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vanitashazeAnd here it comes: the third installment on my list on fanfiction for fandoms that barely exist! For all the folks at home, that's the Orwell and Sartre fics. Now, Camus! I rather like this little piece, actually. It's rather odd, and it plays a lot more with identity than I usually do, but has some nice symbolism, if I do say so myself. (Of course, it's the assend of the morning out here, so I'm a little stirred. That may have something to do with it.)
THE DOVES
Albert Camus' "The Stranger"; Marie & Mersault, PG.
There is a bird Marie sees, sometimes, in a window on her way to work. It is soft and white, like a prayer with feet. It's someone's pet, or possibly it was bred to be released at a funeral in a flurry of its kin, wings beating the spirit away from the graveyard; and the dead would fly to heaven that way, screaming fury, buffeted by a host of the well-meaning, the slightly idiotic. It would be a one-way trip for both flock and soul. The bird is not a pigeon. When it left, it would not come back.
It's possible that this is the case, of course, but there is something about the bird that denies movement, or transience, like a portrait where someone's face should be - a representation of a thing that is more real than that which it is representing. When she sees it, the bird looks fat and neutral, like the fox-fur of a lady's muffler that someone had affixed to a perch. It looks content. It looks like something that should prefer to be singing, but had never really learned the tune in the first place.
There is a girl Marie sees, sometimes, in a window on her way to work. The girl is not actually a girl, but rather a image of one, reflected back in the shop-front glass next to the bird; a representation of a thing that is more real than that which it is representing. When Marie lifts her left arm, the image of the girl lifts her right. When she touches the corner of her mouth, the girl fixes her lipstick. They both bite their small perfect mouths when nervous, and wear red quite often. The one difference is this: Marie can walk onwards towards her office, but the girl always disappears as she attempts to leave the window-frame, leaving only the slightly neutral bird to rock on the swing affixed to the top of its cage, like a small trapeze stolen from a flea circus. Cages on cages, and not all of them have as cramped a floor plan as the bird's. Often, they're quite comfortable, and very roomy.
*
Marie has written exactly eight letters to Mersault since he was imprisoned. They are all variations on a theme, and the underlying melody of them sounded suspiciously like love. Mersault has not written any back, though it is perhaps because they do not allow hung men pen and paper, on account of them more or less being already dead. It would still be nice to get a reply, of course, but she doesn't expect to. Her letter-writing is like dropping pebbles down a well, or throwing doves into the sky. One does it simply to say, I'm here, and hope whomever's on the other side is watching.
Marie has visited Mersault exactly zero times since he was imprisoned. She had considered it, but dismissed it for many reasons: the day was too hot, the guards too surly, her schedule too full. It would not be proper for a woman to visit a convicted murderer, even if it was her boyfriend. She had a dream about it once, though. Mersault looked slightly neutral; his hair stuck up like a crest of feathers. There was a layer of bars between them, but Marie couldn't seem to figure out who was on the inside and who was on the outside. "What are you doing on that side?" Mersault asks. He might have done something else interesting before Marie woke, and took a sleeping pill, and did not dream again.
*
She wore her red dress to his trial, the one with the speckled white hem, and afterwards with her makeup running from the small oceans pooling on her cheekbones, she put it away, pressed carefully into tissue-paper, because it was a Memento, and Mersault would surely like to see it when he got back. She was sure that he would be interested in things like that, even though he had not in the past, because they were interesting to her. That was when she believed he was innocent.
The bird still sits in its cage, swinging ever so gently, like a metronome, like a clock in a hospital waiting room. It acts like an organic hood ornament. Its owner - or, at least, the person who feeds it - is a man that looks quite different than Mersault, hooded eyes and hooked nose, as if his whole face were attempting to pull something into itself. It's possible the man is an Arab. The bird takes its feed either way, cooing indiscriminately. Marie wonders if they will release doves for Mersault's funeral. Probably not. Mersault seems the type to be too easily buffeted.
The girl in the window is still there, too. She wears a red dress with white dots at the hem, like bird droppings, like rain.
*
Marie liked being the girlfriend of a convicted man. It was a good way to pass the time, as she counted seeds and swung on her perch.
THE DOVES
Albert Camus' "The Stranger"; Marie & Mersault, PG.
There is a bird Marie sees, sometimes, in a window on her way to work. It is soft and white, like a prayer with feet. It's someone's pet, or possibly it was bred to be released at a funeral in a flurry of its kin, wings beating the spirit away from the graveyard; and the dead would fly to heaven that way, screaming fury, buffeted by a host of the well-meaning, the slightly idiotic. It would be a one-way trip for both flock and soul. The bird is not a pigeon. When it left, it would not come back.
It's possible that this is the case, of course, but there is something about the bird that denies movement, or transience, like a portrait where someone's face should be - a representation of a thing that is more real than that which it is representing. When she sees it, the bird looks fat and neutral, like the fox-fur of a lady's muffler that someone had affixed to a perch. It looks content. It looks like something that should prefer to be singing, but had never really learned the tune in the first place.
There is a girl Marie sees, sometimes, in a window on her way to work. The girl is not actually a girl, but rather a image of one, reflected back in the shop-front glass next to the bird; a representation of a thing that is more real than that which it is representing. When Marie lifts her left arm, the image of the girl lifts her right. When she touches the corner of her mouth, the girl fixes her lipstick. They both bite their small perfect mouths when nervous, and wear red quite often. The one difference is this: Marie can walk onwards towards her office, but the girl always disappears as she attempts to leave the window-frame, leaving only the slightly neutral bird to rock on the swing affixed to the top of its cage, like a small trapeze stolen from a flea circus. Cages on cages, and not all of them have as cramped a floor plan as the bird's. Often, they're quite comfortable, and very roomy.
*
Marie has written exactly eight letters to Mersault since he was imprisoned. They are all variations on a theme, and the underlying melody of them sounded suspiciously like love. Mersault has not written any back, though it is perhaps because they do not allow hung men pen and paper, on account of them more or less being already dead. It would still be nice to get a reply, of course, but she doesn't expect to. Her letter-writing is like dropping pebbles down a well, or throwing doves into the sky. One does it simply to say, I'm here, and hope whomever's on the other side is watching.
Marie has visited Mersault exactly zero times since he was imprisoned. She had considered it, but dismissed it for many reasons: the day was too hot, the guards too surly, her schedule too full. It would not be proper for a woman to visit a convicted murderer, even if it was her boyfriend. She had a dream about it once, though. Mersault looked slightly neutral; his hair stuck up like a crest of feathers. There was a layer of bars between them, but Marie couldn't seem to figure out who was on the inside and who was on the outside. "What are you doing on that side?" Mersault asks. He might have done something else interesting before Marie woke, and took a sleeping pill, and did not dream again.
*
She wore her red dress to his trial, the one with the speckled white hem, and afterwards with her makeup running from the small oceans pooling on her cheekbones, she put it away, pressed carefully into tissue-paper, because it was a Memento, and Mersault would surely like to see it when he got back. She was sure that he would be interested in things like that, even though he had not in the past, because they were interesting to her. That was when she believed he was innocent.
The bird still sits in its cage, swinging ever so gently, like a metronome, like a clock in a hospital waiting room. It acts like an organic hood ornament. Its owner - or, at least, the person who feeds it - is a man that looks quite different than Mersault, hooded eyes and hooked nose, as if his whole face were attempting to pull something into itself. It's possible the man is an Arab. The bird takes its feed either way, cooing indiscriminately. Marie wonders if they will release doves for Mersault's funeral. Probably not. Mersault seems the type to be too easily buffeted.
The girl in the window is still there, too. She wears a red dress with white dots at the hem, like bird droppings, like rain.
*
Marie liked being the girlfriend of a convicted man. It was a good way to pass the time, as she counted seeds and swung on her perch.
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Date: 2009-05-01 05:28 am (UTC)I like this.
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Date: 2009-05-02 02:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-02 06:33 am (UTC)Yeah, Camus's sexism (invisibility, marginalization, idealization, stereotyping of women), while probably less obstreperous than his compatriot Sartre's (hard to believe sometimes he had a relationship with de Beauvoir), has a pretty pervasive presence in his works. Over time my great love for The Plague has been considerably tempered by that awareness; years ago, I was talking with a friend about how much I hated For Whom the Bell Tolls because of Hemingway's nauseating sexism, and she argued that it was still better than The Plague, since FWtBT at least has a major female character whose sexual desire is important. It was only later that I realized both my friend and I had bought into a false dichotomy re: portrayals of women in literature and culture in general, and we were actually bolstering patriarchal norms by doing so.