Every day is a short story

One should count each day a separate life. Seneca

A short story is a work of fiction limited in length and meant to be read in just one sitting. It is based on a plot, that is, a series of events provoked by a conflict. Generally the conflict is that of man against himself, man against others, or man against nature. The story evolves around how the conflict is affronted.

I would like to transform my diary posts into short stories. Like the short stories of Lucia Berlin.  Because by simultaneously contracting and expanding the world around her, Lucia has this way of turning subtle observations into motion pictures.

Lucia’s stories are populated by The Marginalia—people who, not part of the main text, are forced to live on the edge. People who suffer from terminal illnesses such as fear, poverty, alcoholism, and loneliness. People who are loitering in their own lives. Just like the Statue of Liberty, Lucia’s stories say:  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

they looked toward the Statue of Liberty

Straightforward with bumps, Lucia  says “I don’t mind telling people awful things if I can make them funny.” And in the middle of this deadpan drama, Lucia throws around metaphors as if they were  carnival confetti.

The point of departure for Lucia’s writing was her difficult upbringing. Her childhood featured an absent father, an alcoholic  mother, and an abusive grandfather.  Lucia also suffered from sclerosis.  She married three times, had four kids she raised on her own, worked numerous jobs, and continued the peripatetic lifestyle of her childhood. What else could she write about if not her own horror vacui reality. As to her auto-fiction, Lucia says  “I exaggerate a lot and I get fiction and reality mixed up, but I don’t actually ever lie.”

sights to see near the station

December 30.

I woke up feeling sad because, later in the day, Chloé was going back to Paris. Which meant waiting all day for her departure. Waiting is like holding your breath so we spent the day in apnea until it was time to go to the train station. It was a 20 minute walk and luckily the weather  was good. The walk included visuals of the Angiolo Mazzoni Tower, the Aurelian Wall, Porta Tiburtina, the Arch of Pope Sixtus V, and some unidentified caged archeological remains.  We said little on the way but our silence was camouflaged by the wheels of Chloé’s trolley that went clink clank clink clank clink clank on the uneven sidewalk.

she pulled the trolley towards the station

Termini is Rome’s largest train station. Constructed mainly during the Fascists period, it has a series of arches like those of the Colosseum  only severely geometrical.  Mussolini was fixated with the idea of a Born Again Roman Empire and tried imitating the look.

Once we arrived at Termini, Rome’s main train station, we waited again. This time  in line for the automatic ticket machine.

Many many years ago De Sica made a film there, Stazione Termini.  It was about Mary, a married American in Rome visiting her sister.  While walking around Piazza di Spagna, she meets an Italian teacher, Giovanni.  The two become lovers but, at a certain point, Mary must return to the States. Giovanni doesn’t want her to go.  He meets her at Termini in hopes of convincing her to stay in Rome. The couple walks around the station discussing their situation.  They’re caught grubbing in an abandoned train car and taken to the police station for improper behavior.  There the Commissioner, who undoubtedly knew much about infidelity, resolves Mary’s conflict of “should I stay or should I go” by telling her to leave Rome or risk a scandal.  Forced to depart, Mary promises Giovanni her eternal love. Abandoned and overwhelmed, Giovanni leaves the station.

they grubbed in the dark

The film wasn’t considered much of a success. An Italian Neo-realistic film with dialogues written by Truman Capote, in my opinion, didn’t have much of a chance.

Termini has radically changed since De Sica’s film. Demographics and security measures have modified the look and spirit of the place. Once I could have accompanied Chloé directly to her train but now there are barriers and guards and ticket checks. So we said our melancholic goodbyes in front of the plexiglass barricade before she turned and left me standing there alone. My last image of Chloé  is that of her walking away pulling her trolley. I watched and watched until she became a blur engulfed by other blurs.

lucia5b

Termini makes me think of Lucia Berlin’s stories. Both are full of transient people—some with a destination and some without. The ones without look frayed like unraveling rope waiting for the final tug.

Lucia writes about overwhelming and depressing situations with great buoyancy. But I don’t have her talent. The train station ambience just brings me down and all I wanted to do was to go home.

train stations are full of stories to tell

If it’s true that everyone has a story to tell, then Termini is a library. And today I feel like a book.

drawing

(from The Diary of Luz Corazzini, Cynthia Korzekwa ©)

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Sabina Spielrein (1885-1942)

the Burgholzli Psychiatric Hospital

My friend Carlotta had been committed because, said the doctors, she suffered from hysteria. That’s why one August morning in 1904 I went to the Burgholzli Psychiatric Hospital loaded with drawing supplies.  Carlotta was a wonderful artist and I felt sure that  art would help her more than  any shrink could.

she witnessed Sabina’s arrival

While waiting to see Carlotta, an attractive young  woman was brought in. She looked fine to me save for the two cement faced men holding her arms down.  Later, thanks to Carlotta, I would find out that her name was Sabina and apparently she, too, suffered from some form of hysteria. Really, any time a woman rebels against the lifestyle she’s forced to live, the boys call it hysteria. Hysteria, as far as I’m concerned, is simply a reaction against restriction and repression that women are subjected to even in their clothing. Just think of those horrible corsets we have to wear.

Corsets Helped Restrict Her

Corsets are like sculptors that mold your body into a certain position and freeze it there. Not only do they make the waist abnormally small, they also restrict movement and impose a certain kind of posture. Corsets compress your lungs making breathing difficult. They also crush organs and can even fracture ribs.

And if corsets aren’t enough, legally, women have few if any rights, can’t vote and are treated like chattel. And let’s not even get into how women are treated in the bedroom because I get hysterical just thinking about it.

Granville’s Hammer helped calm her

In the late 1880s, Dr. Joseph Mortimer Granville invented an electric vibrator meant to relieve muscle pain. But those naughty Victorians decided to use it, instead, to treat women diagnosed with hysteria. Commonly known as “Granville’s Hammer”, women were vibrated until they reached “hysterical paroxysm” aka orgasm.

Everyone knew that Queen Victoria had a wild libido and sexually exhausted her poor husband, Albert.  She wrote in her diary how they’d press their lips together over and over again, make love and feel bliss. No corsets for her!

their treatments were like torture

In the past, asylums seemed more interested in torture than treatments often using their patients as guinea pigs for extravagant theories. In France, neurologist Jean-Martin Charcot was fixated with hysteria and hypnosis. Thanks to Augustine, a patient, he became famous.  After years of abuse including being raped by her mother’s boyfriend, Augustine was sent to Salpêtrière Hospital in Paris  at the age of 14. Photographs were taken of her and they must have been something as Freud and Degas went to see her.  Tired of being treated like a science fiction character, Augustine disguised herself in men’s clothing and escaped from the hospital never to be seen again.

Thanks to Eugene Bleuler, the director of the Burgholzli, Sabina was luckier as he encouraged psychoanalysis and the study of the unconscious mind. On his staff was the young Dr. Carl Jung who became Sabina’s doctor.

Carlotta spent her time in the asylum painting

As for Carlotta, after a couple of months of non-stop drawing, she felt much better and was released from the hospital.  Sabina stayed behind but by now she and Carlotta had become good friends and shared secrets. Sabina confessed that she and Jung had gone beyond a doctor-patient relationship and that Jung had written Freud asking for advice.

he said she was naughty and spanked her

If Sabina acted hysterically, it was only because of her dysfunctional parents. Her mother was cruel and her father, well, he would often whip his daughter’s naked buttocks. So it came as no surprise when Sabina decided to stay in Zurich and study psychiatry. Jung was her dissertation advisor. Of course everyone started to gossip especially considering that Jung was married with two kids.  Eventually word got to Freud and Jung tried to justify himself by saying it was all Sabina’s fault. Afraid for his career, Jung dumped Sabine who was, obviously, devastated.

Siegfried was in their dreams

One night, just a couple of years after his split with Sabina,  Jung had a dream about ambushing and murdering someone named Siegfried. He woke up feeling guilty. A voice inside told him to make sense of the dream or die.  Since he kept a loaded gun in a drawer next to his bed, he was afraid his subconscious was going to blow him away thus came up with a distorted explanation for himself.

While they were together, Sabina was so in love with Jung that she wanted to have his child and name him  Siegfried. Was the Siegfried in Jung’s dream actually Sabina’s dream baby?

Sabina left Switzerland and went to Vienna to ask Freud’s help.  The doctor was quite taken by her and considered her a brilliant mind.  So much so that he appropriated  some of her theories (as did, it seems, Jung)  and transformed her “destructive drive” into his own “death instinct”.

Stalinists killed him, Nazis killed her

In 1912, Sabina married a Russian doctor and had a child. She wrote numerous articles and was especially interested in child psychiatry. In 1924, she returned to Bolshevik Russia to practice psychiatry. Here she was active at the White Nursery, an experimental home for children with psychological disturbances. Stalin’s son, Vasily, was one of the children she worked with. The Russians, such as Trotsky, supported psychoanalysis for children but only to produce the “new Soviet toddler.”

 In the 1930s, Sabina’s husband and brothers were killed by Stalinists.  In 1942, Sabina and her daughter were shot to death by Nazi goons. As a result, Sabina and her work were forgotten. Not so for Jung who outlived Sabina by c. 20 years. And during this time had the possibility to write about a variety of subjects such as flying saucers.

 

flying saucer vision

In his “Flying Saucers: A Modern Myth of Things Seen in the Sky”, Jung  is concerned with all the people who think they’ve seen a flying saucer. These sightings, for  him,  are the imagination that’s been activated in an attempt to understand something not easy to understand.

Active imagination is  a means of giving the unconscious a visual narrative.

Tulpa Party

Carl Jung may not have believed in flying saucers but he did believe in tulpas. A tulpa is a person of your own creation who lives in your head. It’s very easy to give birth to a tulpa…all you have to do is to imagine someone living in your head and then to treat that someone as an actual person.  You can interact with your tulpa by giving it a form and visualizing it.

Jung’s tulpa was named Philemon with whom he would often take walks in the garden and, since Jung believed Philemon’s insight to be superior to his own, Jung would often ask Philemon for advice.

In Geneva in 1977, a bundle of correspondence between Sabina, Jung and Freud  as well as Sabina’s diary was found  and later used by Jungian analysis, Dr. Aldo Carotenuto, for his book A Secret Symmetry (Roberto Faenza’s film about Sabina,  Prendimi l’anima, is based on Carotenuto’s book).

Years ago, Carotenuto kindly agreed to participate in my Image & Text project where I provided a drawing then had others write a related test. His studio, not far from Viale di Villa Massimo, was  full of books and smelled like the potpourri from Santa Maria Novella.  What a pity that his words have faded with time.

Aldo Carotenuto

Related:  Female Archetype of Sabina Spielrein – queen or wise women? + My name was Sabina Speilrein, Ich hiess Sabina Spielrein (2002) Vimeo + The Willard Suitcase Exhibit + Tulpas + Flying Saucer Vision + Jung’s Siegfried dream  (Excerpt from C.G. Jung, “Memories, Dreams, Reflections”, 1961, ch.VI) + Sabine Spielrein nel film Prendimi l’anima + Augustine Official Trailer + 13 shocking pictures showing how we used to ‘treat’ the mentally ill

Around the age of 20, Albert Einstein’s son, Eduard, was diagnosed with schizophrenia and interned at the Burgholzlj. He was given a lot of drugs and electroshock treatments. After suffering a nervous breakdown, he told his father that he hated him.  Albert Einstein emigrated to the U.S. and never saw his son again. Eduard liked music and wrote poetry.  He had a picture of Freud hanging on his wall. He died in the Burghölzli clinic at the age of 56.

 

drawing

(from The Diary of Luz Corazzini, Cynthia Korzekwa ©)

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Walking with Thoreau

Years ago, Lydia Jackson and I were pen pals and enjoyed sharing secrets.  She confided that she’d met Ralph Waldo Emerson at a social gathering held after one of his lectures and, BOOM, immediately got stars in her eyes. A short time later, she had a dream about him which, considering her infatuation, was pretty normal. But I was blown away when she told me he’d written asking her hand in marriage.

Henry David Thoreau

Immediately after the wedding, Emerson changed Lydia’s name to Lidian, a name he found more exotic.  She, in turn, didn’t call him Waldo like everyone else.  Instead, she called him Mr. Emerson. That, to me, was already a warning. Even though, insisted Lidian, there was much mutual respect between the two, there was little tenderness.  Not only did Mr. Emerson still grieve over his first wife, Ellen, he also took long walks in the woods with the activist, Margaret Fuller, claiming they were simply trying to transcend the empirical.

Henry David Thoreau

At the time, Henry David Thoreau lived with the couple.  In exchange for room and board, he did all the manual labor on their property. So it was no surprise to me when Lydia and Thoreau became close. Just as it came as no surprise to me that Mr. Emerson and Thoreau began arguing–there were too many roosters crowing in the same house. Emerson gave Thoreau a small plot of land and told his handyman to go build a cabin and move out. In 1845, Thoreau went to live at Walden Pond. Here he began writing about the transcendental experience of living surrounded by nature. Every day he would take long walks then write about them in his diary. Thoreau truly loved being surrounded by trees because it made him feel better. It’s what the Japanese call shinrin-yoku aka forest bathing.

Henry David Thoreau

Wood emits an essential oil, phytocide, that naturally restores and rejuvenates us.  Not only does it lower heart rate and blood pressure, it also lowers the concentration of cortisol (stress), and improves the immune system function.

We are a part of nature.  So being surrounded by nature is like going home.  Nature can live without us but we can’t live without nature.

Henry David Thoreau

 

drawing

(from The Diary of Luz Corazzini, Cynthia Korzekwa © )

Related:  The Ingenious Pencils of Henry David Thoreau + Margaret Fuller, American’s first true feminist + When a Poet Tragically Dies: The story of Margaret Fuller and Ralph Waldo Emerson + “Humanity is divided into Men, Women, and Margaret Fuller” – Edgar Allan Poe

Bibliography: The Journal of Henry David Thoreau, 1837-1861

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My Friend Agatha

she looked at her thighs then took a train

My thickened thighs made me frown and since frowns cause wrinkles,  I decided to check into the Old Swan at Harrogate. My friend Mona told me that their hydrotherapy could easily blast away fat and even more.  It was a cold evening in December of 1926 when I arrived. The train trip from London had been fatiguing so I was glad when the bellboy quickly helped me to my room.  After a good night’s sleep, I got up the next morning ready to explore the hotel facilities.  Exploration accomplished, I made my way back towards my room. Or at least I thought so.  But when I opened the door to the room I thought was mine, I saw a woman in her mid-thirties sitting at the desk writing. She looked at me with such a fearful expression that I quickly said “Sorry” and left the room. You can imagine my embarrassment when, later, I went down for breakfast and found that we’d been assigned the same dining table. Immediately I started apologizing, excessively so embarrassed that I was. But she gently said to me, Please, what’s done is done.

at the Swan they exercized in the pool

While waiting for our breakfast to arrive, we stumbled at conversation. There was something somewhat sad and mysterious about this woman who said her name was Teresa Neele. For the next few days, we shared meals together and often saw one another while exercising in the pool but without making any overtures of camaraderie. That’s why it came as a surprise when one evening I answered the knock on my door and found Teresa looking at me her eyes full of tears. Of course I invited her in and offered her tea (thanks to the cozy, the pot was still warm). She shook her head no, sat down, said “there’s nothing like love for getting you down” then started to cry.  If tears were a form of hydrotherapy, she would have been cured of any ails right on the spot.

Teresa said her heart was broken and she needed to talk. I knew from experience that a good talk helps the emotions more than any drug can so I made myself available. She burst like a badly built dam and told me the most incredible story. Her husband had dumped her for another woman and the trauma was so great she often felt she was losing contact with reality. So much so she didn’t even really understand how she’d arrived at the Swan.  And, are you ready for this, her name wasn’t Teresa Neele but Agatha Christie! I squinted my eyes to scrutinize her. Slowly I began making out the features of the woman who’d been front page news for several days now. Yes, it was her, the author of my favorite novels. The missing writer who many feared had met foul play.

the newspapers suggested disguises for Agatha

Sometimes we are embarrassed about the revelations we’ve made in a time of despair. Maybe that’s why the next morning at breakfast Agatha seemed awkward as if she wanted to avoid me.  But I let her know that I understood and that her secret was safe with me.  Pity that Bob Tappin didn’t feel the same.  He was the hotel’s banjo player and had recognized Agatha one night wearing a lovely Georgette frock dancing the Charleston.  He notified the police who notified the husband who showed up only because he wanted to take Agatha home and stop the sensationalism.

she danced the Charleston in a georgette frock

A few days later I, too, left the Swan and normal life went back on the rails. Every so often I’d see Agatha’s name in the newspapers as her books sold with great success. It must have been early in 1929 when Agatha wrote and invited me to her home in Chelsea for the weekend.

After tea and cucumber sandwiches, Agatha told me she had a new man in her life.  His name was Leonard and he was an archaeologist. You know, she said laughingly, an archaeologist is the best kind of husband to have because the older a woman gets, the more her husband is interested in her.

they went from thunderclaps to a fireplace

The next morning after breakfast we took a long walk around the neighborhood (Cresswell Place is so lovely).  But at the sound of thunderclaps, we rushed back to the house and eagerly sat down in front of the fireplace for a long talk.

Agatha was one of my favorite authors (and Miss Marple my favorite psychologist) thus I was really curious about her writing habits. She said she didn’t any particular work routine but when ideas came into her head, she would pick up any one of the many notebooks she had lying around, and jot them down.

Much had been written about what had made her so successful. One theory was that, by keeping things simple via the use of plain language, short sentences, and much dialogue, she made it easier for the reader to follow the plot. Even experimenting neurolinguists had their say and said Agatha owed much of her success to repetition. If the author repeats words at least three times in a paragraph, the reader becomes more easily convinced.

“Dash it all!” said Agatha. “My success doesn’t come from all these techniques they say I use. My success comes from the story. And the story comes from my imagination.”

Agatha Chrisite and The Girls

One of the luckiest things that can happen to you in life, Agatha continued, is to have a happy childhood that permits you to develop your imagination. Her childhood had been rather unconventional as she had no formal education and her older siblings were away at boarding school. So, not having playmates,  she made up imaginary friends. When playing with The Girls, as she called them, Agatha talked for herself and for them as well. This is probably where she learned to become so good at dialogue.

 A child’s world is far more exciting than that of an adult because the imagination has yet to be dulled by reality. A child can put on momma’s heels and become an adult.  Or ride on a broomstick that becomes a horse. Or hold a bottle to a doll that becomes a baby.

she put on  heels, he rode a broomstick

Imagination was Agatha’s best friend and frequently appeared unexpectedly. Often, she said, a plot would come to her at such odd moments such as when she was walking down the street or examining a hat in a shop or even while washing dishes.

plots unexpectedly arrived

Later, alone in my room I reflected on my day spent with Agatha. Because my memory was like snow upon the desert, I wanted to write in my diary the lessons I’d learned:

  1. Make friends with your imagination. Your imagination will not only keep you company but will continually supply you with options and solutions.
  2. Learn from Miss Marple and observe, observe, observe. Then, like Miss Marple in her chintzy St. Margaret Mead drawing room, use these observations to discover something new about others about yourself.
  3. Listen for the facts. Like Hercule Poirot sitting in his armchair (hopefully with an antimacassar!), you can find solutions without going anywhere if you have the right information.
  4. Read aloud as often as possible. Agatha, like many young children, was often read to. Reading to children increases their vocabulary, develops attention span, helps pronunciation, and imprints the value of books. But reading aloud is good for adults, too. It helps our memory because we create not only visual but auditory links to our brain as well. Sounding out a word is a physical process because you must use your lungs, your diaphragm, and related mouth muscles forcing mind and body to collaborate.

Was silent reading an anomaly in the classical world?  Scholars disagree.  Marshall McLuhan says that in antiquity and the Middle Ages, readying was necessarily aloud.  Other scholars disagree.  But have you ever seen a small child reading to himself who doesn’t move his lips? And Hugh told me that many throat cancer patients have difficulties reading after surgery as if words can only be expressed with the voice.

And what about poetry? What is the need for meter and rhyme if poems are not meant to be read aloud?

As for myself, I plan on taking the word off the page and into my lungs by reading my diary aloud the first Sunday of the month…will I sound the same to myself aloud and I do in silence?

drawing

(from The Diary of Luz Corazzini, Cynthia Korzekwa © )

Related: Agatha’s Disappearance + guided walk of Agatha’s London  (see, too, her house at 22 Cresswell Place in Chelsea   and 48 Swan Court where Agatha Christie lived with second husband, Max Mallowan)

Bibliography:
Christie, Agatha. An Autobiography. William Morrow Paperbacks. New York City. 2012.
Maida, Patricia and Spornick, Nicholas. Murder She Wrote: A Study of Agatha Christie’s Detective Fiction. Popular Press 1. 1982

 

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Edith Holden (1871-1920)

Edith Holden (1871-1920)

Born in the waxing Victorian era, biophile Edith Holden was an artist and teacher who liked getting on her bike and riding around the countryside to observe nature, the flora and fauna of the British countryside, and the changing season.  She transcribed these observation into drawings and descriptions in a journal she called “Nature Notes”.

Edith came from an unconventional family.  Her parents were Unitarians with a strong interest in Spiritualism and regularly held séances in their home.

Edith Holden (1871-1920)

William Morris’ Arts & Crafts movements influenced her greatly. Edith married the sculptor Ernest Smith and left the countryside.  But she continue her nature outings.  One March morning, she went to collect some nature near the banks of the River Thames.  While trying to break-off a bough of chestnuts buds with her umbrella, she slipped and fell into the river. The current was too strong and fast for Edith. She drowned at the age of 49.

Edith Holden (1871-1920)

Sixty- four years later, the journal was discovered in a dining room cupboard and published as The Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady.

Snowflake

Diary excerpts:

December 9 “We woke up to a storm of whirling snowflakes this morning.”

Edith Holden (1871-1920)

December 28. Skating has commenced in the fens.

Edith Holden (1871-1920)

March 10. When I got to the bottom of the lane, I set my bicycle against a bank and pic-niced on a fence.

Jan.2,3: Sharp frost and a thick fog in the early morning. The fog cleared off about 9:30 and the sun shone brightly. Went for a country walk. Every twig on every tree and bush was outlined in silver tracery against the sky; some of the dead grasses and seed vessels growing by the roadside , were especially beautiful, every detail sparkling with frost crystals in the sunlight…

Edith Holden (1871-1920)

March 20: Went to the daffodil  field again; the buds are just breaking into yellow. Found two thrush’s nests, both in holly bushes; one nest was empty, the bird was sitting on the other. She looked at me with such brave, bright eyes, I could not disturb her, much as I would have like a peep at her speckled blue eggs…

April 29: Saw a lovely little Hedge-sparrow’s nest in a Gorse bush with four eggs in it. The Gorse was in full bloom and made a glowing contrast with the blue eggs in the mossy nest.

drawing

(from The Diary of Luz Corazzini, Cynthia Korzekwa © )

 

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A Wreath of Oranges

orange wreath

Orange wreath at Recuerda mi Corazon

Why not make a wreath for the holidays? Tutorial HERE

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When love leaves without you

This morning I had the radio on full blast. Bruce was singing “ nobody knows honey where love goes but when it goes it’s gone gone “.  Sofia no doubt would have agreed.

the radio was a philosopher

Sofia Tolstoy (1844-1919) was just a babe in the woods when she met Leo Tolstoj.  He was ambitious, she was romanitic.  When they married Sofia was only 19 years old, Tolstoj 34.  Right after the honeymoon,  Tolstoj gave his bride his sexually explicit diary to read.  Not only was she overwhelmed, but Sofia’s dreams were so shattered that it was impossible to glue them together again.

For about 57 years, Sofia, too, kept a diary.  She was a gifted writer and effortlessly created portraits of  Tolstoj and their entourage.  From the diaries we learn that it was Sofia who was responsible for creating a Happy Home for her husband and their numerous children.  Not only did she organize home and finances, she also copied Tolstoj’s manuscripts over and over again as well as oversee their publication.

she lived in his shadow

Sofia’s diaries show just how much her life was dominated by her husband and how she felt stressed out by his demands. His lack of appreciation made her feel lonely and used.  On more than one occasion, she flung herself into the family pond hoping to die and free herself from delusion and depression.

maybe the pond was a solution

Fame went to Tolstoj’s head. He gave up writing to become a guru attracting a variety of followers.  Some were in good faith, others were simply schemers the most ferocious being Vladimir Chertkov.  Chertkov competed with Sofia for Tolstoj’s affection and consideration.  She truly loved her husband whereas Chertkov wanted to appropriate his guru’s genius for himself.  Chertkov successfully alientated husband and wife and  organized Tolstoj’s departure from the beloved family home he’d shared with his wife of almost 50 years. But the boys’ odyssey was brief ending up in a tiny railway station 80 miles away from home. Tolstoj became gravely ill and when Sofia learned of her husband’s whereabouts, she rushed to be near him.  But his followers prohibited her from visiting her dying husband.

she watched his death from the window

Love is not always fair.

 

drawing

(from The Diary of Luz Corazzini, Cynthia Korzekwa © )

 

Related : Sophia Tolstoy, Not the Woman You Thought She Was + Una vera Karenina dietro ‘Guerra e pace’ + The Diaries of Sofia Tolstoy review + James Meek: rereading Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
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