Viens-tu du ciel profond ou sors-tu de labîme, O Beauté?
For some reason, I find beauty in despair.
This concept, as unconsciously aware of I have been of its existence for a while, was explicitly brought to my attention recently during an MSN conversation when, following a deliberately melodramatic and compliment-fishing comment from my friend that ‘nobody loves her’ I presented her with a pixelated wilted flower, which received a fair amount of similarly melodramatic scorn and indignation in response. What was misunderstood is the fact that I would never present anybody with a fresh, blossoming flower in such a circumstance when the aesthetic appeal is the only appeal of which to speak. This is for the simple reason that I find far more beauty in the tragically mortal appearance of a wilted, near-death flower. I’m not sure why, but I’m sure it has something to do with vulnerability and fragility of nature, as well as many other pointlessly long words that end in –ility. Sterility’s a good one, incidentally.
But it’s not just in botanical emoticons that this quirk of mine finds itself. Recently I got into a debate across a kitchen counter sparked by my outwardly-expressed enjoyment of the film Saw, with a girl whose DVD collection consists almost entirely of Disney films such as Beauty and the Beast, rom-com’s like When Harry Met Sally and numerous other films which not only conclude with an idealistic status quo but purport to exude the fact that there is simply no alternative in the way our lives pan out. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy such films, nor that I shed any sentimental tears watching Shawnee Smith nearly get her skull cleft in twain, but for some reason nevertheless, there is far more emotional resonance for me watching Cary Elwes saw off his right foot than in watching him resplendent atop a white horse, riding off into the sunset with Robin Wright Penn seated behind him.
Why, exactly, is this? Why do I prefer to look at crying, tearful faces than cheery, grinning ones? Why do I find That Time of Year Thou Mayst in me Behold far more ‘lovely and temperate’ than Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Day? How can I adorn my walls with Dalí and Munch whilst ignoring Monet? Why am I spending my free time planning my own funeral, and why am I planning on ‘composing’ my own wedding vows simply so I can alter the final line to “Till human voices wake us, and we drown”?
In very basic terms, why am I such a cynic? And more to the point, why do I find happiness in cynicism? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not feeling confused or, dare I use le mot terrible, angsty, about the situation. I’m simply curious as to why I laugh at buildings imploding in Fight Club and merely scoff at similar buildings being lit up with love hearts in Sleepless in Seattle.
I guess in retrospect it could be that I’ve discovered world weariness at the tender age of 19. In even further retrospect it’s quite likely that I’m not experiencing anything out of the ordinary and in fact I could approach a hundred peers of mine with the phrase ‘life sucks’ and receive a unanimous reply of ‘totally’. But nevertheless there’s this unanswered question of the beauty I find in such unhappiness. I mean, I may be speaking out of turn, but the majority of my demographic tend to find joy and absolution in literary works such as Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. Aside from the escapist fantasy on their surface, I can find another major similarity between the two, which involves a certain Latin phrase I used earlier and the fact that both tend to conclude with essentially ideal ones. (That being said, I haven’t read either of them so I could be grossly mistaken) Meanwhile I find quasi-orgasmic pleasure from traipsing through the bleak, unforgiving corridors of Salman Rushdie novels. Secondly the majority once again seems to prefer the melodic and upbeat sounds of Good Charlotte or Green Day to the dank chaos that I primarily listen to. Admittedly some of the former’s lyrics aren’t exactly cheery reminders of love and rainbows but by the same token they can’t compare to such clangers as “False love turned to pure hate”, “Through your death I am reborn in a crimson tide” and of course, the classic and notorious “I could rip your guts out and let you watch me sacrifice your unborn child”.
I just think it’s interesting, that’s all. Interesting that my conception of beauty can in so many cases be an almost polar opposite of the next person’s. Perhaps that’s why I adore American Beauty so much, because it teaches me to search for beauty in places where others would find none. Or perhaps even still I should end this blog entry quickly before I descend into a nocturnal pit of sentimentality and optimism. I think I’ve ranted enough to keep you dribbling in anticipation for a month when I next come up with a suitable amount of unbearable garble to write in this thing.
I shall leave you now with the words of Lord Byron, “There is a very life in our despair, vitality of poison”. I think there's something in that for all of us, don't you?
This concept, as unconsciously aware of I have been of its existence for a while, was explicitly brought to my attention recently during an MSN conversation when, following a deliberately melodramatic and compliment-fishing comment from my friend that ‘nobody loves her’ I presented her with a pixelated wilted flower, which received a fair amount of similarly melodramatic scorn and indignation in response. What was misunderstood is the fact that I would never present anybody with a fresh, blossoming flower in such a circumstance when the aesthetic appeal is the only appeal of which to speak. This is for the simple reason that I find far more beauty in the tragically mortal appearance of a wilted, near-death flower. I’m not sure why, but I’m sure it has something to do with vulnerability and fragility of nature, as well as many other pointlessly long words that end in –ility. Sterility’s a good one, incidentally.
But it’s not just in botanical emoticons that this quirk of mine finds itself. Recently I got into a debate across a kitchen counter sparked by my outwardly-expressed enjoyment of the film Saw, with a girl whose DVD collection consists almost entirely of Disney films such as Beauty and the Beast, rom-com’s like When Harry Met Sally and numerous other films which not only conclude with an idealistic status quo but purport to exude the fact that there is simply no alternative in the way our lives pan out. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy such films, nor that I shed any sentimental tears watching Shawnee Smith nearly get her skull cleft in twain, but for some reason nevertheless, there is far more emotional resonance for me watching Cary Elwes saw off his right foot than in watching him resplendent atop a white horse, riding off into the sunset with Robin Wright Penn seated behind him.
Why, exactly, is this? Why do I prefer to look at crying, tearful faces than cheery, grinning ones? Why do I find That Time of Year Thou Mayst in me Behold far more ‘lovely and temperate’ than Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Day? How can I adorn my walls with Dalí and Munch whilst ignoring Monet? Why am I spending my free time planning my own funeral, and why am I planning on ‘composing’ my own wedding vows simply so I can alter the final line to “Till human voices wake us, and we drown”?
In very basic terms, why am I such a cynic? And more to the point, why do I find happiness in cynicism? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not feeling confused or, dare I use le mot terrible, angsty, about the situation. I’m simply curious as to why I laugh at buildings imploding in Fight Club and merely scoff at similar buildings being lit up with love hearts in Sleepless in Seattle.
I guess in retrospect it could be that I’ve discovered world weariness at the tender age of 19. In even further retrospect it’s quite likely that I’m not experiencing anything out of the ordinary and in fact I could approach a hundred peers of mine with the phrase ‘life sucks’ and receive a unanimous reply of ‘totally’. But nevertheless there’s this unanswered question of the beauty I find in such unhappiness. I mean, I may be speaking out of turn, but the majority of my demographic tend to find joy and absolution in literary works such as Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. Aside from the escapist fantasy on their surface, I can find another major similarity between the two, which involves a certain Latin phrase I used earlier and the fact that both tend to conclude with essentially ideal ones. (That being said, I haven’t read either of them so I could be grossly mistaken) Meanwhile I find quasi-orgasmic pleasure from traipsing through the bleak, unforgiving corridors of Salman Rushdie novels. Secondly the majority once again seems to prefer the melodic and upbeat sounds of Good Charlotte or Green Day to the dank chaos that I primarily listen to. Admittedly some of the former’s lyrics aren’t exactly cheery reminders of love and rainbows but by the same token they can’t compare to such clangers as “False love turned to pure hate”, “Through your death I am reborn in a crimson tide” and of course, the classic and notorious “I could rip your guts out and let you watch me sacrifice your unborn child”.
I just think it’s interesting, that’s all. Interesting that my conception of beauty can in so many cases be an almost polar opposite of the next person’s. Perhaps that’s why I adore American Beauty so much, because it teaches me to search for beauty in places where others would find none. Or perhaps even still I should end this blog entry quickly before I descend into a nocturnal pit of sentimentality and optimism. I think I’ve ranted enough to keep you dribbling in anticipation for a month when I next come up with a suitable amount of unbearable garble to write in this thing.
I shall leave you now with the words of Lord Byron, “There is a very life in our despair, vitality of poison”. I think there's something in that for all of us, don't you?
posted by Sean's Beard at 9:36 PM
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