I’ve come home to focus on quieter and more thoughtful things. Life essentials. Family and food,reading and learning, sleeping and health. To try and be more good. Balanced, patient, peaceful.
And deep down, it seems that maybe I’m not ready for that, because the first book I chose at the libary was Casanova: or the Art of Happiness. And of course I have fallen In Love with the scoundrel, and his joy in the moment and delight in turning unknown situations to his advantage through sheer force of charm. Somehow he, and his lovers, seem to just choose to take the pleasure and refuse to feel any pain at its end or loss.
I don’t know that I could ever be like that, but I would like more adventures. This is having a somewhat shambolic effect on all my previous good intentions.
After years galavanting across Europe freely,bouncing between riches and poverty, Casanova ended his years as a librarian in a Bohemian castle, warding off his boredom by writing a 12 volume history of his exploits. Below is a quote on this time from the book I’m reading, that made me cry a little:
Casanova does not draw up a catalogue of his beauties. He does not love all women, he loves one woman at a time, each for her uniqueness. He does not count or enumerate them on a cold list of conquest, or a sinister hunter’s log. He remembers them with emotion. Their charms seem to be affecting him again. From a distance, through the passage of time, and sometimes beyond death, the memories of the women he loved remain intact within him. We sense the artist ready to surrender to his model. What would the old man not give to see one of them escape alive ffrom his pages and join him in his sad exile!
After having desired and loved them, Casanova puts his lovers tenderly to rest on the page. It is his way of being faithful to them forever. The inconstant lover gives his lovers immortality.
I am playing this song, over and over and over again, because it is so empty. It’s like a retreat. Switch song on, switch brain off. There is nothing going on here.