Yeats wrote that. Then he said, "there is nobody wise enough to find out all that is in it."
Me, I've seen all kinds of it. A blonde girl black and blue, carrying a tiny yapping rat-sized dog in a purse slung over her shoulder, eating french fries from a paper bag, maundering to an unfurnished trailer on the beach. A lanky, glowering dark-haired guy, undone by his best intentions, and events beyond his control. A small, quiet, chubby kid, who loved to laugh and fish and drink beer, too afraid to ever declare himself. He ran out of time one Saturday, the fast lane of south-bound 45, between Galveston and Texas City.
Seen other kinds, too. Passion enduring for decades, passion that wanes, passion that never was, at least the way we might think of it—there's no recipe, really—lives completed, interrupted, ruined—crushed, beneath gnarled metal—haunted, by ghosts.
Could Yeats have loved Maud Gonne as deeply as he claimed to love her, if she did not reciprocate, in kind? I have always doubted that. Perhaps his love, impossible as it seemed, was merely a tool, an extension of his artifice, like Plath's resentment of her father, or Steven's evocations of human feeling.
I've always thought unrequited love to be an illusion—a projection, i guess—expressing the desire of the projector, and having little to do with the projectee. It is a desire, too, that can come at an oppressive cost.
But what the hell do I know?
Maybe Dante really loved Beatrice—the essence of Beatrice—with a pure and simple heart. Maybe his idealized vision of her was some kind of fucking truth.
And maybe the best thing he could do, loving her so, was to stay the fuck out of her life, so that she could be really loved—good and loved, so to speak—by someone with a pulse.
Maud Gonne was born 145 years ago, today. God bless your constant heart, Maud—for living on your terms. For rejecting objectification. For not permitting the throbbings of the ravening, flailing, desperate sex to define you.
could you please elaborate on:
ReplyDelete- what (the hell) you mean by love as an extension of (anyone's) artifice
- unrequited love as illusion (what's illusory about loving someone who doesn't love you back? i mean... do you mean it isn't Love that person feels to begin with? if it isn't reciporated? or, er, 'requited'?) (and do you know requite or requited, is— return/repayment of a service, a favour)
- doesn't the term (or idea of) 'reciprocation' disturb you? something in that word has always felt/seemed... cursory (?), obligatory, contractual...
- why would you suggest Dante was cold/dead/boring, or, Stevens— unfeeling?
- you think 'love' has a value that can be judged? assesed? and what do you figure the difference is between 'passion' and 'love'? i'd be curious to know how you would characterize (judge? assess? evaluate?) Maud Gonne's love for Yeats (or vice versa)
Also curious what 'self-definition' would even look like. To what extent it's even possible...
ReplyDelete(re: your statement: "For not permitting the throbbings of the ravening, flailing, desperate sex to define you.")
You imply this woman managed to define herself? Tell me the truth... when you think of Maud Gonne— is it not Yeats' lines which come to mind? (Beauty like a tightened bow, etc...)
Hm...
...
Thinking about this idea of how one might define oneself, or, if one can only ever be defined by? Or, wait... you hear it said that someone can be defined by their actions, (good/bad) deeds, behaviour, etc... but perhaps it's only a particular temperament that chooses to define their selves...?
I dunno. I haven't formed the thought just yet, but something in that last thing you said... don't sit right. Wasn't Ted Hughes defined by Plath, in your mind? I just... Whether it's a woman objectified, glorified and put on a pedestal, or, a man villified, or lampooned... the thing is, if the person that's doing the defining has a peculiar talent with those tools of definition (i.e. art, or— Art) then... well, I guess then you're just screwed, no?
huh. five ayem makes me sound antagonistic. it fucks with my spelling, too, apparently. sorry. i am neither pissed nor incapable of spelling—
ReplyDeleter-e-c-i-p-r-o-c-a-t-e-d.
also, i dunno about all those friggin parantheses. i think it was your disease first.
- what (the hell) you mean by love as an extension of (anyone's) artifice
ReplyDeleteWe all know how everything in Plath's life was extended into her work. And when that wasn't enough, she concocted myths to serve it, too. Often I have the feeling that if Maud Gonne had dissolved into Yeats's arms and said take me Bill I'm your's he woulda found another muse. He was about the work, wasn't he?
- unrequited love as illusion (what's illusory about loving someone who doesn't love you back?
I believe love requires a completed circuit.
do you mean it isn't Love that person feels to begin with?
Yes, that is what I mean. It is a projection of feeling, and it has variations, but I do not think it love.
if it isn't reciporated?
Yes, that is what I mean.
or 'requited'?)
(see above)
(and do you know requite or requited, is— return/repayment of a service, a favour)
This is an example of how imprecise language can be, isn't it?
- you think 'love' has a value that can be judged? assessed?
Everything has a value, I suppose. But that is not what I am suggesting.
(“That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”)
and what do you figure the difference is between 'passion' and 'love'?
Seems like I read this somewhere: 1. Passion is a minor planet, orbiting around that which is Love. 2. Passion is a tone. Love is a fact.
i'd be curious to know how you would characterize (judge? assess? evaluate?) Maud Gonne's love for Yeats (or vice versa)
I could not possiibly do that. But from what I know of her, I feel sure that it (her feeling for him) belonged to her, entirely. She did not melt into nothingness—or into his, or any, alien perception of her—simply because someone with a penis wrote pretty words about her.
The next questions are the most interesting, I think. Tired now, and must sleep.
Tomorrow!
Also curious what 'self-definition' would even look like. To what extent it's even possible
ReplyDeletePossible, I think, for anyone willing to do the work
(re: your statement: "For not permitting the throbbings of the ravening, flailing, desperate sex to define you.")You imply this woman managed to define herself? Tell me the truth... when you think of Maud Gonne— is it not Yeats' lines which come to mind? (Beauty like a tightened bow, etc...)
What comes to my mind doesn't matter, nor your's, Yeats's, or anyone else's. My point is that Maud had another idea for her life, and was not swayed from it by Yeats, or any other man (not even her husbands)
you hear it said that someone can be defined by their actions, (good/bad) deeds, behaviour, etc... but perhaps it's only a particular temperament that chooses to define their selves...? Wasn't Ted Hughes defined by Plath, in your mind? I just... Whether it's a woman objectified, glorified and put on a pedestal, or, a man villified, or lampooned... the thing is, if the person that's doing the defining has a peculiar talent with those tools of definition (i.e. art, or— Art) then... well, I guess then you're just screwed, no?
In short, no.
Hughes actually better supports my argument, I think. Every idea I had about him was wrong—though what can you expect, forming opinions about living breathing human beings from artifice created by others?
I'm gonna do a post dealing with this issue...I'm tired again, though, and my brain is definitely beginning to assume the properties of a pepperoni—and not a very high quality pepperoni, at that.
Gotta sleep...