ATDTDA (21): Nights out here on the masegni, 580-582

[kelber at mindspring.com]

I've complained previously that there aren't as many wonderfully written passages in ATD as in GR, in that more of ATD is taken up with exposition ("then he went here and did that" type of stuff), while you can open GR to almost any page and find dense, amazing writing.

But this very long sentence cited below by Paul is a knockout:

p. 580-581:

"She had sat adrift in insomnia for hours watching fields of windows lit and lampless, vulnerable flames and filaments by the thousands borne billowing as by waves of the sea, the broken rolling surfaces of great cities, allowing herself to imagine, almost surrendering to the impossibility of ever belonging, since childhood when she'd ridden with Merle past all those small, perfect towns, longed after the lights at creeksides and the lights defining the shapes of bridges over great rivers, through church windows or trees in summer, casting shining parabolas down pale brick walls or haloed in bugs, lanterns on farm rigs, candles at windowpanes, each attached to a life running before and continuing on, long after she and Merle and the wagon would have passed, and the mute land risen up once again to cancel the brief revelation, the offer never clearly stated, the hand never fully dealt ..."

Like other similarly pithy passages in his other books, this one seems to encompass many of the book's themes:  A view of the world as if it were a flickering strip of film in a projector(life running before and continuing on), the imposition of geometry on nature (broken rolling surfaces of great cities, lights defining the shapes of bridges over great cities), and the relationship between time and motion and light, and at the same time capturing the intense loneliness of not belonging, of homesickness and alienation.  TRP at his best.

Laura


-----Original Message-----
>From: Paul Nightingale <isread at btinternet.com>

>
>If the previous section ended with Dally, the new section opens with her
>"switch[ing] her own day around to accommodate" Hunter's new interest in
>nocturnes. There is a back-&-forth nature to their relationship: he draws
>her out of herself (576), in the process becoming quite voluble (577-579),
>and then she reasserts herself (579-580). This is not to say they are
>engaged in a power struggle: neither character is asked to surrender
>independence. 
>
>As previously he recalled Merle for her, so here does talk of Venetian light
>recall American light, her childhood and Merle (581), the paragraph drifting
>away rather than closing ...
>
>Furthermore, on "all those small, perfect towns ..." etc, cf. Lew's take:
>"As the evening crept across the valley ..." (174-175).
>
>The "secret and tenebrous city" (581) that Dally discovers, complete with
>"rat-infested labyrinths", recalls Hunter's explanation of "the labyrinthine
>principle" (575). As "this ancient town progressively settl[es] into a mask
>of itself" (581), one might recall Dally's own attempt to withdrew into
>disguise (575-576): this emphasises the rapport she has felt with her
>surroundings since first arriving in Venice (eg, "an upswelling of the heart
>she must struggle to contain", 568). Hence, "[s]he is much more comfortable
>working nights ..." etc, in spite of "the night predators" she has to deal
>with (581). Hunter is absent from these passages, nowhere in evidence when
>she deals with Tonio or contemplates the cost of seduction. She considers
>"the element of fear" (582), interrupted by Hunter's alternative, painterly,
>take on the Venetian night, one that appears to align him with tourists. His
>suggestion that she leave with him goes unanswered; and the section ends
>with a simple statement of his remaining. Their relationship is one that
>seems to thrive on difference.
>