fallen verses

All the afternoon he had sat there at the table where now Augusta was reading, thinking over his life, trying to see where he had made his mistake. Perhaps the mistake was merely an attitude of mind. He had never learned to live without delight. And he would have to learn to, just as, in a Prohibition country, he would have to learn to live without sherry. Theoretically he knew that life was possible, may be even pleasant, without joy, without passionate griefs. But it had never occurred to him that he might have to live like that.

-Willa Cather, The Professor’s House

It does seem rather unsatisfying to think that life must be lived in the sort of middling ground, the area without passion. And yet, I have to wonder if that may be the key to existence. No matter the passion, for person or ideal, activity, it fades.

Despite any personal inclination to the contrary, I’ll grant that love can abide, the persistent, deep love and companionship of devoted equals, but not passion.

Passion blazes like a bonfire. It can fill you and the heat pours from your eyes. The body does not carry enough fuel to sustain this inferno-one day the fire burns low. The lucky ones end up with a pile of smoldering embers to keep them, at the least, warm.

It’s, I guess, learning to live with the cold inside, and being okay with the memory of fire, that’s the trick. That’s the trick.