Read Online Bathing the Lion by Jonathan Carroll - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
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someone’s dead, or we’ve lost them, or it’s just too damned late do we realize we’ve been speed-reading life or people and missing all the great details.
“After my Nancy died, I decided to go back over everything we shared—the things we owned, the memories I had of her, the memories other people had of her.… But this time I gave it every bit of my attention. You know, I re-viewed it a hundred percent, like never before. It made such a difference, Bill!
“I can’t be with my wife any longer because she’s gone. But I can know her better than ever before—better than when she was alive. Whenever I pay really close attention to the details, I learn more about her all the time. I discover things I never knew or even thought about. It puts Nancy in a whole new light—like somehow I’m just meeting her for the first time.
“Sure it’s a substitute for the real thing, but it’s all I’ve got left of her. It’s the best I can do.” Ken took Vedran out of Edmonds’s hands and said, “A couple of months ago I wrote the knife maker and asked if he had kept Nancy’s letter ordering this. He returned it to me and I have it framed above my desk at home.
“See how beautifully the blade is carved? It’s got perfect balance too. This kind of precision work has to be done by hand. All the best things in life are handmade, Bill: knife blades, bread, clocks, loving someone…”
* * *
When Edmonds got home later he sat down on the couch in the living room while still in his coat and looked around at the place for a long time. Where was his Vedran? What could he carry in his pocket that would always make him feel his wife’s presence?
What was the last present she had given him before she died? And what was the last one he had given her? Ashamed, he could not remember either gift. But was it really important? If you live together with someone for six thousand days, so much is shared. Does it matter if you can’t remember every little thing?
With this in mind, Edmonds walked around their house. When he saw something unfamiliar—a book or a porcelain figure, a knickknack—he picked it up and tried not to put it down again until he could recall where the object came from, who had bought or given it, the circumstances, and how it came to become part of their lives.
There were many things—the blue and white porcelain music box from Amsterdam, the ball made of hematite her sister had given them, and the elephant carved out of amber he’d brought his wife from Poland. Had she liked it? Frustrated, he couldn’t remember. It was kind of a kitschy object, but nice in its way. He stared at the small tawny animal while trying to remember the details, any details about the day he’d given it to her or what she’d said about it. But he could not remember even one thing.
There were so many blanks; his memory of their life was full of black holes. He reviled himself for having forgotten so much about his wife and their years together. How could it be? How could he have been so careless? How could he have let so many precious particulars slip through the cracks? Memories of a genuinely happy life shared were the only real treasure Time permitted you to keep.
And what a deep personal insult to her memory to have forgotten so much! He lived in a house furnished with belongings that had decorated and enhanced their life. But now he could not remember where too many of them came from or why they were even there.
Humbled and dismayed, over the next days William Edmonds moved around his house like a tourist visiting a famous museum for the first time, only his guidebook was his flawed memories. Whenever he drew a blank looking at something, he studied the various objects until either their significance emerged or he realized his recollection of them was gone forever. He put all of those “dead” items in one corner of the living room and tried to avoid looking at them because every time he did, he
“After my Nancy died, I decided to go back over everything we shared—the things we owned, the memories I had of her, the memories other people had of her.… But this time I gave it every bit of my attention. You know, I re-viewed it a hundred percent, like never before. It made such a difference, Bill!
“I can’t be with my wife any longer because she’s gone. But I can know her better than ever before—better than when she was alive. Whenever I pay really close attention to the details, I learn more about her all the time. I discover things I never knew or even thought about. It puts Nancy in a whole new light—like somehow I’m just meeting her for the first time.
“Sure it’s a substitute for the real thing, but it’s all I’ve got left of her. It’s the best I can do.” Ken took Vedran out of Edmonds’s hands and said, “A couple of months ago I wrote the knife maker and asked if he had kept Nancy’s letter ordering this. He returned it to me and I have it framed above my desk at home.
“See how beautifully the blade is carved? It’s got perfect balance too. This kind of precision work has to be done by hand. All the best things in life are handmade, Bill: knife blades, bread, clocks, loving someone…”
* * *
When Edmonds got home later he sat down on the couch in the living room while still in his coat and looked around at the place for a long time. Where was his Vedran? What could he carry in his pocket that would always make him feel his wife’s presence?
What was the last present she had given him before she died? And what was the last one he had given her? Ashamed, he could not remember either gift. But was it really important? If you live together with someone for six thousand days, so much is shared. Does it matter if you can’t remember every little thing?
With this in mind, Edmonds walked around their house. When he saw something unfamiliar—a book or a porcelain figure, a knickknack—he picked it up and tried not to put it down again until he could recall where the object came from, who had bought or given it, the circumstances, and how it came to become part of their lives.
There were many things—the blue and white porcelain music box from Amsterdam, the ball made of hematite her sister had given them, and the elephant carved out of amber he’d brought his wife from Poland. Had she liked it? Frustrated, he couldn’t remember. It was kind of a kitschy object, but nice in its way. He stared at the small tawny animal while trying to remember the details, any details about the day he’d given it to her or what she’d said about it. But he could not remember even one thing.
There were so many blanks; his memory of their life was full of black holes. He reviled himself for having forgotten so much about his wife and their years together. How could it be? How could he have been so careless? How could he have let so many precious particulars slip through the cracks? Memories of a genuinely happy life shared were the only real treasure Time permitted you to keep.
And what a deep personal insult to her memory to have forgotten so much! He lived in a house furnished with belongings that had decorated and enhanced their life. But now he could not remember where too many of them came from or why they were even there.
Humbled and dismayed, over the next days William Edmonds moved around his house like a tourist visiting a famous museum for the first time, only his guidebook was his flawed memories. Whenever he drew a blank looking at something, he studied the various objects until either their significance emerged or he realized his recollection of them was gone forever. He put all of those “dead” items in one corner of the living room and tried to avoid looking at them because every time he did, he
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