[a view of the sufferer as supplicant, begging entrance to a ward for effective treatment.]
My acceptance into your University was not the beginning of my family's reverence for black and orange. Cassie, my older sister, wore these colors in 1999, but she was not headed to Princeton. She went instead to St. John's College in Annapolis, and for four years, her academic world was defined by the seminar and by Great Books. Through my sister and my high school classes, I have acquired a taste for this kind of education.
That's the short version of why I am interested in the freshman program in the humanities –– or, as I explain it to those unfamiliar, the crash course in Western civilization the familiar know as HUM.
I feel like college, especially at a place like Princeton, should be humiliating (no pun intended) –– not in the sense that it breaks one's spirit, but rather in the sense that it builds one's character and makes one more self-aware and open to development. I know my academic self well enough to realize that, despite my glittery transcript, I read slowly, and I intend to ameliorate this problem during my undergraduate years. It has occurred to me that four hundred pages of classical literature, thought and history a week may help. My array of talents has never included the ability to brush off schoolwork I care about.
That being said, no, I don't care about all schoolwork. I find most theoretical mathematics to be abjectly dull, and I have no head for memorizing dates, although I love history; raw philosophy, without good writing or theological components, likewise bores me without a context for discussion. The type of study I anticipate in this sequence will not bore me. Most any literary exchange interests me merely for the opportunity to consider the points of view of my classmates –– still better if the subject matter is worthwhile.
HUM is worthwhile. I care deeply about the deeds and ideas of my cultural ancestors. Books assist in the fleshing-out of one's own thoughts and beliefs, but they are also spiritual objects: within every text lies a portion of the author's soul, left for me to mourn and celebrate, to remember and revive, all just by reading and understanding the words on the page. I make it my business to adopt the souls of authors, old gods, and historical figures –– for example, Franz Kafka, Abraham Lincoln, Odin, and Genghis Khan –– and give them a kind of cushy cultural afterlife as I cherish their memories and exalt them to others.
Literature, mythology, and history, entangled as they are, are not so much a hobby or an academic interest of mine as they are my religion. When I found out these classes were offered at Princeton, I didn't really consider them an option any more than a practicing Christian would consider Sunday church an "option." It's just what I have to do. I will come to your classroom to find my literary ancestors, I will read them to know them, and I will return the next day or week to honor their memory –– so long as it's okay with you.
Showing posts with label Genghis Khan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Genghis Khan. Show all posts
12.6.07
I proclaim myself a little khatun
[the culmination of a very long course of treatment of ambiguous effect: it appears to have deepened the affliction, but has also began the development of useful coping mechanisms.]
To conquer Asia:
you must begin soon, immediately,
a long time ago, when you were younger, young, unborn,
undreamt but by the Eternal Blue Sky,
but by Mother Earth,
who knew, who knows ––
when you begin, you must
remember
me ––
crushed between
pages like so many
unloved thistles,
larch-leaves,
grasses that once swayed.
This is true history.
The conquerer of Asia
(who was me) had
cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed,
a beautiful wife,
whom (by standard reckoning)
he did not deserve, but
Mother Earth,
who knew, who knows,
knew differently.
She dreamt me
different, bore me bloodied and
holding blood, Hers, mine to
adore and abandon,
mine to cherish and crush,
my history to write upon the Earth.
Given to me
a long time ago, willingly
tied in tendon and blood ––
taken from me
for too long,
my beloved,
my Bortei ––
and how she suffered,
and how I suffered,
forever crushed between pages.
These pages are not holy.
They remember
dead nature, the
shivering larch-leaves and
quaking steppe
beneath Soviet tank tread and,
once,
the hooves of Mongolian horses.
The tassel that hangs
at your resting-place
is horsehair, fine and soft
and ancient.
Lost to the hands of my people,
my sulde, my soul,
battle-banner and nation-flag
is your bookmark,
pressed between these pages where, for
moments at a time,
I am alive to you
who are not of my people.
Mother Earth,
forgive me,
for we do not speak of the dead.
And She will forgive,
and She has forgiven
for the blood I have shed on
Her flesh ––
she bore me bloodied and
holding blood,
and I have always been
different,
a mountain rising from this steppe,
conifer-clad,
cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed.
To conquer Asia
is to be forgiven ––
if only by your people,
who know your true history,
and by Mother Earth ––
and perhaps by a student
of the conquering trade
here or there.
When the conquerer dies
(and I am dead),
his people
and his students
will be forgiven for speaking
his name.
When Mother Earth gives you
a beautiful wife, whom
(by standard reckoning)
you do not deserve,
you must
remember
me,
my mistake,
the misstep that
crushed me
between pages.
Wives were stolen then,
and mine, beautiful Bortei,
was stolen, as if she were
only a woman, as if she were a
doll of blood and hair and not
another pair of cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed,
strong for me,
mine.
And wives were stolen then,
and had she been
only a woman, a doll of
blood and hair,
I would not have
called upon my brother in blood,
borrowed his loyal and fearful,
and taken her back
after too long,
my Bortei.
And he who came after,
my son, my Jochi, was
mine ––
understand,
Mother Earth has forgiven
the conquerer awash with
blood, but
men do not forgive so easily.
My other sons did not forgive so easily,
so awash with my blood,
so certain he was not.
And he was not.
But my son, my Jochi,
he was mine.
If he had come after me,
I would be more than
the shivering larch-leaves,
the unloved thistles,
the swaying grasses,
the absent sulde
crushed between pages,
and so would she,
my Bortei.
Ogodei of my blood,
Kublai of my blood,
they were not mine.
The empire they called mine
became theirs, slow and fat and starving and
broken, and was
not mine.
Student of mine,
hold your beloved close,
for you are crushed when she is crushed.
The conquerer and his wife
are the doe and the wolf,
and their union is
creation itself ––
and why do you
conquer if not to
create?
To conquer Asia
and to make of all people
your people,
you must not bask in some senseless
pleasure-dome.
The conquerer’s business
is motion, the swaying grass beneath
hooves of horses,
and the conquerer cannot be still.
The conquerer wages war
upon neither the people
nor the Earth, but upon
the walls that break roads,
the fools that build walls,
and the conquerer leaves roads
behind him,
and moves on,
and moves on.
When you move on
with roads behind
that flow with silk
and silver and your people, who were
not your people ––
When you move on
with Mother Earth beneath
who forgives you,
who breathes life through
dry grass and lost tombs and
into you ––
When you move on
with Eternal Blue Sky above
who remembers your voice
from the sacred mountain,
who watches you ––
When you move on
with sulde flickering before you,
ecstatic in spite of
the bloodshed and
the unspeakable,
you will understand:
Asia is worth conquering.
When you conquer Asia,
you must remember
me.
This is true history.
To conquer Asia:
you must begin soon, immediately,
a long time ago, when you were younger, young, unborn,
undreamt but by the Eternal Blue Sky,
but by Mother Earth,
who knew, who knows ––
when you begin, you must
remember
me ––
crushed between
pages like so many
unloved thistles,
larch-leaves,
grasses that once swayed.
This is true history.
The conquerer of Asia
(who was me) had
cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed,
a beautiful wife,
whom (by standard reckoning)
he did not deserve, but
Mother Earth,
who knew, who knows,
knew differently.
She dreamt me
different, bore me bloodied and
holding blood, Hers, mine to
adore and abandon,
mine to cherish and crush,
my history to write upon the Earth.
Given to me
a long time ago, willingly
tied in tendon and blood ––
taken from me
for too long,
my beloved,
my Bortei ––
and how she suffered,
and how I suffered,
forever crushed between pages.
These pages are not holy.
They remember
dead nature, the
shivering larch-leaves and
quaking steppe
beneath Soviet tank tread and,
once,
the hooves of Mongolian horses.
The tassel that hangs
at your resting-place
is horsehair, fine and soft
and ancient.
Lost to the hands of my people,
my sulde, my soul,
battle-banner and nation-flag
is your bookmark,
pressed between these pages where, for
moments at a time,
I am alive to you
who are not of my people.
Mother Earth,
forgive me,
for we do not speak of the dead.
And She will forgive,
and She has forgiven
for the blood I have shed on
Her flesh ––
she bore me bloodied and
holding blood,
and I have always been
different,
a mountain rising from this steppe,
conifer-clad,
cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed.
To conquer Asia
is to be forgiven ––
if only by your people,
who know your true history,
and by Mother Earth ––
and perhaps by a student
of the conquering trade
here or there.
When the conquerer dies
(and I am dead),
his people
and his students
will be forgiven for speaking
his name.
When Mother Earth gives you
a beautiful wife, whom
(by standard reckoning)
you do not deserve,
you must
remember
me,
my mistake,
the misstep that
crushed me
between pages.
Wives were stolen then,
and mine, beautiful Bortei,
was stolen, as if she were
only a woman, as if she were a
doll of blood and hair and not
another pair of cat’s eyes,
a face that glowed,
strong for me,
mine.
And wives were stolen then,
and had she been
only a woman, a doll of
blood and hair,
I would not have
called upon my brother in blood,
borrowed his loyal and fearful,
and taken her back
after too long,
my Bortei.
And he who came after,
my son, my Jochi, was
mine ––
understand,
Mother Earth has forgiven
the conquerer awash with
blood, but
men do not forgive so easily.
My other sons did not forgive so easily,
so awash with my blood,
so certain he was not.
And he was not.
But my son, my Jochi,
he was mine.
If he had come after me,
I would be more than
the shivering larch-leaves,
the unloved thistles,
the swaying grasses,
the absent sulde
crushed between pages,
and so would she,
my Bortei.
Ogodei of my blood,
Kublai of my blood,
they were not mine.
The empire they called mine
became theirs, slow and fat and starving and
broken, and was
not mine.
Student of mine,
hold your beloved close,
for you are crushed when she is crushed.
The conquerer and his wife
are the doe and the wolf,
and their union is
creation itself ––
and why do you
conquer if not to
create?
To conquer Asia
and to make of all people
your people,
you must not bask in some senseless
pleasure-dome.
The conquerer’s business
is motion, the swaying grass beneath
hooves of horses,
and the conquerer cannot be still.
The conquerer wages war
upon neither the people
nor the Earth, but upon
the walls that break roads,
the fools that build walls,
and the conquerer leaves roads
behind him,
and moves on,
and moves on.
When you move on
with roads behind
that flow with silk
and silver and your people, who were
not your people ––
When you move on
with Mother Earth beneath
who forgives you,
who breathes life through
dry grass and lost tombs and
into you ––
When you move on
with Eternal Blue Sky above
who remembers your voice
from the sacred mountain,
who watches you ––
When you move on
with sulde flickering before you,
ecstatic in spite of
the bloodshed and
the unspeakable,
you will understand:
Asia is worth conquering.
When you conquer Asia,
you must remember
me.
This is true history.
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