Now there is another consideration which has come into play. Erica tells me that I hear selectively. For instance, she claims, that when she calls me from the kitchen to come and take out the garbage, I don’t hear. Or seem not to have heard her call. And yet, when she calls me for dinner, I have no trouble at all hearing her, and respond instantly. So she claims.
That’s really all I wanted to tell you about my ears.
Of course, more could be said about this curious part of the human body, but one would soon tumble into the banality of the universality of ears among the various species on this planet, human as well as animal, and one could insist that an ear is just as good as another ear, as long as it performs what it is supposed to do, hear. One could lament that the one who created us could have adorned our face with something a bit more aesthetic than ears. Something less visible.
Though knowing how malicious our creator can be, imagine if he had placed two noses on our face, one on each side.
I think I’d better stop here.
MY EYES
Today I would like to tell you about my eyes. To try and describe them, and how they see the world.
The women who love me say that I have beautiful eyes. Deep sexy eyes.
Perhaps you do not know this, but some eyes are flat, superficial, impenetrable, cold. And others are deep, soft, warm, affable, accueillants.
I have often been told that I have soft, warm eyes. Women, especially, tell me that. Those who love me, and those who loved me in the past.
I am not bragging. I am simply reporting how women see my eyes.
Me, when I look at my eyes in the mirror, I see them differently. I see them small. Small and oval. I have small squinty eyes surrounded by crow’s feet wrinkles.
I would have liked to have big eyes, but it was not for me to decide. It’s my mother who made them as they are.
My mother had such beautiful big black eyes. Deeply set black eyes always full of sadness. Ah, how my mother’s eyes wept in her life.
I do not see sadness in my small eyes when I look at them. Rather, I see mischievousness. A kind of joyful malice. Or if you prefer, I see laughter in my eyes. I think I have laughing eyes.
My eyes may be small, but they look at the world intensely. When I look at something, let’s say a painting or a landscape, my eyes penetrate what I am looking at.
And this is how I look at a beautiful woman. Intensely, with a penetrating gaze. I like to observe a woman even before I speak to her. Just to get a feel of her personality. I trust my eyes.
A Frenchman once told me that I had des yeux strabiques.
I didn’t know that word. So I looked it up in the dictionary.
Strabique: Affecté de strabisme.
Strabisme: Défaut de parallélisme des axes optiques des yeux, entraînant un trouble de la vision binoculaire.
Can you believe that? The guy was all wrong. There is nothing strabismic about my eyes. I don’t have un oeil qui dit zut à l’autre. No, one of my eyes does not say hello to the other.
I am definitely not cross-eyed as was Jean-Paul Sartre. Now I remember how Céline once referred to Sartre as un poisson rouge strabique. I thought it was perfect.
It’s possible that I have a shifty gaze. Shifty in the sense that it is difficult to decipher what I say with my eyes. So, one could say that I have an oblique gaze, but certainly not a strabique look.
My eyes have cried a lot in my life. And not because I am sentimental. I know that a man is not supposed to admit that he cries easily. In our time, when a man cries, it’s a sign of weakness. It’s not masculine, we are told.
In the 18th Century men cried freely in public. That’s why they always had a lace handkerchief tucked into the sleeve of their coat.
Onions make me cry. I see an onion, I smell it, and immediately I start crying like a little child. When my wife is peeling onions in the kitchen, I am forced to leave the house until the onions are cooked.
A little nothing can make me cry. A burst of wind in the eye, and here come the tears. I am not ashamed to cry. Let’s say that in general I have humid eyes.
Some people have dry eyes. Others wet eyes.
It is said that dry eyes and humid eyes mark the difference between good and bad people. A dry gaze is a sign of meanness, hardness, indifference. A humid gaze shows kindness, tenderness, graciousness.
Therefore, one can determine if a person is kind or hard, tender or mean simply by looking at that person’s eyes.
So it can be said that because I have humid eyes, I am a kind person. A person who is not afraid to weep to express his emotions.
Not that I think of myself better than another, or more emotional.
But it’s especially at the movies that I cry the most. When there is a sad scene.
For instance, the other day I went to see the Italian movie called, Sorrisi a Plaza San Marco freely adapted from my novel Smiles on Washington Square. The director, Luigi Fratenelli, decided to transpose the action, the love story of Moinous and Sucette to Venice. He even changed the name of the lovers. In the film Moinous is called Romeo, and Sucette Guillieta. A little too obvious, but I was not consulted. I don’t know the actors who play the part of the lovers who exchange smiles without ever talking to each other, but I must admit that they play their roles with a great deal of talent and passion. And it is in fact in the finale scene, when Guillieta gets up to leave with Roberto and drops the poor Romeo there in that trattoria, where they were having an espresso, and he tumbles back into the mud of despair and loneliness, as it is said at the end of the novel, that I started crying quietly. I remained in my seat until everyone had left the theater. Not that I was ashamed of my tears. Others next to me also cried softly. I heard them. No, I stayed there simply to enjoy my tears.
Excuse this detour to the movies, but I wanted to show you why crying is very natural for me.
I cannot prevent myself from crying. Certain persons can hold back their tears. Can sob in their throat without tears in their eyes. Not me. With me the tears have to flow. That’s why I always have a handkerchief in my pocket, like the gentlemen of old. Though I have replaced the lace handkerchief with paper tissues.
One never knows when the occasion will arise for me to cry.
I cry especially when I see starving children. Starving African children for instance that are shown on the television news to make us feel guilty because of our good life.
I knew hunger when I was a child, and often saw my mother with tears in her eyes because she could not give us enough to eat, to my sisters and I, because we were so poor. My father, who was an artist, couldn’t earn enough money from his work to feed his family, and there were times when we stood in line at the soup kitchen. So today I cry for starving children.
But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you about my eyes, and not those of my mother.
Still, I can’t help myself from telling you how beautiful my mother’s big black eyes were. Eyes always full of tears because she was so unhappy before her eyes were brutally closed. But that’s another story.
I should tell you the color of my eyes. They are brown. But when I look at them closely in the mirror I can see a blue-gray circle around the pupils. My wife says that they are hazel.
My father’s eyes were blue-gray. Even more gray than blue. Could it be that I also have my father’s eyes?
I don’t remember when exactly my eyes began to see less clearly, less precisely, and I had to get glasses. Especially for reading and writing.
It would now be impossible for me to write what I am in the process of telling you without my reading glasses.
This does not mean that I am losing my sight. On the contrary, I think I apprehend the world better without my glasses, even if what I see seems blurred.
One can see things clearly by instinct. One can even see better with one’s eyes closed. It’s a matter of concentration. When I close my eyes, I see the beautiful big black eyes of my mother.
; Like everybody else’s my eyes have seen a lot. A lot of beautiful things, and a lot of ugly ones. But as Proust said so well:
Par l’art seulement nous pouvons sortir de nous, savoir ce que voit un autre de cet univers qui n’est pas le même que le notre, et dont les paysages nous seraient restés aussi inconnus que ceux qu’il peut y avoir dans la lune.
It is certainly with my fictions that I was able to see that other universe in which I also exist.
MY HANDS
For me sight does not suffice. I must also touch what I see. At least, that’s always true for me. I am a being who not only enjoys looking at things but needs to touch them, to caress them, to feel their substance.
If I see an object. Any object. Anywhere. Immediately I have to touch it. Instinctively, unconsciously, my hand reaches for that object.
There is certainly a harmonious rapport between the sense of sight and the sense of touch. Between the eyes and the hands.
For instance, if I see a table. A wooden table, or made of glass or marble, I slide my hand on the surface of the table. I must stroke it to sense its smoothness and texture. I have to do it.
And I like to touch the back of the chairs around the table. It’s instinctive. I cannot prevent myself. It is as if my eyes were guiding my hand toward the object I contemplate.
And if the table is set for an elegant dinner, I cannot resist, I pick up one of the fine china plates, or a silver fork, or one of the crystal wine goblets, and I bring it close to my face so that my eyes can better enjoy it while my fingers appreciate its delicate quality.
My eyes and my hands like to feel together. To feel visually and manually at the same time, as though the one was an extension of the other.
That is why, for instance, if I see a beautiful flower, immediately I want to touch its petals. And in the case of a flower, my nose also wants to enjoy its fragrance. In this way, not only are my eyes and hand involved with this flower, but also my nose. I might even say that my ears listen to that flower quiver when I touch it. I would like to taste it. To eat it. To lick it’s petals. In other words, I would like all my senses to profit from the delight of the flower. But it’s my hand especially that profits the most.
In another situation, let’s say in a clothing store. Not only do I look at the piece of clothing I would like to acquire, but I touch it. I feel the fabric. I rub it against my face to see if it itches. I put it against my body to see if it fits me.
Of course, if I see a beautiful woman, let’s say seated in an armchair at some festive soirée. She does not see me looking at her. She’s sipping a glass of champagne while watching the couples dance. She’s very beautiful. Superb well-rounded breasts tucked in a low-necked blouse. Splendid thighs. Well the one I admire crossed over the other outside the mini skirt. I look. I appreciate. And unconsciously I feel the urge to touch. To caress. To fondle …
Well, you see the importance of touching in social and private situations.
Let’s take for instance a private moment. I am shaving. I am naked in front the large mirror in my bathroom. I am looking at my nose while shaving. Immediately my hand reaches for the tip of my nose, twists it slightly to one side so that the razor can shave closely underneath.
Or else, if in the large mirror I see my phallus and I say to myself, oh how insignificant and pathetic it looks today. And so, instinctively I take in my free hand, and …
Or if on the contrary, that day, my phallus is fully developed and vibrant, without thinking of the consequences, I grab it with my free hand, and …
Or if in a darkened room, my eyes cannot assist, then it is my hands that grope and caress the wondrous body lying beneath me. My hands take over the functions of my eyes in these intimate explorations.
One could give many such examples of the association between eyes and hands. Free association. But I shall let your imagination and your own personal experiences determine the close rapport of your eyes with your hands as I end this little meditation on the sense of touch.
As for me, let’s just say that I like to touch. I am a toucheur, if I may coin a word, as well as a voyeur. Voyeur, in the positive sense of the term. I like to touch what I see, and see what I touch. Often I am not even responsible for what my hands are grasping. They seem to act independently.
To give you an example. The other day on my way to the library I saw something shining on the other side of the street. Something small and shiny on the ground. The street was crowded but no one stopped to look at it, to pick it up and find out what it may be. So I crossed the street, even though it was out of my way. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that the moment I saw this shining thing I had to touch it. Well, you want to know what it was? The wrapper of a piece of chewing gum that someone had rolled into a ball. A shiny little ball of silver paper. I picked it up. Examined it. Rolled it in my fingers, and then threw it back on the ground. It was a useless object, but I had to touch it. That illustrates how sometimes my eyes lead my hands to ridiculous actions.
MY SCARS
Do you know why people are afraid to look at their scars, and even more so to touch them? Because it is the place on the body where the soul struggled to escape but was forced back in and the flesh tightly sewn.
I know this is so because I have many scars on my body. My soul often tried to desert me. To go elsewhere. But I am not afraid to look at my scars, and sometimes in the dark I furtively pass my fingers over them. Especially at night when I cannot sleep. Each scar tells me her story, and that lulls me to sleep.
All my scars have a story to tell. I have nine of them, but there are four that I favor especially. These four scars mark a traumatic moment of my life. And I often remember how they happened.
Everybody has scars. Most scars happen when you are young. Young, foolish & clumsy. Imprudent with your body and bursting with conceit, you imagine that it will last forever.
Of course, your soul knows very well that the body will not last, and that is why it always tries to escape.
Often at night, restless in my bed, unable to sleep, in and out of bad dreams, I visit my scars. Especially the four favorites because they are so charged with souvenirs and pain.
The five others are small and insignificant, without much importance, almost invisible, their stories forgotten, no doubt because they caused me less pain than the four principal ones, as I like to call them. These four really made me suffer, but I still like to listen when they tell their stories.
Do you care to hear about the circumstances surrounding these four principal scars?
So that they are correctly situated in the span of my life, I will relate them in chronological order, even though chronology always handicaps me when I tell a story.
The first one, the most ancient, is on the back of my head. Right in the middle of the skull. Because my hair is still thick in that spot it cannot be seen. Of course, if I were to become totally bald, then it would be visible, and would probably reveal itself to be ugly. That’s how I visualize her. Ugly.
Of course, my scars are all feminine.
I have never been able to see this scar, even when I hold a mirror behind my head and try to part the hair with my fingers. I can feel her, but I cannot see her.
I once asked my wife to look for that scar and describe it to me. But even though she was able to locate her with her finger, she could not see her even when she pulled my hair apart.
She said that she could feel a bump there, but couldn’t see anything. That’s why I cannot tell you if she’s ugly or beautiful.
Some scars are beautiful. Others ugly. That depends on how the soul was sewn back in. Few surgeons have sartorial talent. Most of them perform the sewing of the wound as if they were grave diggers burying the soul back into the body.
But even if I never see this scar, I am fond of her. I call her Eurydice because she’s so mysterious. So evasive. Semi-absent one might say. I know it is there. I can feel her with my finger, but I have never seen her.
Yes, I have give
n a name to all my scars. Mythological names.
Eurydice tells me her story every time I shampoo my hair. She never forgets. She says to me, as the water drips over me, Federman do you remember how, long ago, when you were a little clumsy boy on vacation in le Poitou [my scars always call me Federman, and when they speak French to me, some of them do speak French because they happened in France, then they use the familiar tu form], remember she says, as I rub the soap out of my eyes, you were 7 years old, you climbed up a tree, I think it was a cherry tree, but I cannot really say because when you climbed up this tree I did not exit yet. I became your first scar, and I am proud of that, when you fell off the tree.
It must have been a cherry tree, because when you fell tu n’es pas tombé dans les pommes. That much I am certain. No, you did not pass out. But did you ever scream. You see, you were so greedy, you climbed all the way to the top of the tree to pluck the biggest and most succulent. But then the branch on which you were sitting broke and you fell backward all the way down, and your head landed on top of a big rock. As you sat on the ground, whimpering dizzily, you reached for the back of your skull, and your hand came back full of blood.
OK, I’ll skip the details [it’s still Eurydice speaking] of how you were taken to the village doctor in a horse buggy and how he rubbed some liquid medicine that burned on the back of your head and then stitched your wound, and that’s how I became your first scar.
That’s what Eurydice tells me every time I wash my hair. And that’s exactly how it happened.
I was 7 year old, on vacation in les colonies de vacances dans le Poitou, when I fell off a cherry tree and landed on a rock right on the back of my head. I could have killed myself, but I suppose it was not yet the right moment. My body was not ready for the big journey, nor was my soul.
However, one could only wonder if the shock my head took that day is not responsible for the irrationality of my actions? And the digressive incoherence of my language?
My Body in Nine Parts Page 6