sing, she never knew the words of the songs and would merely open and
close her mouth. But the other girls would notice and report her. From her
youth on, she hated parades.
Franz had
studied in Paris, and because he was extraordinarily gifted his scholarly
career was assured from the time he was twenty. At twenty, he knew he would
live out his life within the confines of his university office, one or two
libraries, and two or three lecture halls. The idea of such a life made him
feel suffocated. He yearned to step out of his life the way one steps out of a
house into the street.
And so as long
as he lived in Paris, he took part in every possible demonstration. How nice it
was to celebrate something, demand something, protest against something; to be
out in the open, to be with others. The parades filing down the Boulevard
Saint-Germain or from the Place de la Republique to the Bastille fascinated
him. He saw the marching, shouting crowd as the image of Europe and its
history. Europe was the Grand March. The march from revolution to revolution,
from struggle to struggle, ever onward.
99
100
I might put it
another way: Franz felt his book life to be unreal. He yearned for real life,
for the touch of people walking side by side with him, for their shouts. It
never occurred to him that what he considered unreal (the work he did in the
solitude of the office or library) was in fact his real life, whereas the
parades he imagined to be reality were nothing but theater, dance, carnival—in
other words, a dream.
During her studies, Sabina lived in
a dormitory. On May Day all the students had to report early in the morning for
the parade. Student officials would comb the building to ensure that no one was
missing. Sabina hid in the lavatory. Not until long after the building was
empty would she go back to her room. It was quieter than anywhere she could
remember. The only sound was the parade music echoing in the distance. It was
as though she had found refuge inside a shell and the only sound she could hear
was the sea of an inimical world.
A year or two after emigrating, she
happened to be in Paris on the anniversary of the Russian invasion of her country.
A protest march had been scheduled, and she felt driven to take part. Fists
raised high, the young Frenchmen shouted out slogans condemning Soviet
imperialism. She liked the slogans, but to her surprise she found herself
unable to shout along with them. She lasted no more than a few minutes in the
parade.
When she told her French friends
about it, they were amazed. "You mean you don't want to fight the
occupation of your country?" She would have liked to tell them that behind
Communism, Fascism, behind all occupations and invasions lurks a more basic,
pervasive evil and that the image of that evil was a parade of people marching
by with raised fists and shouting identical syllables in unison. But she knew
she would never be able to make them understand. Embarrassed, she changed the
subject.
101
THE
BEAUTY OF NEW YORK
Franz
and Sabina would walk the streets of New York for hours at a time. The view
changed with each step, as if they were following a winding mountain path
surrounded by breathtaking scenery: a young man kneeling in the middle of the
sidewalk praying;
a few steps away, a
beautiful black woman leaning against a tree; a man in a black suit directing
an invisible orchestra while crossing the street; a fountain spurting water and
a group of construction workers sitting on the rim eating lunch; strange iron
ladders running up and down buildings with ugly red facades, so ugly that they
were beautiful; and next door, a huge glass skyscraper backed by another,
itself topped by a small Arabian pleasure-dome with turrets, galleries, and
gilded columns.
She was reminded
of her paintings. There, too, incongruous things came together: a steelworks
construction site superimposed on a kerosene lamp; an old-fashioned lamp with
a painted-glass shade shattered into tiny
close her mouth. But the other girls would notice and report her. From her
youth on, she hated parades.
Franz had
studied in Paris, and because he was extraordinarily gifted his scholarly
career was assured from the time he was twenty. At twenty, he knew he would
live out his life within the confines of his university office, one or two
libraries, and two or three lecture halls. The idea of such a life made him
feel suffocated. He yearned to step out of his life the way one steps out of a
house into the street.
And so as long
as he lived in Paris, he took part in every possible demonstration. How nice it
was to celebrate something, demand something, protest against something; to be
out in the open, to be with others. The parades filing down the Boulevard
Saint-Germain or from the Place de la Republique to the Bastille fascinated
him. He saw the marching, shouting crowd as the image of Europe and its
history. Europe was the Grand March. The march from revolution to revolution,
from struggle to struggle, ever onward.
99
100
I might put it
another way: Franz felt his book life to be unreal. He yearned for real life,
for the touch of people walking side by side with him, for their shouts. It
never occurred to him that what he considered unreal (the work he did in the
solitude of the office or library) was in fact his real life, whereas the
parades he imagined to be reality were nothing but theater, dance, carnival—in
other words, a dream.
During her studies, Sabina lived in
a dormitory. On May Day all the students had to report early in the morning for
the parade. Student officials would comb the building to ensure that no one was
missing. Sabina hid in the lavatory. Not until long after the building was
empty would she go back to her room. It was quieter than anywhere she could
remember. The only sound was the parade music echoing in the distance. It was
as though she had found refuge inside a shell and the only sound she could hear
was the sea of an inimical world.
A year or two after emigrating, she
happened to be in Paris on the anniversary of the Russian invasion of her country.
A protest march had been scheduled, and she felt driven to take part. Fists
raised high, the young Frenchmen shouted out slogans condemning Soviet
imperialism. She liked the slogans, but to her surprise she found herself
unable to shout along with them. She lasted no more than a few minutes in the
parade.
When she told her French friends
about it, they were amazed. "You mean you don't want to fight the
occupation of your country?" She would have liked to tell them that behind
Communism, Fascism, behind all occupations and invasions lurks a more basic,
pervasive evil and that the image of that evil was a parade of people marching
by with raised fists and shouting identical syllables in unison. But she knew
she would never be able to make them understand. Embarrassed, she changed the
subject.
101
THE
BEAUTY OF NEW YORK
Franz
and Sabina would walk the streets of New York for hours at a time. The view
changed with each step, as if they were following a winding mountain path
surrounded by breathtaking scenery: a young man kneeling in the middle of the
sidewalk praying;
a few steps away, a
beautiful black woman leaning against a tree; a man in a black suit directing
an invisible orchestra while crossing the street; a fountain spurting water and
a group of construction workers sitting on the rim eating lunch; strange iron
ladders running up and down buildings with ugly red facades, so ugly that they
were beautiful; and next door, a huge glass skyscraper backed by another,
itself topped by a small Arabian pleasure-dome with turrets, galleries, and
gilded columns.
She was reminded
of her paintings. There, too, incongruous things came together: a steelworks
construction site superimposed on a kerosene lamp; an old-fashioned lamp with
a painted-glass shade shattered into tiny
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