Quiet Stone

I have finally found access to and read My Brilliant Career, by Miles Franklin. (Thank you, Project Gutenberg!) Ever since I saw the wonderful film production of it when I was in high school, I've wanted the deeper knowledge of the characters that only a book can give. The story is startlingly realistic in its emotions, and I easily lost myself in memories of some of the situations. Hard, ceaseless, unthinking labor in coarse, demeaning surroundings, for the benefit of bare survival. The thrill of a passionate dispute with a tinge of bloodlust. I can understand why many people, including me, thought of the book as (artistically magnified) autobiography, prompting Ms. Franklin to ban publication of the book for the first ten years after her death. I do wish that I could as easily get ahold of its sequel, My Career Goes Bung.

I also wish that the ending of the story did not tear into me as it does. Harold's dedication and genuine care for Sybylla are rewarded, and can only be rewarded, with rejection and pain. Sybylla cannot accept anything other than independence or assistance given by her. But I am not especially romantic or sentimental, why does this pain me? In fact, I remembered two other stories that enraged me when the heroine has the choice of marriage or no, and chooses marriage. In those stories, though, Shaw's Pygmalion and Le Guin's Tehanu, as an option to marriage, the heroines were offered fully-supported education, supported by people and situation, with no stigma. If the two must be discrete, and if a choice must be made, for the sake of all the lost opportunities and all the secrecy and struggle of curious and intelligent women in time and the world, why do they choose limiting convention? But Sybylla was not offered educational limitation either way. Her desire for independence was something else, something that I cannot name or describe, because I am not distressed by it. Power over another, most easily gained and understood financially, can be satisfying, just as being held under another's power can be sickeningly grating, but I suspect that it is not exactly this situation that Sybylla is trying to escape. I, myself, am willing to put up with and play some of these games for the sake of the opportunity to study. Power games themselves and their offenses can be turbulently fascinating study, but most is forgiven and some is ignored if I am allowed a stunning library and remarkable tutors and freedom in the mental sphere. And so, good man as you are, Harold, I would have married you.

Having read these articles today, this, this, and this, I found myself imagining the reaction that a friend of mine would have, and the following was my imaginary advice to her. It is also some consolation to that part of myself that balks at being a witness to such behavior, even one who is so distanced.
We must remember that, in many cases, these are people and are societies formed of people who are in a stage of perception that is very limited and unsophisticated. The cruelty and acceptance of cruelty by both the leaders and the followers is a facet of a level of perception that is a part of the life process. I am thankful, though, that it is only a detail, and not the entirety, of human possibility, for the second would be sad, indeed.
Efforts to help others improve the basic, animal quality of their lives cannot disregard their beliefs. It is not for lack of will or sympathy that I would hesitate in any situation to offer assistance; it is the immense complexity of human society and human potential for behavior in interaction. A formed idealism, such as that of assisting others, tends to be a part of one person's creation: a communicable distillation of his thoughts. To apply this part to the behavior of a mass of humanity, where each individual being is an indecipherable complexity, we should expect not to be able to predict results. Hesitancy is, for this reason, advisable to determine whether a certain form of assistance is appropriate for a certain situation, both in regarding its effectiveness in accomplishing our goal and as far as anyone can try to foresee the consequences of the interaction of unidentical beings with free will.
Whether we are trying to recover personal balance after being disturbed or whether we want to act to change an external situation, the acknowledgment and acceptance of the validity of any and all human behavior is a key step in the process. Such are also a mark of respect for the life and structure in which we exist, for all people who have lived and died, and for each one of our selves.

Having just heard a speech by Robert Kennedy, Jr., I must admit that I was less enthused by his political views, though certainly not because they were disagreeable, than by the opportunity for observation of speechmaking. One charming rhetorical trick I must share. At one point, he interjected, "This is a digression, but this entire talk is turning into a digression," to the laughter of the crowd. True to the first point, false to the second. I had just reviewed the debate between him and Christine Todd Whitman in the November 2004 issue of Outside magazine, and his speech was following form and substance pretty well along the lines of what was published. A good way to get the audience's forgiveness and good humor when you want to share a semi-relevant anecdote. How often he incorporates that same anecdote into that speech, I don't know, though I'm sure that the speech is given often, and the excuse for anecdotes, as well. I only wish that I had reviewed Aristotle's Art of Rhetoric last night, too, so that I could have more easily observed organizational methods and deduced intentions behind the inclusion of certain topics.

I'm feeling a little sick. The only physical effect is subtle, perhaps only half-physical. I feel a lethargy and faint panic induced, I think, from remembering something akin to unrequited love, as well as the realization that I am in a moment in my life when I must take an action, but all the likely options make my palms sweat. Through it all, I must maintain politeness and a quiet demeanor because that is my job and that is my habit. There are no screaming matches in me now, or weeping, or ecstatic emotion entwining me to another person. Those I leave for others, but I would welcome joy that suffuses my body and that forces me, however hard I try to suppress it, to smile.

A few nights ago, I was tearfully revealing to an acquaintance that I felt victimized by circumstance. The situations of my life, the people I've known were all controlling me, and I was not allowed to indulge myself in my strongest desires. The other person was very patient and cheerful, and after listening carefully to my catalog of woes, declared them easy to eliminate. Really? Hm, that sounds reasonable. Why was I crying? Then, I went to my monthly study group, where I was reminded that it would be easy to fall into a personality fear pattern, often called Martyrdom, a short description of which I unwittingly gave in the midst of heart-wracking sobs. I would think that after eight years of studying this system of personality traits, I would be more adept at recognition of parts of it. I note, though, that I was acting more purely according to the definition of Martyrdom than I've ever noticed before, and this probably promoted and will promote observational clarity and attitudinal efficiency as I take recommended steps to eliminate future such occurrences of self-pity. It is strange that I had never before seriously considered that Martyrdom was a strong feature in me. It is quite likely that Martyrdom takes the place that I thought Impatience held.

Today is sunny, with snow, cold, and windy.