Chapter 21. Earthly Wanderings.

March 21, 1986

Looking at the continuously falling rain next to me, the thirty-three-year-old artist Etienne Hawthorn, on this Friday evening, with every moment, I understood more and more that our world and our life are a ruthless and all-consuming desert: within its limits, everyone is for themselves, and if you are not able to get food or a few drops of life-giving moisture here, then your fate is ruin, demise, death. In this desert, the sun spares no one—whether you are the richest or the poorest, whether you are the smartest or the stupidest, whether you are the most beautiful or the most unattractive, but you are always alone here, even in those very minutes when you are surrounded by friends, relatives, loved ones, family, and a lover: they are all just decorations for your main and key role in this life, just as you are for them. Here, in the desert, no one owes anyone anything and no one is obligated to anyone by anything—no other connections can exist here, except for those that, due to natural causes, connect your truly peculiar essence, of course, with the help of a corresponding stem, with the roots of human instincts deeply buried in the depths of the social world and world order: in this world there is no and should be no pity—this is a world of trials, obstacles… this is a world where man is sent not to live, but to survive!.. A few drops fell on the snow-white canvases of my album, thereby creating truly unique and masterful images—someone in my place would have cursed the rain, fate, or even God for what had happened: someone, but not me, for I, having seen what had happened, and having known its essence long before that happened, savor in my soul the most sincere qualities and characteristics of inspiration and admiration… In this world there is nothing that cannot be the main character of a work of art, I say, contemplating raindrops, my own shadow from streetlights, dirt, houses, streets, a stone, the reflection of flowers in windows, and people… Here before my eyes a young couple, raging in their chaotic manifestations of life, appears: young, lovely, she hysterically showers him, her beloved, with uncomplimentary words—why does she send such words in his direction? I am not interested in this, however… just as I am not interested in her herself: her character is repulsive to me, for I was able to comprehend all its facets not only with the help of her inherent appearance, but also thanks to the expression of her emotions through the prism of facial expressions, gestures, timbre, and voice quality… however… still… something truly fascinated me in her—she had unusually lovely curls the color of dark chocolate, whose cornerstones of tenderness could not be shaken even by the suicidal inclinations of drops of ephemeral rain… Voice! How unpleasant a woman's voice is when it expresses negative emotions! Once again I am convinced that many women in this world do not see further than their own eyelashes, the nature of which is often… unnatural!.. One more moment, and here my gaze sees a nineteen-year-old beauty with perfect blue eyes, however… with a skin canvas generously speckled with crimson rashes: women are not ideal, but in each of them there is something ideal—the totality of positive and negative characteristics always creates harmony, and accordingly brings prosperity and peace to this world… Unconsciously, a corresponding kind of imprint is produced in my memory at the sight of every girl or woman who appeared on my path—this sacred information is unusually sacred for my true nature… Further on my path appears another daughter of Eve, whose lips were worthy of being immortalized by Apelles, but whose figure was not as ideal… The next one had an indescribably passionate look, and her clumsy nose resembled one of the Alpine peaks… Every smallest detail of a girl I met in one hour or another could not, was not able to remain unnoticed by my conscious and unconscious gaze—in my life there were never random meetings, random glances, feelings, and emotions: one meeting is able to change someone's life, and accordingly it a priori cannot be random—the same should be said about glances, emotions, sighs, and words. One female glance, and men strive, competing with each other, to create a shuttle in order to conquer space in the name of their beloved—one female smile and those men already strive to plunge down, to the center of the earth, in order to present a piece of the frantically blazing heart of the earth as a gift to their beloved: one female word and even the one who was previously called and titled a Roman emperor bows at her feet… And yet, all of them, all the aforementioned, of course, men of quality, with the help of the prerequisites that just now were in my mind, invariably creating in their imagination a certain unique image and appearance of the object of their own absolute worship, frantically praised by their essence, in those minutes do not even guess that love for a woman is the most sweet and forbidden fruit of their imagination: it can be tasted and become fallen, or it can be, having overcome the hell of temptations and the whirlpool of torments, left to remain where it was preordained by the Almighty himself to be—for centuries, for millennia, lovely Eves permanently provoke naive Adams into committing, in one form or another, a profound fall and for centuries, for millennia those Adams are naively tempted by the magical charms of earthly women of flesh and blood… Swiftly overcoming, as if the corridors of the Knossos labyrinth, one street after another, I advanced further and further into the depths of that world, through the thickets of everyday life to my own goal: I perfectly knew my local goal—it was a brothel today. After a few minutes, having approached that abode of vice, where, I must admit, I was not a new guest, I immediately knocked on the door, behind which for many a road so sweet to certain death, to hell, opened—the hostess of that brothel, a child of Janus, opened it hospitably and smiled sweetly at me, calling me by name, and immediately invited me to where I, revealing my earthly wanderings to them, was supposed to do what was preordained by the Almighty in advance, what was predetermined: having said a few words about the fact that today she was suffering really considerable losses due to the current events on the New York Stock Exchange, that forty-two-year-old woman, leaving me alone with the personification of devilish beauty, the charm of vice, and the purity of evil, hurriedly left the limits of that very room where I deliberately, consciously subjected my soul to the temptations of carnal temptation—he who did not know my nature would naively have thought that now I was to make a choice, however… now I wanted nothing so much as to see before my eye a truly perfect, truly ideal image of a young brunette… Before my eyes at this hour appeared six absolutely naked, but partly lovely, relatively young representatives of Eve's gender—in the moments described, I did not feel natural, animal, primitive feelings for them, whose main source of nourishment are instincts and passion: for a long time I have been dead to myself and to this world as a man—for a long time I deliberately, intentionally committed a corresponding kind of suicide. In these moments I was more than a man and a woman, than a form, matter, and flesh—in that moment I was a soul, an essence, a nature. I was no longer able to radiate and receive passion—this truly rude and incorrigibly cruel world, continuously exalting everything material, once made me so sensitive that at a certain hour my nature ceased to feel and experience any human feelings: in a similar way, in its bright and ephemeral variegation, while temporarily endowing everyone around with a truly shaky bouquet of chaotic emotions, a sparkler instantly fades away—that's how, similar to that, I once died… However, I was not always insensitive, from the point of view of human society and the world order—in childhood my not yet formed essence had that unique ability, lost over the years: to be a person and to feel like a person… I remember the very day when the very willful spirit of my blood grandfather so overwhelmingly left the mortal vestment for some reason preordained for him by the Almighty himself due to a sudden stroke—I also remember how on languid and endless nights I cried tirelessly, sincerely blaming myself for the fact that on the aforementioned day, shortly before the moment of my own grandfather's death, in the morning I did not bring him cranberries for tea in order to pacify the blood pressure that was significantly agitated in the depths of his flesh… But was I supposed to know that his flesh would lose its own spirit on that very day? Being extremely sensitive, I tortured my soul with the most profound facets of accusations of what had happened to the point of painfully stinging wounds—at the same time, the representatives of the cult of Asclepius, in whose hands then, on the day of that death, there was the possibility of a temporary salvation of the mortal flesh from sudden death, calmly remained in the unusually sweet embrace of Morpheus… That's how I used to be—that's how I was not now… Slowly approaching the first of those six sorceresses, I immediately began to study, behold, and comprehend the subtlety of every line of her truly tender twenty-four-year-old flesh, without having the slightest desire to physically touch the true nature of them—feeling my male nature next to her, she shuddered, and at that moment I felt the fragrant kiss of her languid sigh on my nature: never before had I hated human flesh as much as I did now—in minutes for which many men, without the slightest hesitation, were ready to climb the bulky and rude body of the ruthless guillotine. Her hill-like breasts with a rushing wavy motion rose up and down, thereby reminding me of the harmonious chaos of the ocean during bad weather—but was not an extraordinary sensual storm manifesting its truly powerful nature inside her essence? That storm, however, as well as she herself, at this hour was in no way able to move my nature in one way or another—with Nero's indifference I looked at how the Rome of instincts, feelings, and passion was burning before my eyes now: in those very minutes, I, like that Roman emperor, tasted the indescribably sweet nectar of creativity… Amazing! For what reason exactly did she feel the feelings just mentioned? Was she, who had seen the flesh, but not the soul of a truly countless number of men, capable of them now? She… she was just a victim of that very mysterious, ethereal, and sacred matter with which my essence was completely permeated—I was able to see in her what many were not able to see in that nature, and therefore she, without in any way realizing it, latently, unconsciously bowed before the freedom and power inherent in me. With Raphael's inspiration, having studied the special charm of her forms and the unique sophistication of her lines, I, naturally in my unhurriedness, brought my salmon-colored lips to the unusually tender flesh of her sweet ears, and said very coldly, barely audibly to the human ear, the following words: "Beauty is infinite in its facets: in this world there are millions of indescribably lovely girls, and if you stop your choice on one of them, then, accordingly, you will thereby limit yourself in contemplating and perceiving that beauty—do you really deserve such torments over your nature, for is not every prohibition on contemplating the charm of nature, including human nature, one of the most cruel torments?". Involuntarily hearing those words, she unconsciously shuddered—true human, instinctive fear in an instant completely took possession of her essence, and in these moments she wanted nothing so much as to leave my company and this truly very cozy bright room as soon as possible: why were these words said and why were they said to her? She, due to the limitedness of her life's view and her current worldview, could not comprehend this… One more moment, and here I am already next to the second of the clearly defined chain of fallen, but therefore no less lovely, absolutely naked and relatively young representatives of Eve's gender—her nakedness is delightful, but it is perfect only by its qualitatively material characteristics: in this speck of living dust, despite its active existence, there is no true life, for there is no understanding of its own destiny in it—at this moment tears arose in the depths of my nature, for she, however, like the overwhelming majority of existing people, permanently staying with her eyes open, contemplating and seeing this world, does not see the true essence of its structure, at the very hour when I, permanently staying with my eyes closed, not looking anywhere and into anything, see what is inaccessible to the eye of the majority… these are paradoxical, contradictory, simultaneous, non-sexual tears of bitterness and happiness… bitterness for them and happiness for myself… happiness for them and bitterness for myself! Swiftly bringing my lips, just as I did in the corresponding way before, to the auricle of the second of the six brunettes, I said to her the following: "The essence of our, human, destiny is in creativity—this must be comprehended and accepted. How tormenting it is to realize, looking at other people, that they have not been able to comprehend, that they will not be able to comprehend the essence of their own destiny—they live for some reason, and not for something: every day they communicate with each other, look for leisure, thereby escaping from boredom and laziness, strive to find pleasure in food, in acquiring things—and so their empty life passes, the emotional, sensual, and mental fullness of which can be produced only by the visible, material, tangible"… One more moment, and here I am already next to the third of that chain of brunettes… Her certain features, lines, and forms are perfect, but in their totality they do not form harmony, but are the personification of, although beautiful, but still chaos… Woman! Even by reproducing human life, she carries the most death: with the help of an egg cell choosing one single life, she thereby destroys, annihilates millions of lives!.. Approaching her, my lips said the following words: "For a truly creative person, it is many times easier and at the same time many times more difficult to overcome women's rejections: it is more difficult because he is the owner of a truly sensitive soul, and it is easier for the reason that he is able to express the feelings that continuously devour the flesh of his soul in his own works, thereby consciously and unconsciously drying up the spiritual spaces with an excessive amount of sensual moisture, thereby pouring the fires that all-powerfully crush his soul onto the snow-white parchment, which, in turn, is able to endure a lot, while not burning from the sensual fire and not getting soaked from the sensual moisture…" One more moment, and my soul is already located next to the fourth of those fallen women. What distinguishes a woman from a female animal? In these minutes, looking at her charms, I asked myself such questions. But what also distinguishes a man from a male animal? For what reason do some people destroy others because of a female, just as fierce bulls ruthlessly break each other's horns, and furious lions torture each other's flesh to the point of blood? What can a female reward and give them with that they are ready to lay down their own life on the altar of her service? The continuation of the race? Stupidity! Temporary pleasure? If so, then I feel sorry for them, for they are just as stupid as those are imperfect! That's what I, a blood and direct descendant of those very ancient people who, in the name of their own survival, in the name of their own strength and the continuation of the race, destroyed other representatives of our race with special cruelty in order to… subsequently appear as flesh, but not as a spirit!.. Bringing my lips closer to the sweet organ of hearing of the fourth of the brunettes, I whispered the following to her: "The only thing that lovers have in this world is a thin thread of trust in each other: no oaths or gifts are able to ensure the unconditional loyalty of one person to another person—lovers only have trust…" One more moment, and here I am next to the lovely nakedness of the fifth personification of the sweetness of the devilish vice—after a moment I address him with the following words: "The war is over—the people will once say with joy. The war is over—the rulers will once say with bitterness"… One more moment, and here, my nature, having overcome all the charms and vices of those women, instantly appeared before the soul whose flesh had the name Sofia. At the very hour when each of the first five women invariably tried to sell themselves to me, twenty-one-year-old Sofia offered me nothing. Looking intently into her appearance, which was completely speckled with the wrinkles of real reality, I discerned under them a unique in its charm sacred divinity: being a person, Sofia was more than a person. In her emerald eyes I was able to see what was invisible to many—being a child of an aristocratic family, due to the rules, restrictions, and principles instilled in her from childhood, she came not to fame, celebrity, and wealth, but to the porch of a brothel: not needing anything material in this life, she became a woman of easy virtue only in order to gain her own freedom from this stupid and insignificant label under the name "family"—the corresponding kind of acquisition of freedom thereby was a kind of revenge on those who from childhood limited her in many things, including in communication with her peers… Looking at how I admiringly study the lines and facets, but not of the body, flesh, dust, but of the soul, spirit, and nature of Sofia, the five women mentioned earlier began to mock me—did I come here to talk and contemplate? I, Etienne Hawthorn, came to the place of vice in order to find beauty here—I descended into hell not at all to glorify demons, but to comprehend the reasons why they ended up in hell: each of their lines, facets, and forms tirelessly spoke about this instead of a thousand words… Everyone comes to this brothel to satisfy their physical needs, while I came here in the name of satisfying spiritual needs… However, here, as in any place on the globe, there was no longer anything human at this very minute—from now on, this is a world where the charm of the body is more important than the purity of the soul… After a short amount of time, having returned to my artistic abode, I slowly broke the peace of that very room, in the depths of which were located in a special harmony portraits of truly impeccably ideal, but never existing within the limits of our world, female representatives—immaculate, pure, virginal, and divine, they in their totality, however, as well as individually, were the true personification of a woman without flaws: today in my mind a very willful image of the one who represented the ideal brunette was born—never seeing her in reality, with the help of my own ability to see, which allowed me to distinguish the most lovely qualities in all imperfect women, I created in my mind for myself an impeccable, of course, from the point of view of material beauty, beloved. There were many like her in this room—it was all covered with portraits of ideal blondes, brunettes, light brown-haired, and all other women, whose image, despite the totality of existing features, was not real—for long and languid hours, producing each of their features, I fell in love with them more and more: in my platonic love I was polygamous and the unique Garden of Gethsemane of sensual images was a witness to this—truly, and was not that room a kind of sanctuary where, languishing and suffering, I brought my most sacred and secret thoughts, emotions, and feelings to the altar of creativity? Here I was alive and here I was dead, however, just like all the paintings around me—I did not enter into discussions with them: I was only interested in their transient beauty—and is it really possible to have a lively conversation with the inanimate? They were excellent, amazing, unique—they never lost their youth and the freshness of their own colors: even if their beauty was occasionally covered with a thin layer of dust, it was never able to be covered with a thick layer of temporary and dust-like wrinkles… That's the world—a world of paradoxes… Now I am surrounded exclusively by women who are special in their charm, but they are not alive—before this moment I was surrounded by living ones, but with certain flaws: the former are just a motionless canvas that to one degree or another awakens certain feelings, a canvas that is not able to have a soul; the latter are a moving totality of matter, capable of action… a canvas that, in turn, experiences certain feelings, for it is endowed with a soul for some reason… So perfection is not always alive, but everything that is alive is not always perfect…