unresolved: “an enduring problem”; (3) long-suffering.

d
“I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks, your Loveliness and the hour of my death. O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute. I hate the world: it batters too much the wings of my self-will, and would I could take a sweet poison from your lips to send me out of it. From no others would I take it. I am indeed astonish'd to find myself so careless of all charms but yours—remembering as I do the time when even a bit of ribband was a matter of interest with me.”

From a letter of John Keats to Fanny Brawne, dated July 27, 1819



                                                           artist: Mikhail Chemiakin