"Rose, Oh Pure Contradction:" On Rilke

 
"Everything serious is difficult, and everything is serious."
- Rainer Maria Rilke

I know I often complain about being busy, but lately-- with AP tests, scholarship essays-- I'm now so busy that I have no sleep or rest for a moment, no time to even read-- though I can't quite say that. I do read, in fragments and snatches; when I do, I read Rilke.

Rilke is one of the greatest German-language poets, and inivetably the one I turn to in times of crisis.
I recently had to buy a new book of his collected poems, as the binding of my old copy had split so many times that several pages had fallen out, lost forever. I re-ead the Duino Elegies, though I know a few by heart. I re-read "Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes," and wonderingly wondered if it's possibly the most perfect poem ever written. I read literary theory, reveled in written conversation of Rike's life and work, the peculiar turns of genius. And, of all the fascinating minutae in his life, it's a certain aspect of his relationship with Rodin that has left the largest impression on me, especially now-- his adoration of hard work, of doing that which seems unbearable.

What Rilke admired in Rodin, more than anything else, was his work ethic-- he made things with his hands, descended with apparent effortlessness into "great, inner solitude" and contructed what he saw there. Already fascinated by the themes he encountered on his trip to Russia-- emptiness, Nietsche's hyperborean wastes-- Rilke began to delve into the depths of the literary vision he would perfect in the Duino Elegies-- "For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are barely able to endure/ and we are awed so because it serenely disdains to annhiliate us. Every angel is terrible."

Rilke, with his repetitive imagery-- terrible angels, roses, "cosmic space"-- is less monotonous than hypnotic, mesmerizing-- a soft, even voice murmuring, murmuring, almost too low to hear. Solitude and infinity and the horrible burden of one's individual soul-- there is some essential truth to be found, he tells us, but it will never be realized because it exists outside of the self, apart from it. The panther paces its cage, explosion of an almost-Joycean epiphany-- "an image enters in/ rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles/ plunges into the heart and is gone." At the center is nothing, a great, positive abscense, a perfect void. Tensed, it watches and waits.       


A cold comfort, yes. The purpose of life, Rilke wrote, is to be defeated by greater and greater things-- defeated? I suppose I'll wait and see.

Rustle of pages, I wake up at night with the book on my night table, a bible. God-making. "For here there is no place/ that does not see you. You must change your life."

This is not a rant, I promise

Possibly, this whole post was partially
inspired by my wordless fury about the
  the  The Bell Jar's  new cover
art-- yes, a woman applying lipstick.
How's that for feminism, America?

Yesterday, I read Atonement, by Ian McEwan. Although I admit it's not the sort of book I usually read,  I attmepted to begin it with an open mind, as it was highly recommended by a friend.

A book hasn't made me this angry in a long, long time.

However, as I hate ranting over the internet, I'll attempt to remain civilized. This is going to be difficult, I'll admit. Below, I'll include my main grievances-- not against Ian McEwan in particular, but against all authors (think Lev Grossman, Stieg Larsson &c.) who have committed this particular crime-- in a numbered list,in hopes that it will lend me an air of impartiality.

First, I feel the need to establish that books about rape are important. This is not an opinion, but a statement of fact. One in four women are victims of an attempted or completed sexual assault, and a scarce 5% of rapists are ever convicted. Clearly, a dialogue needs to be established about rape culture, about sexual violence, about the manner in which we treat rape victims. Though I admit I don't much enjoy reading about said issues, I think it absolutely crucial that books address them. Some books do so very well, with both sympathy and with an understanding of the inherent brutality involved. Others, not so much. Can you guess which sort I'll be discussing today?

Secondly, narratives-- whether fictional or non-fictional--provide perhaps on of the best medium to discuss rape. I could list countless statistics about rape's prevalence and effects, but nothing would convince readers of the horrors involved like testimonies from families and victims. So yes, write about rape. Talk about rape. Establish a dialogue about rape. Do it well enough, and perhaps the world will finally listen.

Inspired by the new Bell Jar cover,
annoyed readers have been
creating their own modern
interpretations of various classics.

But do not, ever, EVER, use rape as an gratuitous, throwaway plot device. Do not fetishize it. Do not construct a minor character for the sole purpose of being raped. Do not write a rape scene simply to lend ethos to your female characters-- because that's the absolute worst thing that can happen to a woman, right? Because a woman substantiates a combination of parts to be violated?

I'm sorry, I said I wouldn't rant. Beginning again.
 
In McEwan's Atonement, a female character--or rather, a caricature of a female character-- is introduced simply, given a name and a few defining attributes. In the most cursory of sketches, McEwan informs his readers that she is manipulative, sexually precocious and attention-seeking, generally unpleasant to all familiar with her. She is then raped, so that the book's central characters-- a pair of lovers, of course-- can be tragically separated.



Here's another, quite the parody of the sort
of cover art meant to appeal to a female
audience.

Immediately afterward, she is carted offscreen like a used stage prop, not appearing again until the book's last few pages. She existed solely to be raped, and had no additional narrative purpose.

When feminists throw around the phrase "rape culture"-- an ubiquitous term, almost a buzz-word,  long stripped of meaning by
overuse-- they are often referring to rap songs or tabloids or beauty pageants, and not best-selling, award-winning novels.

Perhaps that needs to change.