Sufi
Monday, April 7, 2008 at 06:40AM in memories "When you look upon beauty, you yourself become beautiful."
So the old man said. You believed him.
So when she said she loved you, the one from Italy, the one you followed out into the sea that clear evening, the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, when you were both drunk, she had a head start and even though the moon was full and bright, you lost her in the distance, and so you ran as fast as you could in the water, which was slow, unbearably slow, until in the middle of the sea, in the darkness lit only by the moon, you found her, and then you held out your hand to hold her steady because both of you were so drunk and chest-deep in the salty water and could have, maybe even should have, drowned, you pulled her close to you and kissed her and kissed her again, and a hundred and then a thousand kisses, you were shipwrecked in that sea, and, as Leopardi wrote, it was sweet, so sweet, to you:
il naufragar m'e dolce in questo mare.
But she did not walk in beauty, in the daylight that was clear to you, and all that was dark and bright did not meet in her aspect and in her eye, so you thought, so you pushed her away, because if beauty makes you beautiful, then ugly makes you ugly, and ugly was disgusting and would never touch your body or your soul, you swore this oath before and you would swear it again, and then she said it again, I love you, it was the day before both of you had to leave Italy, you back to America and Yale, she to France, and again you said nothing, you were on land now, the two of you standing outside her apartment, but she pulled you close anyway, and you touched soft-mouthed life, that one good line from that lousy Nobel-winning poet from Ireland, the one memorable line in all his work, soft-mouthed life, you touched it that last day, but you pressed your lips together, hard, to keep her away because you had enough, my God, it was enough, because she was not beautiful enough for you.