Fog People: Stammering for Meaning
We were driving back from Madison late Tuesday night after a fun time at the Overture Center. We saw Cirque Dreams, a production similar to Cirque du Soleil in which acrobats and dancers with elaborate costumes perform beautiful, sometimes exotic and highly imaginative routines. It was well worth the long drive there and back.
Earlier that afternoon, on the drive to Madison, my daughter, wife and I somehow got into a discussion that started with classical and popular music mixes, then French Impressionist composers, then existentialism, then the post modern revelation that there is no meaning in the search for meaning. I guess without knowing it, the stage was set for the quiet trip back in which they both slept and I pondered fog.
Yes, there was thick fog almost all the way back home, both literally and figuratively. I was enthralled by the way the low-lying clouds lit up with my car's headlamps. It formed a surreal tunnel effect that was mesmerizing. It was as if we were traveling through an endless black space, within a translucent white tube. The effect came and went randomly as we cruised through the fog banks. It became almost soothing to be enveloped by the fog, as a young child must feel when he hides under his blanket at night. I recalled the documentary on Eugene O'Neill that I had watched on PBS the previous evening.
A Long Day's Journey into Night was O'Neill's greatest play. He had stipulated in his will that it should not be published until 25 years after his death, and that it should never be performed on stage. Needless to say, his widow, whom he trusted to execute the will, did not respect his wishes. In fact, she decided rather quickly (three years) to have the play produced in 1956. Some, I should say the majority of American drama critics and enthusiasts, have praised her for this. They justify it by saying that O'Neill must have anticipated that she would disregard the will knowing her as well as he did. Although I understand their thankfulness that such a brilliant work was not cast into oblivion, I do not share their sentiments. Nor do I believe for one moment that O'Neill would be pleased if he were able to know what happened. It is not in the spirit of brutal honesty that O'Neill championed in his work. But, I have his eloquent fog about which to write.
O'Neill used the image of fog to communicate the human condition. I can imagine in his native New England, fog must be commonplace. He used a natural element common to his early life experiences as a metaphor for those very experiences. He had a tortured family life, much of which is expressed in his plays, especially Long Day's Journey. There are four characters in the play which covers a single day. The father, mother and two sons are the quintessential dysfunctional family. The mother is a morphine addict who expresses her desire to escape in the following lines: "I really love the fog. It hides you from the world and the world from you. No one can find or touch you any more." The fog is the blanket against the harsh light of life. The father is a frustrated old actor who is full of regrets that he did not pursue more meaningful roles as opposed to more lucrative productions. His early life of poverty pushes him into a miserliness that is resented by his wife and eldest son. Jamie is an alcoholic, who like his mother blames the father for his weakness. The younger son, Edmund is a writer/poet who is about to die from tuberculosis. This is the character with whom O'Neill identifies. He names him after his deceased brother.
Following is the dialogue between Edmund and his father as they are playing cards:
"EDMUND: ... (He grins wryly.) It was a great mistake my being born a man, I would have been much more successful as a seagull or a fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death!
TYRONE -- (Stares at him - impressed) Yes there's the makings of a poet in you alright. (Then protesting uneasily) But that's morbid craziness about not being wanted and loving death.
EDMUND -- (sardonically) The makings of a poet. No, I'm afraid I'm like the guy who is always panhandling for a smoke. He hasn't even got the makings. He's got only the habit. I couldn't touch what I tried to tell you just now. I just stammered. That's the best I'll ever do. I mean, if I live. Well, it will be faithful realism, at least. Stammering is the native eloquence of us fog people."
I often wonder how certain things I experience seem to connect somehow: the TV special on O'Neill; the conversation on the way to Madison; the late-night trip back through the fog. What is the meaning of this? What is...What is the meaning...of this? I can only stammer.
