Value for Wednesday of Week 04 in the season of Dormancy

Powerlessness

A second great spiritual pain is that we are powerless in relation to many things.

We will come to Niebuhr’s serenity prayer but before we do, we acknowledge that pain that makes us seek that comfort.

We are all powerless over the inevitability of death; however, we can extend our lives or end them. Sometimes life is ended by another’s doing. We could look at powerlessness over other aspects of suffering in a similar way: sometimes we cause our own suffering, sometimes another person or other people cause it, and sometimes it is – in a sense – fate. Adler’s category refers to how people are inclined to draw the distinction in our minds.

Imaginary

Fictional Narratives

Forced to fetch water from a spring in a woods at night, Cosette in her fear illustrates helplessness, as a child at the mercy of uncaring adults. Her premonition that she will be forced to return again presents a metaphor for a life.

The darkness was bewildering. Man requires light. Whoever buries himself in the opposite of day feels his heart contract. When the eye sees black, the heart sees trouble. In an eclipse in the night, in the sooty opacity, there is anxiety even for the stoutest of hearts. No one walks alone in the forest at night without trembling. Shadows and trees--two formidable densities. A chimerical reality appears in the indistinct depths. The inconceivable is outlined a few paces distant from you with a spectral clearness. One beholds floating, either in space or in one's own brain, one knows not what vague and intangible thing, like the dreams of sleeping flowers. There are fierce attitudes on the horizon. One inhales the effluvia of the great black void. One is afraid to glance behind him, yet desirous of doing so. The cavities of night, things grown haggard, taciturn profiles which vanish when one advances, obscure dishevelments, irritated tufts, livid pools, the lugubrious reflected in the funereal, the sepulchral immensity of silence, unknown but possible beings, bendings of mysterious branches, alarming torsos of trees, long handfuls of quivering plants,--against all this one has no protection. There is no hardihood which does not shudder and which does not feel the vicinity of anguish. One is conscious of something hideous, as though one's soul were becoming amalgamated with the darkness. This penetration of the shadows is indescribably sinister in the case of a child.  Forests are apocalypses, and the beating of the wings of a tiny soul produces a sound of agony beneath their monstrous vault.  Without understanding her sensations, Cosette was conscious that she was seized upon by that black enormity of nature; it was no longer terror alone which was gaining possession of her; it was something more terrible even than terror; she shivered. There are no words to express the strangeness of that shiver which chilled her to the very bottom of her heart; her eye grew wild; she thought she felt that she should not be able to refrain from returning there at the same hour on the morrow.  Then, by a sort of instinct, she began to count aloud, one, two, three, four, and so on up to ten, in order to escape from that singular state which she did not understand, but which terrified her, and, when she had finished, she began again; this restored her to a true perception of the things about her. Her hands, which she had wet in drawing the water, felt cold; she rose; her terror, a natural and unconquerable terror, had returned: she had but one thought now,--to flee at full speed through the forest, across the fields to the houses, to the windows, to the lighted candles. Her glance fell upon the water which stood before her; such was the fright which the Thénardier inspired in her, that she dared not flee without that bucket of water: she seized the handle with both hands; she could hardly lift the pail.  In this manner she advanced a dozen paces, but the bucket was full; it was heavy; she was forced to set it on the ground once more. She took breath for an instant, then lifted the handle of the bucket again, and resumed her march, proceeding a little further this time, but again she was obliged to pause. After some seconds of repose she set out again. She walked bent forward, with drooping head, like an old woman; the weight of the bucket strained and stiffened her thin arms. The iron handle completed the benumbing and freezing of her wet and tiny hands; she was forced to halt from time to time, and each time that she did so, the cold water which splashed from the pail fell on her bare legs. This took place in the depths of a forest, at night, in winter, far from all human sight; she was a child of eight . . . [Victor Hugo, Les Miserables (1862), Volume II – Cosette; Book Third – Accomplishment of a Promise Made To a Dead Woman, Chapter IV, “Entrance on the Scene of a Doll”.] 

While this scene was going on in the men’s sleeping-room, the reader may be curious to take a peep at the corresponding apartment allotted to the women. Stretched out in various attitudes over the floor, he may see numberless sleeping forms of every shade of complexion, from the purest ebony to white, and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying now asleep. Here is a fine bright girl, of ten years, whose mother was sold out yesterday, and who tonight cried herself to sleep when nobody was looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose thin arms and callous fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be sold tomorrow, as a cast-off article, for what can be got for her; and some forty or fifty others, with heads variously enveloped in blankets or articles of clothing, lie stretched around them. But, in a corner, sitting apart from the rest, are two females of a more interesting appearance than common. One of these is a respectably-dressed mulatto woman between forty and fifty, with soft eyes and a gentle and pleasing physiognomy. She has on her head a high-raised turban, made of a gay red Madras handkerchief, of the first quality, her dress is neatly fitted, and of good material, showing that she has been provided for with a careful hand. By her side, and nestling closely to her, is a young girl of fifteen, — her daughter. She is a quadroon, as may be seen from her fairer complexion, though her likeness to her mother is quite discernible. She has the same soft, dark eye, with longer lashes, and her curling hair is of a luxuriant brown. She also is dressed with great neatness, and her white, delicate hands betray very little acquaintance with servile toil. These two are to be sold tomorrow, in the same lot with the St. Clare servants; and the gentleman to whom they belong, and to whom the money for their sale is to be transmitted, is a member of a Christian church in New York, who will receive the money, and go thereafter to the sacrament of his Lord and theirs, and think no more of it. [Harriett Beecher Stowe, Uncle Tom’s Cabin or Life Among the Lowly (1852), Volume II, Chapter 30, “The Slave Warehouse”.]

I walked slowly, for I was almost exhausted, as well as lame, and I felt the intensest wretchedness for the horrible death of little Weena. It seemed an overwhelming calamity. Now in this old familiar room, it is more like the sorrow of a dream than an actual loss. But that morning it left me absolutely lonely again--terribly alone. I began to think of this house of mine, of this fireside, of some of you, and with such thoughts came a longing that was pain. [H.G. Wells, “The Time Machine” (1895).]

Our position beneath the shelter of the skiff was utterly devoid of comfort; it was narrow and damp, tiny cold drops of rain dribbled through the damaged bottom; gusts of wind penetrated it. We sat in silence and shivered with cold. I remembered that I wanted to go to sleep. Natasha leaned her back against the hull of the boat and curled herself up into a tiny ball. Embracing her knees with her hands, and resting her chin upon them, she stared doggedly at the river with wide-open eyes; on the pale patch of her face they seemed immense, because of the blue marks below them. She never moved, and this immobility and silence—I felt it—gradually produced within me a terror of my neighbour. I wanted to talk to her, but I knew not how to begin.  It was she herself who spoke.  “What a cursed thing life is!” she exclaimed plainly, abstractedly, and in a tone of deep conviction.  But this was no complaint. In these words there was too much of indifference for a complaint. [Maxim Gorky, “One Autumn Night” (1895).]

Novels, stories and plays:

Poetry

Books of poetry:

Music: Composers, artists, and major works

Gustav Mahler, Symphony No. 6 in A Minor, “Tragic” (1905) (approx. 79-93’) (recordings), “remains an unsettling enigma. Completed in 1905 at one of the happiest times in the composer’s life (he had married Alma Schindler in 1902 and they already had two young daughters), the Sixth Symphony is Mahler’s most dark and terrifying work.” Three thuds from a large mallet represent three tragedies in Mahler’s life. “. . . Alma’s memoirs suggest that Mahler . . . outlined his own undoing in Symphony no. 6. This occurs in the finale, where the composer  . . . described himself and his downfall or, as he later stated, the the downfall of his hero: 'It is the hero on whom the three blows of fate fall, the last of which fells him as a tree is felled.'” Alma later acknowledged that Gustav identified the symphony with the course of his life, especially his suffering, which included his complex relationship with her. Mitropoulos in 1955, Kubelik in 1968, Barbirolli in 1968, Horenstein in 1969, Tennstedt in 1983, Inbal in 1986, Bernstein in 1988, Thomas Sanderling in 1996, Herbig in 1999, Gielen in 1999, Rattle in 1999, Tilson Thomas in 2001, Jansons in 2002, Abbado in 2004, Zander in 2012, and Rattle in 2024, conducted top recorded performances.

Mahler, Symphony No. 7, sometimes called “Lied der Nacht” (Song of the Night) (1905) (approx. 77-91’) (recordings) is Mahler’s most difficult to interpret and understand. Leonard Bernstein observed: “The minute we understand that the word Nachtmusik does not mean nocturne in the usual lyrical sense, but rather nightmare—that is, night music of emotion recollected in anxiety instead of tranquility—then we have the key to all this mixture of rhetoric, camp, and shadows.” “As paradoxical as it may sound, this symphony does not open the heavens for its composer but rather demonstrates the problems that arise in the collision of the individual with the totality of existence. Fichte’s priority of the ego, transformed into precariousness. Bernstein in 1965, Klemperer in 1968, Horenstein in 1969, Tennstedt in 1987, Abbado in 1994, Boulez in 1995, Chailly in 1995, Tilson Thomas in 2005, Kirill Petrenko in 2021, and Rattle in 2024 conducted top recorded performances.

Ludwig van Beethoven, Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor, Op. 13, “Pathétique” (1798) (approx. 18-21’) (recordings): “This sonata is characterized by the very short development and its tragic first movement.” “The key of C minor – often a perfect vehicle for tragic, deeply emotive music – is Beethoven’s key of choice here . . .” Top recorded performances are by Schnabel in 1930, Rubinstein, Gilels, Rudolf Serkin in 1945, Richter in 1958, Horowitz in 1963, Gould in 1967, Kovacevich in 1973, Goode in 1993, Brendel in 1994, and Schiff in 2006; and live performances by Annie Fischer and Zimerman.

Claude Debussy, Pelléas and Mélisande (1902) (approx. 155-165’) (libretto) (recordings), from the play of same name by Maurice Maeterlinck, presents a tragic story of lovers parted; they die and life’s woes pass to the next generation. “In his play, Maeterlinck shows us that 'nothing can change the order of events; that, despite our proud illusions, we are not master of ourselves, but the servant of unknown and irresistible forces, which direct the whole tragic-comedy of our lives. We are told that no man is responsible for what he likes and what he loves-that is if he knows what he likes and loves-and that he lives and dies without knowing why.” “Characters speak casually while the forces of nature drag them to the bottom. The forest swallows the hunter, the ring symbolizing fidelity and stability drops into a bottomless well.  We are drawn to a dark cave and later to the deep vaults of the castle. Characters strive to see sunlight or even moonlight as the darkness swallows them. We hear the sea in the distance, the great water that swallows everything. Even Mélisande’s beautiful long hair descends from the balcony to drown and ensnare Pélleas in delirious, irresistible, and forbidden love.” “Despite its full length, the plot is brief, incidents few, characters simple, setting vague. In keeping with Maeterlinck’s symbolist creed, the whole tale unfolds with inexorable logic. Golaud, a hunter, finds Mélisande in a forest and brings her home, where her attraction to his brother Pelléas ripens as Golaud’s jealousy swells. Golaud slays Pelléas, fatally wounds Mélisande, and is left to ponder the inexplicable meaning of it all, as Mélisande’s newborn takes her place in the cycle of life.” Performances with visuals are conducted by Boulez, and Andrew Davis. Best recorded audio-only performances are conducted by Truc in 1928 (46’), Désormière in 1941, Inghelbrecht in 1951 (Act 1; Act 2; Act 3; Act 4; Act 5), Ansermet in 1951, Ansermet in 1964, Baudo in 1978 ***, Karajan in 1978, Abbado in 1991, Casadesus in 1996, and Roth in 2022.

Other compositions:

With a vocal style reminiscent of Archie Roach, Kutcha Edwards sings of vulnerability. His albums include:

Other albums:

Music: songs and other short pieces

 

Visual Arts

Film and Stage

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