I had known what I wanted when I was ten, known it with a clarity and passion that I felt could not and would not be thwarted, although I had gone off track and for nearly two decades lived a false life.
But I never forgot my path, never completely deserted it. I craved knowledge of all sorts—of literature, philosophy, history, art, music, life . I wanted to feel easy with that knowledge, and write out of it and my principles and taste. I hoped to be published but never expected to make much money from my writing (just enough to live on, I dreamed, not knowing then how rare even that was). I wanted to travel all over the world, to have all sorts of sexual experiences with all sorts of people, and to have cultured sophisticates for friends. I imagined an elite who lived on a higher cultural plane than others, whose conversation was lofty, who had innate good taste, grace, and dignity. It never occurred to me to ask also that they be decent human beings. I wanted a town house on Manhattan’s East Side, with a black front door and a brass door knocker. And I had realized all my desires to some degree. Still, I had not had enough; I wanted more; I could never have enough. I had not yet been to Japan, or to South America….
Oscar Wilde said that there were two tragedies: not getting what you want, or getting it, which was worse. But I am happy I got what I wanted, despite the ironic character of fulfillment.
At fifteen, I had no desire for husband or children. I got them, as it were, by default, like any good girl of the forties. Yet now my children were my greatest satisfaction, my greatest pleasure, my greatest love. And they were grown. I grieved over not seeing or touching them again, not knowing what would happen to them, but not over leaving them helpless and vulnerable in a world in which no one would ever love them as I did—like my poor neighbor. If I lived longer, about all I could give them was my pleasure in their existence. It was ironic, I thought, that two things I never thought to want when I was young—children and good friends—were two of the three essential elements in my life, the third being my work. The unwished for, the unexpected, turned out to be the greatest blessing. Pure luck.
Pondering again the randomness of fate and the sadness of that poor woman’s lot, I ached to talk to her, to help her in some way—but how? Who did I think I was, that I could help? No one could help a woman who had never been loved and was now dying. Like my own mother, she was beyond consolation. Still, I knew that it sometimes helped simply to listen to people—I’ve done a huge amount of listening in my life. So I did try several times to start a conversation. But I could not penetrate the isolation her sorrow cast around her.
On the other hand, if I was in some ways more fortunate, in other ways we were the same, she and I. Death is death, we both faced it (she a little more closely) alone, as everyone does. I, too, longed for my mother to come and comfort me, yet I knew that alive, she would have been unlikely to offer me comfort. My mother was steeped in the suffering of her childhood; she saw any illness or pain of mine as an act of willful aggression against her, causing her, who felt she had already suffered more than any other human being on earth, even more agony. Sliding into the bitter self-pity that (it seems) mothers can always provoke, I decided it was just as well my mother was dead, so she did not have to deal with my illness and I did not have to clutter up my heart with rage against her. Still, night after night, lying there unable to sleep, I tried to reach her, calling on her silently wherever she was. I could not feel her: she had turned her face away from me.
Another bad thing about all hospitals is the food, which is not only tasteless but poor in quality. Cooking for so massive a number of people may inevitably cause tastelessness, but I do not understand why hospitals buy unhealthful
But I never forgot my path, never completely deserted it. I craved knowledge of all sorts—of literature, philosophy, history, art, music, life . I wanted to feel easy with that knowledge, and write out of it and my principles and taste. I hoped to be published but never expected to make much money from my writing (just enough to live on, I dreamed, not knowing then how rare even that was). I wanted to travel all over the world, to have all sorts of sexual experiences with all sorts of people, and to have cultured sophisticates for friends. I imagined an elite who lived on a higher cultural plane than others, whose conversation was lofty, who had innate good taste, grace, and dignity. It never occurred to me to ask also that they be decent human beings. I wanted a town house on Manhattan’s East Side, with a black front door and a brass door knocker. And I had realized all my desires to some degree. Still, I had not had enough; I wanted more; I could never have enough. I had not yet been to Japan, or to South America….
Oscar Wilde said that there were two tragedies: not getting what you want, or getting it, which was worse. But I am happy I got what I wanted, despite the ironic character of fulfillment.
At fifteen, I had no desire for husband or children. I got them, as it were, by default, like any good girl of the forties. Yet now my children were my greatest satisfaction, my greatest pleasure, my greatest love. And they were grown. I grieved over not seeing or touching them again, not knowing what would happen to them, but not over leaving them helpless and vulnerable in a world in which no one would ever love them as I did—like my poor neighbor. If I lived longer, about all I could give them was my pleasure in their existence. It was ironic, I thought, that two things I never thought to want when I was young—children and good friends—were two of the three essential elements in my life, the third being my work. The unwished for, the unexpected, turned out to be the greatest blessing. Pure luck.
Pondering again the randomness of fate and the sadness of that poor woman’s lot, I ached to talk to her, to help her in some way—but how? Who did I think I was, that I could help? No one could help a woman who had never been loved and was now dying. Like my own mother, she was beyond consolation. Still, I knew that it sometimes helped simply to listen to people—I’ve done a huge amount of listening in my life. So I did try several times to start a conversation. But I could not penetrate the isolation her sorrow cast around her.
On the other hand, if I was in some ways more fortunate, in other ways we were the same, she and I. Death is death, we both faced it (she a little more closely) alone, as everyone does. I, too, longed for my mother to come and comfort me, yet I knew that alive, she would have been unlikely to offer me comfort. My mother was steeped in the suffering of her childhood; she saw any illness or pain of mine as an act of willful aggression against her, causing her, who felt she had already suffered more than any other human being on earth, even more agony. Sliding into the bitter self-pity that (it seems) mothers can always provoke, I decided it was just as well my mother was dead, so she did not have to deal with my illness and I did not have to clutter up my heart with rage against her. Still, night after night, lying there unable to sleep, I tried to reach her, calling on her silently wherever she was. I could not feel her: she had turned her face away from me.
Another bad thing about all hospitals is the food, which is not only tasteless but poor in quality. Cooking for so massive a number of people may inevitably cause tastelessness, but I do not understand why hospitals buy unhealthful
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