We've all heard that the eyes are the window into the soul... trite, I know. But the idea... the idea is a terrifying one if we stop to think about it, isn't it? That someone might be capable of looking straight into us - straight through us? Terrifying.
Frankly, my mind has been all over the place for the past two weeks or so (thus the lack of posts is more due to too many thoughts than lack thereof) - research for this, that, and that, writing for this class and that class, working here, editing there, contacting this person about an internship, sending my editorial to that person, the inevitable personal items that can be both entertaining and troubling, but always thought-provoking... etc. Tonight's whirl of thoughts, however, had little to do with my life and much to do with the consideration of another.
This evening, I set aside the piles of books (of which there are now eight covering my desk- piles, that is) and walked a few blocks to the Carlisle Theater for a showing of "Lebanon," a much acclaimed 2009 Israeli movie, directed by Samuel Maoz, about the 1982 war in Lebanon. As though the subject matter weren't weighty enough, the entirety of the film takes place in a tank. Inspiration for my attendance: general interest in the topic (also recommended: "Waltz with Bashir"), and the panel discussion to follow it, featuring one of my favorite profs and advisor, who was serving with the IDF at the time.
As one would expect, the film was intense and thought-provoking. In fact, it'd be relatively easy to rattle on about it and the backdrop of it, historical facts and controversies, etc... but somehow that did not turn out to be the most thought-provoking feature of the evening. No, instead, it was finding myself watching a movie about the war in Lebanon while sitting beside a veteran of that very war. I'd come to the theater on my own, grabbed a seat at the end of a row, and did some low-key fiddling while waiting for the start of the movie; not long into the fiddling, however, I was greeted and joined, with a volunteered accompanying but brief comment of nerves and the danger of the film's being so close to home for a man who'd spent his fair share of time in an Israeli tank in Lebanon.
Backtrack to last Thursday, end of class, when I was pulled aside for a quick chat - to lend me a book, as it turns out. An amazing book. A book so intriguing I nearly ran into several people and a table as I walked from place to place with my nose stuck in it, eyes devouring the pages in front of me. David Grossman, Writing in the Dark: Essays on Literature and Politics.* What my professor had failed to warn me about, however - or chose not to - was the intense... well, the humanity of it. The intensely personal, the soul-digging, the looking-straight-through-you.
"We human beings are uneasy about what truly occurs deep inside the Other, even if that Other is someone we love. And perhaps it is more than unease; perhaps it is an actual fear of the mysterious, nonverbal, unprocessed core, that which cannot be subjected to any social taming, to any refinement, politeness, or tact; that which is instinctive, wild, and chaotic, not at all politically correct. It is dreamlike and nightmarish, radical and exposed, sexual and unbridled, at least according to the social-order definitions that prevail among "civilized" people (whatever that term may mean). It is mad and sometimes cruel, often animalistic, for good or for bad. It is, if you will, the magma, the primordial, blazing material that bubbles inside every person simply because he is human, simply because he is an intersection of so many forces, instincts, longings, and urges. It is a magma that usually, among sane people - even the most tempestuous - hardens and cools when it comes into contact with air, when it encounters other human beings, or the confines of reality, and then it becomes part of "normative" social fiber."
I could read it time and again (and did). ...but get to the point, Kate. As to the matter of the film, you should see for yourself. I should warn you, however - it is one of those things that may leave you with a certain expression on your face, if you get to thinking about it. More specifically: after whispered comments and explanatory side notes throughout the film, this increasingly intriguing character (everyone is, when you get down to it) stood up, joined the small panel at the front of the theater, and proceeded to give a [somewhat typically] matter-of-fact perspective - what was realistic about it, what was unrealistic about it, etc. If one was watching closely, though... if one was watching closely, they'd have noticed a pause before the spiel, a slight staring down at an empty seat while thoughts whirled, unspoken.
Every once in while, we are lucky (lucky?) enough to catch a glimpse of another person. Something as seemingly simple as meeting eyes for a moment, and that person has suddenly become more real - more vulnerable. Quick, look away; avert your gaze, you both risk seeing more than either bargained for. How intriguing, though... how intriguing.
To revert to Grossman: "I wish to clarify again that the primary urge that motivates and engenders writing, in my view, is the writer's desire to invent and tell a story, and to know himself. But the more I write, the more I feel the force of the other urge, which collaborates with and completes the first one: the desire to know the Other from within him. To feel what it means to be another person. To be able to touch, if only for a moment, the blaze that burns within another human being."
...but it's not just writing that inspires this, is it? Sometimes, it can seem to come from the smallest of things, the quickest of moments. One thought, one word, one look, and it's a glimpse into something infinitely larger than ourselves - and frighteningly so.
*One essay from the book, adapted from Grossman's Arthur Miller Freedom to Write Lecture in 2007, may be easily found online, courtesy of the NYT: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/05/13/magazine/13Israel-t.html?_r=1
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