The Consequence of Singing Candlesticks

The crisp pop didn’t stir my sympathy as I callously plucked the young fruit from her intimate bunch, and my conscience was not pricked as I peeled back her supple skin to expose a soft, white center. In fact, it wasn’t until I noticed her formless body, exhausted and darkening at the bottom of my wicker wastebasket, that I felt a sudden sting of remorse—What had I done, and did my satiation warrant this sacrifice?

This is, of course, a vulgar dramatization, reminiscent of the melodramatic metaphors that frequent journals of angst-ridden pubescent lovers [who will remain unnamed]. However, despite the seemingly apparent sexual sublimation of the previous paragraph, any symbolic meaning that the reader might choose to infer would, in fact, be quite contrary to authorial intent (as if the author’s intent still mattered)—the truth is, I frequently experience relatively intense feelings of compassion for inanimate objects, particularly objects that enjoy some sort of natural companion or belong to some kind of community-- i.e. the alluded to banana, socks, contact lenses, grapes, Twizzlers, salt and pepper shakers, etc.

For example, I’ve promised my mowing shoes a casual stroll sometime soon; it’s been a long while since I awarded them any sort of leisure activity. When I think about them—misshapen and grass-stained—sitting side-by-side in the corner of a dark closet, I am saddened by two prospects: first, they might possess a capacity for affection because their function necessitates a relationship of mutual dependence—they’ve learned to rely upon one another for the fulfillment of their purpose; second, I imagine they remember a glorious past in which they held the position of casual shoes and were responsible for transporting me to exotic locations like the theatre or grocery store. Before being condemned to their present life of servitude, they were permitted to lounge about, enjoying the daily activity of the household. However, upon the arrival of a new pair of casual shoes, they were immediately demoted to their present, strictly utilitarian, position. Now they are confined to a closet, hidden away because of their working-class status. While I am the ultimate agent of their demise, I still feel a fair amount of sorrow when I consider them.

I would like to suggest that my now conspicuous compassion for inanimate objects is the inevitable consequence of a truly poetic nature--a Wordsworthian ability to “see into the life of things,” perceiving the organic interconnectedness of all natural phenomena. Or, perhaps, it is not a revival of pantheism but rather the triumph of materialism that my compassion signals. Maybe capitalism has succeeded in its attempt to convince me that my material possessions truly hold some sort of authentic, intrinsic value.

While these are both plausible explanations, the more likely origin of my inordinate compassion is an early exposure to fairy tales like The Gingerbread Man and Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. The frequent appearance of anthropomorphic objects in fairy tales and cartoons has perhaps doomed me to a life of guilt-ridden consumption. But then again, I guess I’d rather be a guilty than a guiltless consumer—so strike up the chorus of singing candlesticks and teapots.

Sacred Texts on the Toilet?

I saw Augustine today, weeping under a fig tree as he watched me thumb through his Confessions on the toilet. In 4th century Hippo, people probably shat communally as they sat atop stone lavatories designed to accommodate multiple “participants.” “Noli spectare. Perturbat me . . .”—this circumstance was, perhaps, not as convenient for light (or heavy) reading as is our current situation.

So, naturally, I could understand his confusion and disappointment as I skimmed over his conversion experience—the climactic triumph of his spirit over flesh—in such close proximity to excrement, which probably happens to be a good distance from the regenerate soul on the ladder of spiritual ascendance.

I know Whitman wouldn't have minded and, in fact, would have welcomed this proximity, but I had the distinct feeling that Augustine was not pleased in the least. So I nodded, gently lay the book aside and began to think about the nature of sacred texts—particularly whether or not they created or should be reserved for sacred spaces (unlike the one I currently occupied).

I pictured myself in a dusty, candlelit, Faustian study, hunched over the yellowish brown leaves of some ancient manuscript as I painstakingly decode the esoteric symbols that accompany the text. Or, better yet, humbly seated beside a wooden prayer bench in a sunlit reading room as a single beam of light like a dove descends from heaven to anoint a particular passage before my eyes.

When Augustine gazed into the future to picture me reading his Confessions, I must have been kneeling in this reading room; surely he did not suppose his most intimate work would be the subject of my powder-room perusal. It’s not that Augustine is necessarily too stiff or spiritual to read on the toilet; it’s just that I don’t want to spoil his expectations.

I wonder if secondary sources pertaining to Augustine are also off limits—perhaps, as long as I just skip over quoted passages? Only, this seems like a slippery slope because, technically, I’m not reading a first-hand account to begin with—I’m reading Henry Chadwick’s translation, which is only one translation in a long chain of translations and reinterpretations extending all the way back to the 4th century.

And here in lies the problem—every new reading is new translation, meaning it must be the sense of the text that is sacred rather than the words on the page—and the sense seems inescapable.

Initially, I intended to suggest that bathroom reading might be a sort of litmus test for sacred texts—if you feel guilty reading it on the toilet, perhaps it’s sacred. However, for Augustine, all truth is God’s truth—all signs, natural and conventional, point to God. So whether I’m reading his Confessions or a list of the non-active ingredients in my toothpaste, I cannot escape the sacred.

Maybe he’s not so surprised or disappointed after all.