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Meditations is a collection of personal reflections written by
Marcus Aurelius (121-180), the Emperor of Rome from 161 to 180 AD. The
writings reflect the life of a Stoic. The Stoic philosophy is not like
asceticism, which is a lifestyle of abstinence and frugality. Stoicism, as
represented in Marcus Aurelius' writings, is closer to Zen; the Emperor-author
emphasizes focus, moderation, self-control, and harmony.
I
appreciate how Marcus Aurelius begins the day by
focusing on the values he wants to live and exhibit through his
behavior. I also love this lesson and promise: "From Alexander the Platonic,
not frequently nor without necessity to say to any one, or to write in a
letter, that I have no leisure; nor continually to excuse the neglect
of duties required by our relation to those with whom we live, by
alleging urgent occupations."
Note: The version I read was translated by George Long and was published in a
Harvard Classics edition that also includes Plato's The Apology, Phaedo,
and Crito, as well as Epictetus' The Golden Sayings.
I peek outside, then I am drawn through a French door onto the patio. My eyes pull left to the neighbor's house. Through its large bay
window I find the eyes of an obese killer, more monster than man. He is a horrifying blob stationed at a breakfast table. He wears women's lingerie—a black teddy. He wants to take my life now.
I briefly lose sight of him as he rushes out the back of his house and exits his garage. But, then, he is all I can see. Because he gushes into my yard and is closing in at a paralyzing speed. The impulse to run takes me.
Roaring nearer, he warns me that he will now begin asking questions, and if I
answer correctly, I can live a few seconds more. Here's how it will go. First he will sing, and I must finish the lyrics. So he begins singing "Hallelujah."
I scramble onto a trampoline in the yard, and he corners me there. He is singing, and I think, "She tied you to her kitchen chair, and she broke your throne, and she cut your hair." He is at the
edge of the trampoline now. I jump left, he moves left; I jump right, he
is there. He is unbelievably fast, and he is singing, and his voice grows incredibly loud. I am in the air, and his singing comes out now in two voices—a high, loud shriek and a low
moan. He disappears under the trampoline as I begin coming down, and he is right under me. I try to will my body forward, a lunge unpropelled, an attempt made weak with terror. I wake, bolting upright
in bed, hearing my own pitiful, last groan.
I read everything in "The Complete Stories of Truman Capote." These are shorts laid out by the famous, brilliant American author. The stories are wonderful, of course. But the introduction is ridiculous—almost hateful. It includes the following passages:
This man who impersonated an exotic clown in the early, more private years of his career and then—pressed by the heavy weight of his past—became the demented public clown of his ending...
And,
In his final wreckage, this slender collection of short stories may well have seemed to Capote the least of his fulfillment ... by his own refusal to conquer his personal hungers ...
Awful.
Of the earlier Capote works collected here, "A Diamond Guitar" strikes a chord. But the best of all the stories was the later work, "Mojave," written in 1975. The protagonists' detachment makes the exotic and strange seem sadly familiar.
