Tuesday, May 11, 2010

A Letter (to Ed McClanahan)

Dear Ed,
I dreamed that you and I were sent to Hell.
The place we went to was not fiery
or cold, was not Dante's Hell or Milton's,
but was, even so, as true a Hell as any.
It was a place unalterably public
in which crowds of people were rushing
in weary frenzy this way and that,
as when classes change in a university
or at quitting time in a city street,
except that this place was wider far
than we could see, and the crowd as large 
as the place.  In that crowd every one
was alone.  Every one was hurrying.
Nobody was sitting down.  Nobody
was standing around.  All were rushing
so uniformly frantic, that to average them
would have stood them still.  It was a place 
deeply disturbed.  We thought, you and I,
that we might get across and come out
on the other side, if we stayed together,
only if we stayed together.  The other side
would be a clear day in a place we would know.
We joined hands and hurried along,
snatching each other through small openings 
in the throng.  But the place was full
of dire distractions, dire satisfactions.
We were torn apart, and I found you 
breakfasting upon a huge fried egg.
I snatched you away: "Ed! Come on!"
And then, still susceptible, I met
a lady whose luster no hell could dim.
She took all my thought.  But then,
in the midst of my delight, my fear
returned: "Oh! Damn it all! Where's Ed?"
I fled, searching, and found you again.
We went on together.  How this ended
I do not know.  I woke before it could end.
But, old friend, I want to tell you
how fine it was, what a durable
nucleus of joy it gave my fright
to force that horrid way with you, how
heavenly, let us say, in spite of Hell.
Do you want to know shy
you were distracted by an egg, and I
by a beautiful lady?  That's Hell.
~ Wendell Berry