In Haruki Murakami’s novel, ‘Killing Commendatore,’ an artist is on the run from himself after his wife told him she does not want to live with him anymore. Not having had success with abstract paintings, he settled for painting portraits on commission for a living. His clients were not required to sit still for hours, days and weeks on end, just a confessional interview, supplemented by a few family snapshots would do. To maintain the integrity of his work, the artist looked for what was shining from within a person.
While driving aimlessly north, to gain distance from imagined scenes of his wife in the arms of a lover, he occasionally stops at roadside restaurants. In a restroom he finds himself staring at his image in a mirror, and wonders …
‘Who the hell am I … were I to paint myself, would I be able to discover even one thing shining within me?’
This is not a review; I haven’t got far into this long novel, just to say, I like how Murakami masters the slow and subtle development of a theme.
I read in printed books in bed for an hour before sleep. At pivotal points in the text, like the one above, I close the book and take the thought into my dreams. Once I hit the cushion and allow my muscles to relax, my mind holds the thought that made me stop reading.
As for the above thought: what shines from within, I pondered that this shine, or whatever else one might choose to call it, is what I’m looking for in nature, in art, in friends, or new acquaintances, and in myself. These moments when I glimpse something shining, visibly or just felt, without or within, are of essence, and leave a deep impression, adding a thread of light to the tapestry of my existence. These are also moments when associations, informed by my senses, flow like a sparkling mountain stream.
When such impression fades it upsets me. Distance and time are not at fault. My intuition tells me that the conscious fabric of my existence extends way beyond space-and time. Where people are concerned, the fading could be due to a lingering hurt or misunderstanding. Once I’ve been able to perceive an inner shining, I grieve the loss of a dimming connection.
It made me think how in relation to a few people in my life I’ve let my heart mirror collect dust. Maybe the other begun to let my shine fade, but that’s no excuse. I can’t change how people mirror me, but if so inclined, I could bring clarity to my own heart mirror.
How do we resurrect that shine, the light which illuminates who we are from under the debris of relationships, within ourselves, others, nature? I guess much flows from the first gaze that beholds us.
In Sufi terms this is polishing the mirror of the heart, which generates life and beauty.
You, dear readers, may have more or other thoughts on this search for what ‘shines’ from under surfaces If so, please share.
It warms my heart to think that readers of my novels might come upon a sentence that makes them pause and ponder a meaning for themselves, a bit like finding a jewel in a generous setting.
… that’s me, a dreamer. Dreams re-appear, like a déjà vu. A trick of light will superimpose an image on a scene gleaned in passing. Or a sound, a name, a number, a movement, colour or scent may link up to a dream’s mood. Similarly, memories of seemingly unrelated events from years ago can pop up while doing mundane tasks. This reminiscing improves for me as I grow wiser (older,) a subtle re-organising of events.
With little chance of publication, giving this sequel once more editing time seems irrational; then again, I’m the weirdest person I know. The irrational has always impelled me forward from deep states of being, in search of wholeness. Like some writers, I juggle for rhythm and balance with a multitude inside, until a character, a theme, or a poem persists and generates engagement.
In my last post I touched upon the half-imagined essence shining through a work in progress – via incubation, the search for one’s language (in whatever form,) through the heart. This kind of search is bound to involve deep personal experiences, be it related to an outer or inner place, as the myth of one’s existential journey, which, when authentically communicated and shared tends to assume universal significance.
Talking in the dark, their hands occasionally touching, Louise and Addie come to value their fragile pact. Even Addie’s abandoned visiting grandson is wooed by the loving regard between his grandmother and her new friend, and their tolerance and tender concern for him, which is, the way I read it, the initiation of a small boy into the wisdom of respect. While the petty gossip of townsfolk adds to the fun of their social transgression and strengthen the closeness they’re forging, the jealous objections of Louis’s daughter and Addie’s son are truly hurtful, and in the end decisive.
Course of Mirrors 