On Tuesday night, I went to sleep a little earlier and slept soundly throughout the night. To anyone with ALS or undergoing treatment for cancer like me seven years ago, I would strongly urge that they always aim for a good night’s sleep. It’s therapeutic, good for the mind and for the body. Loss of sleep is the way those maladies make us their ally in our own destruction. You can defeat them, or at least resist them for as long as possible, by refusing to obsess about them. If our bodies are an open city, our minds can still be an invincible citadel. Concentrate your resistance on holding the fort of the mind. That might mean living in the present, escaping into the past, or floating in the imaginary. We train ourselves to avoid doing this because we are accustomed to living and working our way into the future. With only a cliff in front of us, why not float or backpedal as much as possible? The closer the end, the more reason to dream. Let dreams and death work out heir affinity.
In the morning, I worked as usual. In the afternoon, Pierrette paid us a visit. Pierrette is a delightful amateur who sings and recites poetry with irresistible enthusiasm and in a voice that is captivating the way a hearty home-made meal is more appealing than the professional production of the finest chef. Pancake repaired to the cafe which I refer to as his “clean, well-lighted place,” though I’m not sure if he mumbles the nihilistic prayer of Hemingway’s character in that story. We mostly talked about the photos she took of her most recent trip to Iceland, a landscape this child of the Mediterranean adores, or of her native Gruissan, or her other travels. She did ask me about my condition and responded with a matter-of-fact sympathy to my report. We decided that on Saturday we would all meet again with Serge and Pancake for a walk through the rue Caulaincourt. I was gratified that she recited, at a seemingly random point in the conversation, the verses of Aragon that I liked so much, “Quand faudra fermer le livre / Ce sera sans regretter rien. / J’ai vu tant de gens mal vivre / Et tant de gens mourir bien.” On Sunday, we will see them again when Kathrin visits from Heidelberg.
I’m thinking about Wolfram von Eschenbach’s Parzival. It’s an archetypal German Bildungsroman: The fatherless youth grows up overprotected and uncouth, and nonetheless becomes an aspirant for the knighthood of the Holy Grail. (My version of the grail would be the cultural and literary tradition which is as imperiled as the oppositional culture of books and reading.) The raw youth arrives at the court where he would be destined to become the anointed successor, where the mysterious Fisher King lies suffering from a painful affliction. In the night, everything changes and Parzival is ejected to wander again in desolation and uncertainty. His mistake: he failed to ask the suffering king the simple question, “What’s ailing you, father?”
Signed,
Andrew (Weeks)
Normal Thoughts 