Faithful and Virtuous Night by Louise Glück

Faithful and Virtuous Night by Louise Glück

Author:Louise Glück
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466875463
Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux


THE SWORD IN THE STONE

My analyst looked up briefly.

Naturally I couldn’t see him

but I had learned, in our years together,

to intuit these movements. As usual,

he refused to acknowledge

whether or not I was right. My ingenuity versus

his evasiveness: our little game.

At such moments, I felt the analysis

was flourishing: it seemed to bring out in me

a sly vivaciousness I was

inclined to repress. My analyst’s

indifference to my performances

was now immensely soothing. An intimacy

had grown up between us

like a forest around a castle.

The blinds were closed. Vacillating

bars of light advanced across the carpeting.

Through a small strip above the windowsill,

I saw the outside world.

All this time I had the giddy sensation

of floating above my life. Far away

that life occurred. But was it

still occurring: that was the question.

Late summer: the light was fading.

Escaped shreds flickered over the potted plants.

The analysis was in its seventh year.

I had begun to draw again—

modest little sketches, occasional

three-dimensional constructs

modeled on functional objects—

And yet, the analysis required

much of my time. From what

was this time deducted: that

was also the question.

I lay, watching the window,

long intervals of silence alternating

with somewhat listless ruminations

and rhetorical questions—

My analyst, I felt, was watching me.

So, in my imagination, a mother stares at her sleeping child,

forgiveness preceding understanding.

Or, more likely, so my brother must have gazed at me—

perhaps the silence between us prefigured

this silence, in which everything that remained unspoken

was somehow shared. It seemed a mystery.

Then the hour was over.

I descended as I had ascended;

the doorman opened the door.

The mild weather of the day had held.

Above the shops, striped awnings had unfurled

protecting the fruit.

Restaurants, shops, kiosks

with late newspapers and cigarettes.

The insides grew brighter

as the outside grew darker.

Perhaps the drugs were working?

At some point, the streetlights came on.

I felt, suddenly, a sense of cameras beginning to turn;

I was aware of movement around me, my fellow beings

driven by a mindless fetish for action—

How deeply I resisted this!

It seemed to me shallow and false, or perhaps

partial and false—

Whereas truth—well, truth as I saw it

was expressed as stillness.

I walked awhile, staring into the windows of the galleries—

my friends had become famous.

I could hear the river in the background,

from which came the smell of oblivion

interlaced with potted herbs from the restaurants—

I had arranged to join an old acquaintance for dinner.

There he was at our accustomed table;

the wine was poured; he was engaged with the waiter,

discussing the lamb.

As usual, a small argument erupted over dinner, ostensibly

concerning aesthetics. It was allowed to pass.

Outside, the bridge glittered.

Cars rushed back and forth, the river

glittered back, imitating the bridge. Nature

reflecting art: something to that effect.

My friend found the image potent.

He was a writer. His many novels, at the time,

were much praised. One was much like another.

And yet his complacency disguised suffering

as perhaps my suffering disguised complacency.

We had known each other many years.

Once again, I had accused him of laziness.

Once again, he flung the word back—

He raised his glass and turned it upside-down.

This is your purity, he said,

this is your perfectionism—

The glass was empty; it left no mark on the tablecloth.

The wine had gone to my head.

I walked home slowly, brooding, a little drunk.



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