{"id":19246,"date":"2017-04-28T10:57:05","date_gmt":"2017-04-28T14:57:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=19246"},"modified":"2017-04-28T10:57:05","modified_gmt":"2017-04-28T14:57:05","slug":"the-unbearable-lightness-of-metaphor","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2017\/04\/the-unbearable-lightness-of-metaphor\/","title":{"rendered":"The Unbearable Lightness of Metaphor"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"'Light<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “light – day two,” by Lucy Maude Ellis. (Found it on Flickr<\/a>; used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!) I came across this image while searching for images having to do with weightlessness and such; the photographer’s Flickr photostream<\/a> seems to exhibit a particular fondness for “levitation pictures.” In such pictures, the human subject is posed in such a way that s\/he appears to be floating in air — the photographer then edits the photo to remove all traces of whatever device(s) are used to support the model. This image, though, “felt” better to me as accompaniment to today’s theme.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

The Mountain<\/strong><\/p>\n

My students look at me expectantly.
\nI explain to them that the life of art is a life
\nof endless labor. Their expressions
\nhardly change; they need to know
\na little more about endless labor.
\nSo I tell them the story of Sisyphus,
\nhow he was doomed to push
\na rock up a mountain, knowing nothing
\nwould come of this effort
\nbut that he would repeat it
\nindefinitely. I tell them
\nthere is joy in this, in the artist’s life,
\nthat one eludes
\njudgment, and as I speak
\nI am secretly pushing a rock myself,
\nslyly pushing it up the steep
\nface of a mountain. Why do I lie
\nto these children? They aren’t listening,
\nthey aren’t deceived, their fingers
\ntapping at the wooden desks—
\nSo I retract
\nthe myth; I tell them it occurs
\nin hell, and that the artist lies
\nbecause he is obsessed with attainment,
\nthat he perceives the summit
\nas that place where he will live forever,
\na place about to be
\ntransformed by his burden: with every breath,
\nI am standing at the top of the mountain.
\nBoth my hands are free. And the rock has added
\nheight to the mountain.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Louise Gl\u00fcck [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

What Light Does<\/strong><\/p>\n

Today, I did nothing.
\nLight went on as usual,<\/p>\n

throwing leaves against the white wall,
\nas if no one were watching, as if<\/p>\n

there’s no meaning in the trembling
\nof the leaves. Later, light moves<\/p>\n

the leaves onto the tile floor,
\nand once I might have thought them<\/p>\n

dancing, or that the shadow
\nof a thing is more beautiful<\/p>\n

than the thing itself, but it’s not,
\nit’s just ordinary light, going about<\/p>\n

its ordinary business. Now, evening is here,
\nand I’ve made it through another day<\/p>\n

of shadows. This is not metaphor, or poetry,
\nit’s how the unbearable is<\/p>\n

a blade that gleams and remains
\nvisible, long after light has gone.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Patty Paine, Blackbird [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

At the Station<\/strong><\/p>\n

When the girl got off the train at the college town,
\nshe leapt up and wrapped her legs around the waist
\nof the boy she\u2019d come to visit, and they spun
\naround, embracing and shrieking with joy.
\nTheir love set off a piccolo’s vibration.
\nThose years are gone for us—I see you every day,
\nwe eat meals together from decades-old plates.
\nBut when we lie in bed at night, you take my hand,
\nand I feel the orb that\u2019s formed around us tighten,
\nwhile you and I, like knitting needles in a ball
\nof yarn, lie beside each other, fingers touching.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Anya Krugovoy Silver [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Now it was a whole different world, made up of narrow curved bridges in the emptiness, of knots or peel or scores roughening the trunks, of lights varying their green according to the veils of thicker or scarcer leaves, trembling at the first quiver of the air on the shoots or moving like sails with the bend of the tree in the wind. While down below our world lay flattened, and our bodies looked quite disproportionate and we certainly understood nothing of what he knew up there—he who spent his nights listening to the sap running through its cells; the circles marking the years inside the trunks; the patches of mold growing ever larger helped by the north wind; the birds sleeping and quivering in their nests, then resettling their heads in the softest down of their wings; and the caterpillar waking, and the chrysalis opening. There is the moment when the silence of the countryside gathers in the ear and breaks into a myriad of sounds:a croaking and squeaking, a swift rustle in the grass, a plop in the water, a pattering on earth and pebbles, and high above all, the call of the cicada, The sounds follow one another, and the ear eventually discerns more and more of them—just as fingers unwinding a ball of wool feel each fiber interwoven with progressively thinner and less palpable threads, The frogs continue croaking in the background without changing the flow of sounds, just as light does not vary from the continuous winking of stars, But at every rise or fall of the wind every sound changes and is renewed. All that remains in the inner recess of the ear is a vague murmur: the sea.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Italo Calvino [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

The Necessary Brevity of Pleasures<\/strong><\/p>\n

Prolonged, they slacken into pain
\nor sadness in accordance with the law<\/span>
\nof apples.<\/span>
\nOne apple satisfies.<\/span>
\nTwo apples cloy.
\nThree apples<\/span>
\nglut.<\/span>
\nCall it a tug-of-war <\/span>
\nbetween enough and more<\/span>
\nthan enough, between sufficiency<\/span>
\nand greed, between the stay-at-homers<\/span>
\nand globe-trotting see-the-worlders.<\/span>
\nLike lovers seeking heaven in excess,
\nthe hopelessly insatiable forget<\/span>
\nhow passion sharpens appetites<\/span>
\nthat gross indulgence numbs.<\/span>
\nResult?
\nThe haves have not<\/span>
\nwhat all the have-nots have<\/span>
\nsince much of having is the need<\/span>
\nto have.<\/span>
\nEven my dog<\/span>
\nknows that — and more than that.<\/span>
\nHe slumbers in a moon of sunlight,
\nscratches his twitches and itches<\/span>
\nin measure, savors every bite<\/span>
\nof grub with equal gratitude<\/span>
\nand stays determinedly in place<\/span>
\nunless what\u2019s suddenly exciting<\/span>
\nhappens.<\/span>
\nViewing mere change<\/span>
\nas threatening, he relishes a few<\/span>
\nundoubtable and proven pleasures<\/span>
\nto enjoy each day in sequence<\/span>
\nand with canine moderation.<\/span>
\nThey\u2019re there for him in waiting,
\nand he never wears them out.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Samuel Hazo [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “light – day two,” by Lucy Maude Ellis. (Found it on Flickr; used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!) I came across this image while searching for images having to do with weightlessness and such; the photographer’s Flickr photostream seems to exhibit a particular fondness for “levitation pictures.” In such pictures, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":19261,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Gl\u00fcck, Calvino, et al., on seeking meaning, which floats just out of reach: 'The Unbearable Lightness of Metaphor'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,250,5,50,36,251,3477],"tags":[195,376,904,4051,4519,4520,4521,4522,4523,4524],"class_list":{"0":"post-19246","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-art","10":"category-06_writing","11":"category-language-writing_cat","12":"category-reading","13":"category-poetry-writing_cat","14":"category-fantasy-06_writing","15":"tag-metaphor","16":"tag-louise-gluck","17":"tag-meaning","18":"tag-italo-calvino","19":"tag-patty-blaine","20":"tag-anya-kruguvoy-silver","21":"tag-samuel-hazo","22":"tag-weight","23":"tag-weightlessness","24":"tag-a-matter-of-interpretation","25":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/04\/lightdaytwo_lucymaudeellis_thumb.jpg?fit=480%2C464&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-50q","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19246","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=19246"}],"version-history":[{"count":14,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19246\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":19260,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/19246\/revisions\/19260"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/19261"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=19246"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=19246"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=19246"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}