The Second Time Around

Gabriel Garcia Márquez died a few days ago. I was not touched by his writings although his genius is obvious. Somehow I found his plots predictable, but his mastery of imagery was incontestable. I was driving when I heard about his passing, and turned the radio off to recall what of him had stayed in me.

It was not difficult -- "Love at the time of cholera" immediately came to mind. I had read it many years ago, in English. My Spanish is now better and I thought I should try to read the original version. But will I appreciate the nuances?

The solution became obvious. I was leaving in a week for the Arabian Peninsula which meant 14 hours of flight time. So, I was smiling walking out of the bookstore in Baltimore with a copy of the book in English and another one in Spanish! So, now I can open two books at the same time, put them on the unstable, uneven foldable airplane tablet, and read for 10 hours or so. I decided to start reading the original version, and when I get stuck, to use the translation as a dictionary…

…And the plane took off for Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.

Of course the title is intriguing because he intended it to be so. The easy first reaction is that love has symptoms like a disease. That it is even deadly for some. Yet, that is too predictable. So, I did a bit of searching into the word cholera, and, at 10, 000 meters above water and cities, I discovered that the world cholera lived a double life, just like Florentino Ariza, the most lovesick character in the book. Indeed, depending how it is pronounced (hence used), colera in Spanish can be:

cólera = cholera (used as a masculine noun)

cólera = anger (used as a feminine noun)

Now that makes the title a real title! And anger or rage being a feminine noun perhaps says more about the Spanish language than the writings of Márquez. Maybe anger and rage made love impossible. Or even better, maybe love found itself in anger and rage. After all, what good is love when it is like a quite stream? One may enjoy casting for trout in that stream, but would always wonder about deep sea fishing.

I smiled as I wrote these lines. It was clear that at 10,000 meters above water and mountains Florentino was getting to me.

So I looked for interpretations of who these characters were according to Márquez. Through his characters, he reached a distillation of concepts. Re-reading the book made me appreciate the style while first time around I was keen on discovering the story. Hmm, maybe love is like that too?

This may be my favorite passage about love:

“It was as if they had leapt over the arduous cavalry of conjugal life and gone straight to the heart of love. They were together in silence like an old married couple wary of life, beyond the pitfalls of passion, beyond the brutal mockery of hope and the phantoms of disillusion: beyond anyplace, but it was more solid the closer it came to death.”

And Márquez remains an optimist about heart and love while going to the “heart of love”. I find the following lines of a singular beauty when read in Spanish:

“Todavia era demasiado joven para saber que la memoria del corazón elimina los malos recuerdos y magnifica los buenos, y que gracias a ese artifice logramos sobrellevar el pasado.”

… The little screen on the cabin wall showed that we would soon fly over London and that 7 more hours remained till Jeddah. Then another flight to Riyadh. I tried to forget these long hours by reading each word twice. It was a silly exercise, since I had already convinced myself that having read the book, a second read would be most boring (especially since I had found the plot predictable the first time around!) So, now I was reading for the joy of the language and ideas. That is why I was attempting to read in Spanish. This was now a sensual pleasure for me. It went beyond reading a novel. It became touching words through lecture. Before they touched me through interpretation!

And then, a line stops my jolly ride through epicurean fantasies. I read:

“Nothing resembles a person as much as the way he dies.”

I shut the book. No, both books. Almost midnight, although time has no meaning when on a 12 hours flight, at night. I looked over to my fellow passenger who has been reading his own books and hardly said a word for the past soon 4 hours. Now I could see what he was reading: “Dental Services Readiness”. Hmm, So I ended next to a dentist who has not opened his mouth while we crossed the entire Atlantic Ocean, from Washington to London!

…I also shut my eyes to see all those who died whom I knew well. Some even knew me quite well, too. With my eyes and the monotonous feel a plane flying above the clouds as background, I saw many of them as I had seen them for the last time. Did they die in a way which resembled the lives they lived? And, did they die in a way that followed who they were?

I forgot about the book, its characters, the trepidations of love and desire. I was in a different sphere of interest. I was , just as it is with a book, in a space where one joins the characters, tries to identify with the plot, the turmoil of love, the joys of loving and being loved. Then, one closes the book, gets interested in other books, other wonderings. Those I knew and who had died, dear ones, dearly loved ones; both gave me life and helped me learn how to navigate it. Did they die in a way that resembled the lives they lived?

I do not know.

… In Jeddah I had 2 hours of wait till the next flight. I randomly opened a page of the book to kill time. And read

“The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.”

What would an Armenian like me do when he does not understand the meaning of regret? When he celebrates every event for what they were? With little additional expectation.

But that line made me think while flying over the seemingly non-ending Arabian Desert. That is the genius of Márquez, and I had missed it the first time around.

April 25, 2014

Over London and the Arabian Desert

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

Marathon and Alcatraz

Yesterday, the Boston Marathon was completed by thousands of runners.

As I watched the news that night, I could not resist wondering if the Marathon run has been more than a run before. And I realized that I did not know enough about its history. So, late at night, I searched for details.

I knew about Ionia and how the Greeks found the Persian rule oppressive and revolted. I did not know that this marked the start of wars between Persia and Mainland Greece (492-449 B.C.) The battle of Marathon, in 490 B.C. was part of those wars and, like the Boston Marathon of 2014 it was more than a war. It was a statement that a smaller number of solders can win against the mighty Persian army, and, that a single man, Pheidippides, can run the 40,000 or so meters to alert Athenians about the battle.

But since then, how has the Marathon Run been affected by social and cultural events?

Spyridon “Spyros” Louis won the first modern-day marathon at the 1896 Summer Olympics. He was from Marousi, outside of Athens, and a water carrier. Indeed, Louis's father sold mineral water in Athens, at the time lacking a central water supply, and Spyros helped him by transporting it.

A great story! But there was one more event that made me think about the social influences affecting historical traditions. As I was inquiring about the history of the exact running distance, I found that at the 1908 Olympic Games in London, the marathon distance was changed to 26 miles to cover the ground from Windsor Castle to White City stadium, with 385 yards added on so the race could finish in front of King Edward VII's royal box.  Ha! My first reaction was “Why not move the Royal Box?” Then I wondered when the present-day distance (26.2 miles) was established and found out that it was at the 1924 Olympics in Paris.

… While reading about the Persian wars, a Greek word kept on reappearing in various texts. It was the work ἐλευθερία (elutheria) which means freedom. I knew the word as it is often used in the Classics. In fact it was even mentioned that the Marathon Battle stopped the Persian Army from marching over to Europe, and that indirectly, gave that continent the freedom to become what we now know as Europe.

And again I thought about King Edward VII's royal box…. Interestingly, ἐλευθερία is a feminine noun in Greek. In fact, in Ancient Greece, Eleutheria was also an epithet for the goddess Artemis, and as such she was worshipped in Myra of Lycia.  Now, I was thinking about the famous painting by Eugene Delacroix where a woman was carrying the flag of liberty. And then about the Statue of Liberty.  

… It was past midnight and my mind was playing with all these concepts and historical facts. Why, all I wanted to learn was about the history of the Marathon run. But I was now reading about Europe’s blossoming away from invasions and wars, and I was thinking about elutheria. And somehow, the isolation from wars triggered in my mind the reverse idea of isolation from freedom. As I was wondering about examples of the latter concept, a trip I made a few years back came to mind. It was my first and only trip to Alcatraz Island during a trip to San Francisco.

The infamous prison is now a tourist attraction, a testimonial of times past but also of human reaction. The Alcatraz Island was the ultimate isolation from freedom, of course for those who had encroached upon the freedom of others. I recall feeling cold there, on that very warm and sunny day.

… I had to find the negatives of pictures I took that day. It was some years ago but I do have a relatively organised system for cataloging my negatives. And after a few short minutes, I did find them.
I chose to print only one from that roll, as it seemed to follow the thoughts I had last night. It was a picture of Alcatraz before I embarked on the ferry to go there. A pelican was at the forefront, and a sailboat catching the winds in front of the island.

I smiled. The spirit of Robert Stroud, the famous "Birdman of Alcatraz” was in that picture, as well as the spirit of freedom. How did the prisoners react to the flight of birds, free to ride the winds? How did they react to the freedom of sailboats catching the wind around the island?

Not many of us know the answers. But a day ago, thousands of runners ran in Boston and they ran 26.2 miles. The finish line did not have King Edward’s Box as a reference point.

April 22, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian

Easter Saturday

Easter Saturday. Kids will soon wear white and carry candles as tall as they are. Others will hunt for eggs and will never remember that they did so in a few years’ time. Someone will die of pneumonia, somewhere. Others will wonder if the Ebola virus can be contained. Meanwhile, it is High Tea time in London as Yaks are getting milked, early morning, on the planes of Mongolia.

While in past essays I remained amazed by the expansion of the universe, today it feels that our earth is running out of place. Too many people who still believe in the infinite availability of resources; too scared the rest become of not having the personal space within the shrinking interval of existence around them.

Easter Saturday. Adults will remember the dried flower petals they still keep in a book of poetry.  They do not remember who gave them, but remember how they felt.  Too many people have since told them what they already knew: that their space can be conserved only if they remain in it alone.

… I chose a book of poetry from my simple library and sat by the window overhanging the ocean. The North winds had not arrived to Baltimore yet, but the loons, diving incessantly, seem to know that spring is not here yet. That Easter Saturday is the wait for that storm. That tomorrow, little girls wearing lace-dresses and white shoes may get wet. Like loons diving in the calm waters near Baltimore.

There was a line I had written atop the first page of the book I chose from my simple library. It was not in English, and it was written in pencil. Pencils we used to sharpen very carefully because the tips used to break easily and jam the sharpener. It was an art to sharpen a pencil.

It read “laughter is the music of the smile”.

And, on this Easter Saturday I read a poem I had read many times before. And I did not think anymore about the Yaks of Mongolia, overpopulated planets, or High Tea in London. I just thought about the dried flower petals one keeps in a book.

Given by a lover. Or by a daughter.

April 19, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

Carrefour

It was perhaps the spring rain that made my leather coat smell of leather. I stood my back to the wall and listened to the rain. I also listened to questions one asks when it rains, in the springtime, around midnight.

… I thought about all those who have loved someone, at some crossroads of life. They did not hold back when something deep inside said “don’t hold back”. And it was beautiful, and it was ugly. Then they wondered if love can sustain itself. Or if one morning one just wakes up and while brushing his teeth says “I need to learn more about myself.” Love then becomes the name of that search.

… I thought about all those who were loved by someone, on their way to crossroads. They did not hold back for they did not know what to hold on to. They were surprised, and they were also wondering. Can love survive the long journey of that search they were already upon? Is there enough space in that carriage pulled by a Phoenix riding a Pegasus? And what happens when they reach the crossroads? Will they pull in different directions?

It was perhaps the spring rain that made me think of promises. Of new blossoms, of Hyacinth and Gardenia flowers. And yet, my olfactive memories of roads, crossroads and co-riders of that carriage brought back perfumes of Jasmine and Lilac and I realised these have haunted me throughout my days.

… I took my hat off as it was raining very hard, and walked the busy streets of a city where part of my youth had found its serpentine roads. Then, the yet unending journey from city to city, country to country, and across continents. Now I am back, with a book under my arm, a full beard, and a black leather coat.

Yet the questions remain the same, and unanswered they still are.
But the show must go on.

April 11, 2014

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

I took this picture in New Orleans. He started his one-man program by saying "Life is a game that cannot be won, but must be played with joy and grace".

Pezzi con Pezzi

Wood shingle by wood shingle

The walls of my cabin

Are now frigid and silent

I took the last framed picture

Off the wall facing north

I took a last photo

Perhaps for another wall

Wood shingle by wood shingle

I leave my cabin

To another man, his woman, his dreams

I will pack again

Another bag, another pillow

Leave the mountain to its sunsets

And in another city, on another wall

Hang the picture I took

Of the cabin where

Cedar shingle by
Cedar shingle

I said goodbye

Every day I was there

April 4, 2014

©Vahé Kazandjian, 2014

I took this picture in the Sahel, near the Algerian border. Isn’t it wonderful to shutter so gracefully by keeping all the pieces nearby?

A New Book

This posting will be different from my usual ones, as it introduces a new book I co-authored. I did hesitate for a second since my blogs are in English and this book is in French, but I know that many of the visitors to my sites are multilingual.

So, here is the story behind this book:

It was 1977 when on a flight from Montréal to Paris I sat next to a young reporter returning from an assignment in Kurdistan, Iraq. During these eight hours of confinement to our seats, we talked about history repeating itself, art, and yes good food. For a number of years we corresponded as friends. Then, in my vagabonding from continent to continent, we lost touch.

Thirty three years later, thanks to email, we re-established contact. This time, we had our careers as authors well recognized in our separate fields. But our interest in history, and now our search for identity lead us to undertake an extraordinarily unusual challenge, that of writing a book together, from a distance.

And they say we get wiser with age…!!!!

The central theme of the book is our common cultural heritage, that of being Armenian. Janine’s father was Armenian, while both of my parents were. Her grandfather died during the 1915 massacres and her father, through the exodus via Syria and Lebanon, had landed in Canada. My grandfather had survived the same fate and time period, and established his family in Lebanon. We both grew up with the stories of Armenians, of genocide, immigrant’s outlook to life, the Diaspora, and the push for becoming global citizens without losing our identity.

Three years of writing and we are delighted that Art Global in Montréal, Québec, affiliated with Flammarion Canada, is the publisher of our book.

Above is a screen shot of the publisher’s page announcing our book, the title, in English being “When is the flight from Paris to Yerevan?” Of course, Yerevan is the capital of Armenia.

For those polyglots who visit my blogs, here is the link to the publisher (Ctrl+click): http://www.artglobal.ca/index.php?com=catalogue_livre&lang=fr_FR&id=118

Epilogue: This is my 10^th book and the only one I wrote in French. I have now published books, articles and poetry in five languages (Armenian, English, French, Italian and Spanish) but this one has a special meaning: it is the story of our parents, of Armenia in the past century, the massacres that made our parents immigrants and our childhood deeply influenced by our Armenian heritage. The autofictional dimensions of the book are held together by a unique friendship between us authors, and our personal quest for cultural identity.

About the cover picture: I took this picture in Nazaré, Portugal. You can see the original on my photography blog “Vahé's Streets” under the ‘Nazaré” entry.

April 1, 2014

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014


PS1/ For those interested in reading it as an e-book, it is available at Amazon under:

http://www.amazon.ca/quand-vol-Paris-Erevan-Janine-Saine-ebook/dp/B00KN8DMAO/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1401915771&sr=1-2

PS2/ You can also see the English version of the book's synopsis on the publisher's site:

http://www.artglobal.ca/index.php?com=catalogue_livre&lang=en_EN&id=118