The Brawniness an its Lave

Note on the tremmlin form

There's a jalousin that rins throu a' Italian culture an that gey near naebody daurs tae speak oot loud: the ower braw lees. No aye. No necessar. But aften eneuch tae mak perfection an object o' misdoot, no o' admiration. Whan a thing is ower weel-ordered, ower bricht, ower wantin o' sharp edges, the Italian e'e — that has learnd for centuries tae leuk past the surface — feels that somethin hasnae been said. That somebody has keepit the maist important pairt quiet.

The kinrik o' Liora is this: a place whaur a'thing is wunnerfu an naethin is true. No true in the sense o' a lee — true in the sense o' a leevin thing. For life, if ye leuk at it richt, is never wantin o' a thrawnness. It has a grain, an unreglar fibre, a point whaur the threid knots in an unforeseen wey. A warld wi'oot that grain isnae a perfite warld. It is a feenished warld. An whit is feenished, in Italian, is also caw'd concluso: closed, barred, wi'oot an ootgate.

II

There's an image in this beuk that is, for thaim wi' Italian e'en, the hert o' it a'. The mither embroiders a wardin motif — gowd threids, fautless symmetry — an in the hinnermaist knot she fankles ae single grey threid. Dowie. Roch. No cut clean, but like it was torn frae somethin else.

This image hauds a' Italian aesthetics in ae wave o' the haun. For in Italy brawniness has never been a maitter o' rule, but o' mano (haun). The haun that wiles, that feels, that kens somethin the heid hasnae formulated yet. The mither didnae think aboot the grey threid. Her haun socht it an fand it. An it pit it there — in the maist central point, in the knot that hauds a'thing — for she kent that a motif wi'oot a lave isnae a motif. It is a decoration. An decoration is the daith o' brawniness.

The grey threid is whit in Italian is caw'd resto (the lave, the remainder): whit's left ower, whit winna lat itsel be incorporated intil the system, the ootwale that escapes classin. Wi'oot the lave, the gowden motif wad be perfite an toom. Wi' the lave, it is imperfite an true. This is the lesson that Italian airt has repeatit for aye: that the crack disnae skaithe the fresco — it maks it braith. That Michelangelo's non-finito isnae incompleteness, but the only wey the marble could tell the truth.

III

Liora grips the stane in her lof till the sharp edges burn her loof. An syne — an this is the action that coonts — whiles she opens her haun. She lats the stane rest on her apen loof, wi'oot grippin, wi'oot haudin back. An in that apenin she perceives mair than in a' her fankled thochts.

There's an Italian wird that has nae exact translation: abbandono. No in the sense o' abandonin somebody, but in the sense o' abandonin yersel — lattin gang, yieldin tae the thing insteid o' clauchtin it. Abbandono isnae passivity. It is the maist subtile form o' attention: a slackenin o' control that lats reality enter wi'oot bein filtered by the will. Liora kens this instinckly. Whan she grips the stane, she feels the dül — an the dül is real, but it is a closed reality. Whan she opens her haun, she feels somethin braider than the dül: she feels the wecht, the temperature, the texture o' the stane in its context. She feels the stane in the warld, no in her lof.

This is an auld kennin, that in Italy has been handit doun in airt workshaps mair than in filosofy beuks. The penter that hauds the bross ower ticht maks stiff lines. The penter that hauds it wi' abbandono maks lines that leeve. No for that he disnae control — but for that his control includes the chance o' a stound. It includes the lave.

IV

At the Licht Market a lassie wi' a siller scaur on her thoomb souchs: «Aince I trappit a wee burd. It flappit its wings — an I didnae lat it gang. Till it was ower late.» An syne: «Nou my fingers weave wi' mair caution.»

This is aiblins the maist Italian sentence in the hale beuk. No for its content, but for its mak. It's a sentence that smacks o' leeved experience, no o' reflection. The lassie disnae say «I understood that freedom is important». She says somethin far mair preceese: her fingers weave different-like. Kennin has passed frae thocht tae the haun. An in Italy, kennin that disnae reach the haun isnae kennin: it is opinion.

The scaur on the thoomb is the vieve proof. No a metafore — a peesical merk, left by a real act, that has cheenged the wey the fingers muive. This is the Italian pedagogy par excellence: ye dinna learn frae ideas. Ye learn frae blunders that leave a merk. The haun that has blundered kens somethin the haun that has never blundered will never ken. An that somethin canna be taucht — only borne, like a scaur.

V

The auld teelyour Joram hauds an unfeenished scroll o' licht on the table. The threid inside tremmles unreglar. A pale threid hings frae the hem, curlin in an unseen souch o' wind — a silent tryst tae continue. The maist feck o' fowk gie it a glint an turn tae the perfite warks.

That Joram is a teelyour is nae accident. In Italy teelyourin has been for centuries the metafore o' creation: cuttin, shewin, sortin, pittin back tae richts. The teelyour disnae create oot o' naethin — he warks wi' whit is there, chænges it, adapts it tae the body that will weiri't. Joram's unfeenished scroll is a gairment bidin for its body. It isnae imperfite: it is in attesa (bidin/waitin). An waitin, for the Italian e'e, is a state far mair interestin than completetude, for completetude is an end, while waitin is a promise.

Whan Liora touches the claith an finds it wairm — this wairmth is the detail that cheenges a'thing. For the claith shouldnae hae been wairm. It was an inert thing, a scroll left on a table. But Liora's haun finds a wairmth there, an that wairmth says the claith isnae an object: it is a body. It has temperature. It has life. It needs a haun tae complete it — no accordin tae a pre-set design, but accordin tae a form that will be born frae the contact.

VI

The tear in the lift is purpie an fevered. It throbs. It hurts the e'en. Ahint there isnae derkness — there is somethin waur: a white sae blin'in that ahint the eelids it becomes black. A hole that disnae sook up the licht but spits it oot.

In Italian this is caw'd chiaroscuro — but no in the academic sense o' the term. In the leevin sense: the discoverin that licht is never seen sae clearly as whan it is threitened by the mirk. Caravaggio kent it: his canvases wad hae been naethin wi'oot the derkness that devours thaim at the edges. Caravaggio's licht is hained licht, no gien licht. An the licht o' Liora's kinrik, afore the tear, was gien licht — ower muckle, ower uniform, ower wantin o' a shaidaw tae be hained frae.

The tear maks somethin unthochtfu: it gies the lift back its depness. Afore, the lift was a surface — braw, perfite, but twa-dimensional like a fresco wi'oot a frame. Efter, the lift has a hole, an throu that hole ye get a glint o' somethin that isnae lift — somethin toom, fearsome, true. Depness disnae come frae licht. It comes frae the wound.

VII

Zamir is temptit. Afore the Lume o' Origin he sees his ain future like a finished tapestry: honoured maister, name hained in sangs. An the price is Liora's silence. Her rebellion harmonised, her grey threid sookit back intil the pattern.

This is the maist Italian temptation that exists: the temptation o' perfite form wi'oot risk. In Italy we hae caw'd it in mony weys — mannerism, academicism, decorum — but the hert is aye the same: the chance tae mak brawniness wi'oot peyin the price o' brawniness. For the price o' brawniness is risk, an risk means ye can fail, an failin means ye can be left wi' a wound insteid o' a wark.

Zamir accepts the vision. He melts intil an ecstasy whaur ilka threid finds its place throu desire, no throu obedience. But syne the vision fades — an his hauns are toom. This is the weird o' thaim wha wile brawniness wi'oot the lave: he gets a'thing an loses a'thing. The finished tapestry was shawn tae him, but he will never be able tae dwall in it, for tae dwall in it he wad hae tae scuff oot the pairt o' himsel that kent somethin was agley. An that pairt — the misdoot, the crack, the grey threid — is the only pairt that was truly his ain.

VIII

There is a meenit that hants me. At denner, Liora asks if she could bite a wairsh fruit insteid o' the sweet berries. The mither smiles — ower sweetly — an a shaidaw crosses her face, sae gleg that Liora wunners if she imagined it.

That shaidaw is the lave o' the smile. It is whit the perfite smile canna say. The mither kens somethin — we ken it, wha read — that she canna say oot loud. No for ill-will, no for modesty. But for that whit she kens is exactly the kind o' things that are said wi' shaidaws, no wi' wirds. If she said it, it wad become advice, a rule, a waw. As a shaidaw, it bides a door.

In Italy this is a form o' intelligence auld as the hills: the intelligence o' the unsaid, o' the maist-said, o' the said wi' the body insteid o' wi' the mou. The shaidaw that crosses a face is worth mair than a hale sentence — for the sentence wiles the wirds, while the shaidaw wiles naethin: it juist happens, like the bate o' a hert that canna be controlled. The mither disnae decide tae mak the shaidaw. The shaidaw maks ehr — ehr body, that kens somethin that ehr will has decidit tae keep quiet.

IX

The Tree o' Whispers shaws Liora its ain rings: braid an gowden, the yeirs o' peace; nairra an derk, crossed by a black line, the yeirs o' the wound. An it says: «Some questions mak me grow braid an strang. Ithers burn like a dül that bides for aye.»

This is the Italian odds atween bello (braw) an decoroso (dacent/decorous). The dacent is whit has nae wounds: smuith, complete, fautless. The braw is whit bears the wounds as a pairt o' its ain form — no despite thaim, but as thaim. The tree disnae say that wounds are braw. It says they are necessar for growin. An that growin wi'oot wounds isnae growin: it is only expansion, toom widenin. True growin — the ane that maks nairra an derk rings — gangs throu a narrin, no a widenin. Throu a dül that incorporates itsel in the mak insteid o' bidin ootside it.

Zamir's scaur in the lift will aye be visible, says the tree. An in this sentence is a' the Italian ethics o' form: the scaur isnae hidden, isnae happit ower, isnae pretendit that it isnae there. It is left visible — no as a monument tae dül, but as a document o' truth. The form that hides its ain wounds is a form that lees. The form that shaws thaim is a form that tells the truth. An the truth, in Italian, is also caw'd verace: leeterally, whit has the taste o' the truth.

X

Efter the tear, Liora disnae gang back tae the questions. She sits. She listens. She watches the dew turn intil a pearl an vieve aiva. She disnae gether stanes. She disnae weave. She juist bides — wi' toom hauns an apen e'en.

This isnae geein in. It is anither Italian wird that disnae traivel weel in ither tungs: attesa. No in the sense o' waitin on a train, but in the Leopardian sense — waitin as a form o' kennin. Leopardi kent that there are truths that reveal theirsels only tae thaim wha ken hou tae bide still lang eneuch tae lat thaim kythe. No by seekin thaim. No by askin thaim. Juist by bidin there, wi' attention sae gentle it becomes unseen.

Liora learns that some questions shouldnae be askit straucht awa. No for they are dangerous — but for they arenae rype. Like a fruit that ye maun leave on the tree even thouch yer haun is yeukin tae pu' it. If ye pu' it ower sune, it's soor. If ye wait — ye dinna ken hou lang, ye dinna ken if the richt meenit will come — but if ye wait, aiblins it becomes whit it was meant tae become. Waitin isnae the pause afore the question. Waitin is the question itsel, in a flawer, mair patient, truer form.

XI

The lassie wi' the scarred thoomb sits doun aside Liora an says: «Aiblins somethin had tae brak, tae see hou solid it was. Or hou bruckle. It's important tae ken baith things.»

This is the point whaur the beuk becomes somethin mair than a story. For the lassie disnae offer comfort an disnae offer blame. She offers a distinction — an in Italy distinction has aye been the heichest form o' thocht. No the clean spleet, the clean cut, but the subtile distinction: seein that twa things that seem opposites can baith be true, an that the truth lies in haudin thegither whit wad fain pairt.

Was the claith solid? Aye, up tae a certain point. Was it bruckle? Aye, ayont that point. Baith things are true. An kennin baith things — no the tane or the tither, but baith — is the only kennin that is wirdy o' the name. For kennin only solidity maks ye prood. Kennin only bruckleness maks ye pally. Kennin baith maks ye able tae staund in the warld wi' apen e'en an ready hauns — no tae claucht, but tae receive.

XII

The beuk stops — or raither, halts — whan Liora sits aside anither lassie an weaves in silence. No whan she gets an answer. No whan she is forgien. No whan the scaur fades. But whan she learns tae bide aside somebody wha bears a wound like hers.

This is the place whaur ilka true Italian story halts: no in the resolution, but in the nearness. No in the finished symphony, but in the unfeenished duet. No in the closed form, but in the form that still tremmles — like the claith in Joram's scroll, like the grey threid in the mither's embroidery, like the lift that still bears its scaur an disnae pretend it isnae there.

The brawniness that disnae include its ain possible brak isnae brawniness. It is decoration. The odds is a' here — in the tremmle. In the point whaur the form admits it could be different frae whit it is. In the lowse threid that waits for a haun. In the mither's silence that is thicker than ony wird. In the stane that burns the loof an in the haun that opens a' the same.

For it is there — in the point o' possible brak, in the lave that the design didnae forsee, in the crack that perfection didnae allou — it is there that dwalls the form that tremmles. An the form that tremmles is the only form that is alive.

Wi' the haun still apen an the grey threid atween the fingers.