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You might remember (or not) the book(s) I read a while ago by Patrick Leigh Fermor, which inspired the post where I bitched about all the words I had to look up. Well, because I am not only a masochist but forgetful as well, I picked up another Leigh Fermor book: A Time to Keep Silence. This slender little book (which nonetheless contained many words that, once again, required much canoodling with the dictionary) is about the author's sojourns to several different monasteries. His quest, however, is not so much a religious one--he is searching for someplace peaceful and quiet in which to write.
It seemed nearly impossible to read this book on the subway. In fact, I found myself contemplating this question--picture me, your very own Carrie Bradshaw (just as self-absorbed but with considerably less shoes and the sense to avoid anything designed by Pat Fields) sitting in front of her laptop and positing the obvious question, flitting across her faux screen: Can you really read a book about meditation, silence, and solitude on the piss-stinky, loud New York subway?
No, Carrie, you can't. My very first day reading the book on the subway brought to mind the Odd Couple episode where Oscar and Felix go on retreat to a monastery. (Oscar wears his Mets cap along with his brown monk's robe; Felix is, as usual, a general pain in the ass.) Obviously, our erudite friend Mr. Leigh Fermor did not write this book with the intent of stimulating a slacker's memory of much-beloved sitcom.
Leigh Fermor wrote this book in the 1950s; he vividly contrasts the noise and bustle of his Parisian life with his stay in several French monasteries. He is a culture junkie going through the pain of withdrawal: He is depressed, cannot sleep, is profoundly lonely and feels a sense of "impending death." But this is merely a part of the transition to the life of solitude and contemplation; soon "the troubled waters of the mind grow still and clear, and much that is hidden away and all that clouds it floats to the surface and can be skimmed away....This is so different from any normal experience, that it makes the stranger suspect that he has been the beneficiary (in spite, or in the teeth, of recalcitrance or scepticism or plain incapacity for belief) of a supernatural windfall or an unconsciously appropriated share in the spiritual activity that is always at work in monasteries."
Fifty odd years later, the noise of civilization is even more prevalent (and ugly). Civilization ain't very civilized anymore. Can I even remember the last time I heard perfect quiet? Or anything close to it?(Night time in Venice, the only sound the gondolas beating against their docks...) Is it any wonder it's so difficult to write--not just for me, I believe, but for others as well? And really, couldn't everyone just benefit from a little peace, quiet and contemplation--with the occasional Gregorian chant--on a regular basis?:
The antiphonal singing from the stalls continued to build its invisible architecture of music: a scaffolding that sent columns of plain-song soaring upwards, to be completed by an anthem from the choir that roofed it like a canopy. The anthem was followed by a long stillness which seemed to be scooped out of the very heart of sound. After long minutes, a small bell rang and then the great bell from the tower which told of the rites that were being celebrated and the mysterious events taking place; and the heads of the monks fell as if one blow had scythed them away....The Mass sang itself out, the kiss of peace passed like a whispered message down the stalls, the officiating court dispersed, and the vestments were removed. A monk extinguished the candles, the hoods went up, the Abbot intoned the opening verse of Sext and, still on the same note, the response came booming back....
It seemed nearly impossible to read this book on the subway. In fact, I found myself contemplating this question--picture me, your very own Carrie Bradshaw (just as self-absorbed but with considerably less shoes and the sense to avoid anything designed by Pat Fields) sitting in front of her laptop and positing the obvious question, flitting across her faux screen: Can you really read a book about meditation, silence, and solitude on the piss-stinky, loud New York subway?
No, Carrie, you can't. My very first day reading the book on the subway brought to mind the Odd Couple episode where Oscar and Felix go on retreat to a monastery. (Oscar wears his Mets cap along with his brown monk's robe; Felix is, as usual, a general pain in the ass.) Obviously, our erudite friend Mr. Leigh Fermor did not write this book with the intent of stimulating a slacker's memory of much-beloved sitcom.
Leigh Fermor wrote this book in the 1950s; he vividly contrasts the noise and bustle of his Parisian life with his stay in several French monasteries. He is a culture junkie going through the pain of withdrawal: He is depressed, cannot sleep, is profoundly lonely and feels a sense of "impending death." But this is merely a part of the transition to the life of solitude and contemplation; soon "the troubled waters of the mind grow still and clear, and much that is hidden away and all that clouds it floats to the surface and can be skimmed away....This is so different from any normal experience, that it makes the stranger suspect that he has been the beneficiary (in spite, or in the teeth, of recalcitrance or scepticism or plain incapacity for belief) of a supernatural windfall or an unconsciously appropriated share in the spiritual activity that is always at work in monasteries."
Fifty odd years later, the noise of civilization is even more prevalent (and ugly). Civilization ain't very civilized anymore. Can I even remember the last time I heard perfect quiet? Or anything close to it?(Night time in Venice, the only sound the gondolas beating against their docks...) Is it any wonder it's so difficult to write--not just for me, I believe, but for others as well? And really, couldn't everyone just benefit from a little peace, quiet and contemplation--with the occasional Gregorian chant--on a regular basis?:
The antiphonal singing from the stalls continued to build its invisible architecture of music: a scaffolding that sent columns of plain-song soaring upwards, to be completed by an anthem from the choir that roofed it like a canopy. The anthem was followed by a long stillness which seemed to be scooped out of the very heart of sound. After long minutes, a small bell rang and then the great bell from the tower which told of the rites that were being celebrated and the mysterious events taking place; and the heads of the monks fell as if one blow had scythed them away....The Mass sang itself out, the kiss of peace passed like a whispered message down the stalls, the officiating court dispersed, and the vestments were removed. A monk extinguished the candles, the hoods went up, the Abbot intoned the opening verse of Sext and, still on the same note, the response came booming back....
