Читать книгу The Assumption of the Rogues & Rascals - Elizabeth Smart - Страница 12

I am in England, where I longed to be.

I escaped by a hair’s breadth the torpedo that seemed at the time to be a friendly if banal ender of my story. When the alarm sounded, I waited, with my daughter strapped into my lifebelt, full of relief, a kind of wicked joy, that I should be offered such an effortless way out of my pain.

But that was not to be.

Abandoning love as a comfortable kind of completion, a double or nothing; forgetting the nights O the red nights under Brooklyn Bridge; memory must memorize only a way to live or go mad; and forget the rest.

To dare to be born.

To bear love.

Notice how nature makes therapeutically blurred all visions until one has served her purpose. Notice how pregnant women move in a slow stately way as if they were moving in deliberation to the Last Judgment sure of their good marks. They may desire to be avenging and decisive like tigers, but the waters that hang in the womb, cocooning the embryo, cast their influence on their taken-over body too.

Useless to invoke God then. He stands awkwardly aside like a husband at a birth, and nature like a red-cheeked midwife flounces flamboyantly round.

Will you let this rough woman have command, God? Will you leave me to her mercy as she puts dust-sheets over my eyes and folds my mind away? He will. He does.

I try to remember how, when birth comes, the dams will break, and God will assume His majesty and roll in pain like an avenger over my drenched soul, and love and blood flow back into the world.

All this will be, I suppose. But I remember a hole in my body through which the four winds blew cruelly. I remember a vulnerability against which a spring leaf made a too-serious attack. O God I remember your appraising finger going over my ruined but conscious frame.

Waiting for a birth I hear the bells ringing boringly. Church bells, hospital bells, ship’s bells. They tell me that boredom is a helpful retreat for the aged. They tell me that the endless repetitions of life and death are soothing, rhyming lullabies, patterns in the jibbering void. They say peace has sometimes been obtained. Pacification is possible. Flesh can be sweet.

But peace and erotics are far far from those parts that now strain like Hercules in labours almost more than they can bear. They are at work! THIS IS WORK! Serious, gigantic, absolute. All other occupations seem flibbertigibbet by comparison with the act of birth. Love and all its flimsy fancies are rolled under this mighty event, rolling all before it: crushed like straw conceits. Even the love of God is steam-rolled aside, as the job that must be done is done.

Thus, in the twentieth century, is born a son of man, while above the agony shrill women request time off to go for a cup of tea. Slapdash he is thrown among the muddle, while harassed apprentices jostle the bloody pans.

But celebrate! Celebrate! Celebrate!

It is not too much to bear a womb.