well, why the hell not
Oct. 8th, 2008 06:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
windhoverI think I'm beginning to feel Konrad's plight.
On an unrelated note, I can't decide whether to f-lock part IV or not. People say I should own up to what I write, but when it comes to this, I just don't know. I feel like people read things like that and then, instead of viewing it independently, or for its own merit, decide "oh, so she's that kind of writer."
And I'm not. At least, I don't think of myself as "that" kind of writer. I don't even know what "that" kind of writing is, or if I'm "any" kind of writer at all. But I don't think I want to be labeled "that" kind of writer.
I don't know.
The years continued to pass. Konrad became more distinguished as an agent, to the point where many saw him as nearly Auster’s equal. But Auster always held the same position in Konrad’s eyes, both on duty and off, and they continued to maintain their pragmatic relationship.
Un bel dì, vedremo…
Konrad lies on the couch in Auster’s flat, resting his head in his senior’s lap while a familiar voice washes over him. He must’ve heard this aria a thousand times—it’s one of Auster’s favorites—but he doesn’t complain. It’s one of the few days they have off together, and they both need the time to wind down.
He has heard this opera many times, but he has never known the story until now. Auster narrates for him, occasionally translates a line or two, and sometimes falls silent, allowing the voices to sing for themselves.
Konrad loves to hear him speak. The deep, velvet tone of his voice keeps him rooted in awareness, aware enough to feel the emotion behind every note. It all seems more real to him than it ever has before.
(But there are a few things he doesn’t quite understand. For one, why should Americans—and Japanese, no less—be singing in such fluent Italian? He has already brought up this point with Auster, who merely dismissed the notion and told him to “suspend his disbelief,” whatever that meant.)
“One beautiful day, we will see,” Auster echoes, “a strand of white smoke, over the far horizon of the sea…”
Konrad listens to his purr of a voice, a strange mirror to the record’s soprano. “What is she singing?”
“A dream,” he replies. “She is saying what will happen when Pinkerton finally returns for her.”
Konrad pauses. “…Does he return for her?”
To that, Auster says nothing.
Konrad sighs, annoyed. Something still bothered him. “I don’t get it.”
“Hm?”
“Suzuki, and Sharpless—they’re the only ones who make any sense in this opera,” he mutters. “Why doesn’t Ciocio just listen to them? Does she really believe he’s going to come back for her?”
“Why shouldn’t she?” Auster muses. “She loves him. She doesn’t need any other reason to believe him than that.”
“…How stupid.” Konrad doesn’t know if he’s ever heard anything more stupid. “She’s thrown away her entire life for this guy, who doesn’t even take the whole thing seriously. She doesn’t even know if he’ll come back at all.”
“She believes,” Auster says simply, “and for her that is enough. She’ll wait until the end of days if need be, as long as she still has faith in his return.”
Konrad frowns. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t like it. “…She shouldn’t waste the rest of her life like that. She should find someone else—she should make a better life for herself.”
Auster sighs. “It’s like Beckett’s play… As long as she waits, she is paralyzed. Her life is miserable now, but she’ll find joy when he returns. To think of doing anything else is far too frightening… So she waits.”
“But why?” It frustrates him. “Why can’t she see the situation she’s in? Can’t she just…take a risk? I mean, so what if it’s frightening? If her life will be better for it, then why can’t she move on instead of waiting all the time?”
Auster looks down at him, slightly tilting his head. “Why…? Why don’t you try asking yourself that? It’s harder than you think.”
Konrad opens his mouth to argue, but falters. He thinks. The longer he thinks on it, the more he remembers—and the more he sees of himself.
“…Why…”
No, he quickly tells himself, it’s impossible. He’s much stronger than that, isn’t he? He would never waste his life waiting for good fortune to come to him, instead of finding it for himself—
He stops, and realizes he is only lying to himself. Waiting is the only thing he has ever done in his entire life. He was never strong enough to do anything else.
The truth seems to crash upon him, completely overtaking his senses.
As far back as he can recall, Konrad has only cried three times in his life: the first, when he realized the nature of his first love; the second, when his relationship with his senior became one of mere pragmatism; and the third, when he finally saw himself for what he really was.
It had taken many years, but the day he finally discovered why his life had always felt so empty was one he would never forget.
Naturally it changed him, more thoroughly than any other revelation in his life ever had. He never wanted to be so weak—he had to become stronger. He resolved to always find his own fortune, or make it himself; he would never rely on any windfall ever again.
In doing so, he chose to discard his former identity: “just Konrad.” He wanted to make his newfound strength known, and to do so he could no longer be “just Konrad.” Therefore he adopted another name that he would be remembered for—and thus, “just Konrad” became forever after Konrad Sharpless.
On an unrelated note, I can't decide whether to f-lock part IV or not. People say I should own up to what I write, but when it comes to this, I just don't know. I feel like people read things like that and then, instead of viewing it independently, or for its own merit, decide "oh, so she's that kind of writer."
And I'm not. At least, I don't think of myself as "that" kind of writer. I don't even know what "that" kind of writing is, or if I'm "any" kind of writer at all. But I don't think I want to be labeled "that" kind of writer.
I don't know.
The years continued to pass. Konrad became more distinguished as an agent, to the point where many saw him as nearly Auster’s equal. But Auster always held the same position in Konrad’s eyes, both on duty and off, and they continued to maintain their pragmatic relationship.
Un bel dì, vedremo…
Konrad lies on the couch in Auster’s flat, resting his head in his senior’s lap while a familiar voice washes over him. He must’ve heard this aria a thousand times—it’s one of Auster’s favorites—but he doesn’t complain. It’s one of the few days they have off together, and they both need the time to wind down.
He has heard this opera many times, but he has never known the story until now. Auster narrates for him, occasionally translates a line or two, and sometimes falls silent, allowing the voices to sing for themselves.
Konrad loves to hear him speak. The deep, velvet tone of his voice keeps him rooted in awareness, aware enough to feel the emotion behind every note. It all seems more real to him than it ever has before.
(But there are a few things he doesn’t quite understand. For one, why should Americans—and Japanese, no less—be singing in such fluent Italian? He has already brought up this point with Auster, who merely dismissed the notion and told him to “suspend his disbelief,” whatever that meant.)
“One beautiful day, we will see,” Auster echoes, “a strand of white smoke, over the far horizon of the sea…”
Konrad listens to his purr of a voice, a strange mirror to the record’s soprano. “What is she singing?”
“A dream,” he replies. “She is saying what will happen when Pinkerton finally returns for her.”
Konrad pauses. “…Does he return for her?”
To that, Auster says nothing.
Konrad sighs, annoyed. Something still bothered him. “I don’t get it.”
“Hm?”
“Suzuki, and Sharpless—they’re the only ones who make any sense in this opera,” he mutters. “Why doesn’t Ciocio just listen to them? Does she really believe he’s going to come back for her?”
“Why shouldn’t she?” Auster muses. “She loves him. She doesn’t need any other reason to believe him than that.”
“…How stupid.” Konrad doesn’t know if he’s ever heard anything more stupid. “She’s thrown away her entire life for this guy, who doesn’t even take the whole thing seriously. She doesn’t even know if he’ll come back at all.”
“She believes,” Auster says simply, “and for her that is enough. She’ll wait until the end of days if need be, as long as she still has faith in his return.”
Konrad frowns. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t like it. “…She shouldn’t waste the rest of her life like that. She should find someone else—she should make a better life for herself.”
Auster sighs. “It’s like Beckett’s play… As long as she waits, she is paralyzed. Her life is miserable now, but she’ll find joy when he returns. To think of doing anything else is far too frightening… So she waits.”
“But why?” It frustrates him. “Why can’t she see the situation she’s in? Can’t she just…take a risk? I mean, so what if it’s frightening? If her life will be better for it, then why can’t she move on instead of waiting all the time?”
Auster looks down at him, slightly tilting his head. “Why…? Why don’t you try asking yourself that? It’s harder than you think.”
Konrad opens his mouth to argue, but falters. He thinks. The longer he thinks on it, the more he remembers—and the more he sees of himself.
“…Why…”
No, he quickly tells himself, it’s impossible. He’s much stronger than that, isn’t he? He would never waste his life waiting for good fortune to come to him, instead of finding it for himself—
He stops, and realizes he is only lying to himself. Waiting is the only thing he has ever done in his entire life. He was never strong enough to do anything else.
The truth seems to crash upon him, completely overtaking his senses.
As far back as he can recall, Konrad has only cried three times in his life: the first, when he realized the nature of his first love; the second, when his relationship with his senior became one of mere pragmatism; and the third, when he finally saw himself for what he really was.
It had taken many years, but the day he finally discovered why his life had always felt so empty was one he would never forget.
Naturally it changed him, more thoroughly than any other revelation in his life ever had. He never wanted to be so weak—he had to become stronger. He resolved to always find his own fortune, or make it himself; he would never rely on any windfall ever again.
In doing so, he chose to discard his former identity: “just Konrad.” He wanted to make his newfound strength known, and to do so he could no longer be “just Konrad.” Therefore he adopted another name that he would be remembered for—and thus, “just Konrad” became forever after Konrad Sharpless.
