it was said. His charming wife, the magnificent wheel—scrap, the lot of it. The joy was gone.”
Amanda reminds me that once, a long time ago, I took pleasure in teaching. As a young man I dreamed of making a difference as a teacher. I even used such words as
inspiration, bequeathing,
and . . . well . . .
joy.
But I never did hit it off with my fellow teachers. The older ones could not forgive my so-called treachery during the war. The younger ones ignored me. And the students . . . I never managed to get through to them. They wouldn’t listen to me. In the end I gave up, grew sardonic and baleful. Alienated them. Earned myself the nickname Gruesome Grutt.
“Why didn’t they like you, Axel? What did they blame you for? What
happened during the war?”
Stella stands before the gilt mirror in the hall, looking at me.
“Come on, Axel, tell me. I tell you everything, don’t I?”
A few days ago, I read a newspaper article in which some old people answered the question: Given the chance, would you live your life over again? Most of them said yes. How could they? How could anyone live his life again? Go through all that toil and trouble again? It’s only fair to point out that the reporter had not set out to describe the lot of the elderly in Norway. This was one of those so-called feel-good pieces, human-interest stuff, aimed at younger people who are working themselves to death and not taking time to enjoy the important things in life: their children, their family, and so on. (I’ve never understood how one is supposed to
enjoy
one’s family. I was certainly never able to
enjoy
mine.) These elderly interviewees figured merely as cautionary waxworks of a sort, a grim reminder of what lies ahead.
Enjoy life while you’ve still got it!
That was how the journalist concluded his article. Enjoy life? Live it over again? Never! These days I’m most afraid that I’m going to end up living forever, unless I take matters into my own hands; afraid that God, if he exists, has forgotten all about me; that Death, busy as life is, has forgotten me, too.
Having had my bath and hoisted myself out of the tub, I plant myself squarely in front of the mirror. Swathed in a yellow bathrobe, I shave—and my hand is steady. It does not tremble. It does its work with precision, gentleness, care, and deliberation. When I finish shaving, I will get dressed. I laid my clothes out last night. I shall wear dark blue slacks, a dark blue jacket, a white shirt I ironed five days ago, the same day I heard of her death, and a blue tie. I do not need a walking stick. I have a good firm step for my age. I have a green felt hat to which I am greatly attached.
I suppose I do have one joy; there is pleasure for me in music. I have never played an instrument, and I only ever sing to myself, very quietly, under the eiderdown at night. I used to sing at the moment when the Ferris wheel gondola reached its highest point: I would stand up, stretch out my arms, and sing. Music tells me there are beings beyond this miserable existence who are willing to speak to us. Unborn children, perhaps, who were meant to have a body, a voice, a life, but who came to nothing, aborted or snuffed out at the moment of conception, and turned instead into music that some composer was sensitive enough to catch and write down.
I know there are other sorts of reality. I can hear them there, on the other side, a bequest from the outermost limits.
Mind you, my neighbor does his best to spoil it for me. I’ve lost count of the times over the years I’ve had to bang on the wall because he’s put on the racket he calls music. And the old boy’s nearly stone-deaf. One morning I rang his doorbell and tried, as politely as I know how, to persuade him to buy a hearing aid like mine, with headphones and none of those fiddly little screws or knobs. But the old fool took my overture as an insult.
For one thing, he said, there was nothing wrong with his hearing. And for another, he
Amanda reminds me that once, a long time ago, I took pleasure in teaching. As a young man I dreamed of making a difference as a teacher. I even used such words as
inspiration, bequeathing,
and . . . well . . .
joy.
But I never did hit it off with my fellow teachers. The older ones could not forgive my so-called treachery during the war. The younger ones ignored me. And the students . . . I never managed to get through to them. They wouldn’t listen to me. In the end I gave up, grew sardonic and baleful. Alienated them. Earned myself the nickname Gruesome Grutt.
“Why didn’t they like you, Axel? What did they blame you for? What
happened during the war?”
Stella stands before the gilt mirror in the hall, looking at me.
“Come on, Axel, tell me. I tell you everything, don’t I?”
A few days ago, I read a newspaper article in which some old people answered the question: Given the chance, would you live your life over again? Most of them said yes. How could they? How could anyone live his life again? Go through all that toil and trouble again? It’s only fair to point out that the reporter had not set out to describe the lot of the elderly in Norway. This was one of those so-called feel-good pieces, human-interest stuff, aimed at younger people who are working themselves to death and not taking time to enjoy the important things in life: their children, their family, and so on. (I’ve never understood how one is supposed to
enjoy
one’s family. I was certainly never able to
enjoy
mine.) These elderly interviewees figured merely as cautionary waxworks of a sort, a grim reminder of what lies ahead.
Enjoy life while you’ve still got it!
That was how the journalist concluded his article. Enjoy life? Live it over again? Never! These days I’m most afraid that I’m going to end up living forever, unless I take matters into my own hands; afraid that God, if he exists, has forgotten all about me; that Death, busy as life is, has forgotten me, too.
Having had my bath and hoisted myself out of the tub, I plant myself squarely in front of the mirror. Swathed in a yellow bathrobe, I shave—and my hand is steady. It does not tremble. It does its work with precision, gentleness, care, and deliberation. When I finish shaving, I will get dressed. I laid my clothes out last night. I shall wear dark blue slacks, a dark blue jacket, a white shirt I ironed five days ago, the same day I heard of her death, and a blue tie. I do not need a walking stick. I have a good firm step for my age. I have a green felt hat to which I am greatly attached.
I suppose I do have one joy; there is pleasure for me in music. I have never played an instrument, and I only ever sing to myself, very quietly, under the eiderdown at night. I used to sing at the moment when the Ferris wheel gondola reached its highest point: I would stand up, stretch out my arms, and sing. Music tells me there are beings beyond this miserable existence who are willing to speak to us. Unborn children, perhaps, who were meant to have a body, a voice, a life, but who came to nothing, aborted or snuffed out at the moment of conception, and turned instead into music that some composer was sensitive enough to catch and write down.
I know there are other sorts of reality. I can hear them there, on the other side, a bequest from the outermost limits.
Mind you, my neighbor does his best to spoil it for me. I’ve lost count of the times over the years I’ve had to bang on the wall because he’s put on the racket he calls music. And the old boy’s nearly stone-deaf. One morning I rang his doorbell and tried, as politely as I know how, to persuade him to buy a hearing aid like mine, with headphones and none of those fiddly little screws or knobs. But the old fool took my overture as an insult.
For one thing, he said, there was nothing wrong with his hearing. And for another, he
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