Vyvyan holland1/16/2024 ![]() Its justly famed and poetic evocation of love is perhaps the most popular biblical reading at contemporary wedding ceremonies. To give you but one example: St Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians, Chapter 13. We bury love under the rubble of other words and sentiments, deluding ourselves such gravel is gravitas, to make it seem as if we do know what love means. Like Elvis, it’s frequently sighted in unusual locations – the Balga KFC, say, carrying several bags of half-eaten chicken nuggets, or the Mirrabooka Hungry Jacks leaning out of a beaten up Hi-Lux dual cab – but vanishes at the point at which we seek to authenticate it as real. We apprehend it, we feel it, and we think we know it yet we cannot say what we mean by it. We like love, we love love, but perhaps its only meaning lies in its ubiquitous meaninglessness. Then there is the matter of love itself, love, a word so trammelled by overuse as to be almost senseless. My despair then in realising I had agreed to talk about love stories for some extended period was great. Of all the love stories ever published, I have – realistically – read very few. ![]() And the more I read, the greater, I guess, grows the library of unread books. And then there are even more I have never even started. In truth, not unlike Rilke, there are a great many great books and great love stories that I have never been able to get past the first page of. ![]() One of them turned to him and asked, ‘How do you feel about Faust, master?’ To which Rilke answered, ‘I have never been able to read more than a page of it.’” Once, according to an account in a book long out of print by the long dead Kenneth Rexroth, Rilke was “leaning gracefully against the mantelpiece in a castle in Switzerland while his devoted duchesses and countesses and other disciples were passionately discussing Goethe’s Faust, a discussion in which Rilke was taking no part whatsoever. He cultivated anyone he could sponge off – women, the titled, the rich, or, ideally, rich titled women. However, Henry Adams’ wife “Clover”couldn’t stand him.Rainer Maria Rilke was admittedly not a Dockers tagger, but a sort of European equivalent, a German poet – in many respects a charlatan masquerading as a genius who turned out to be a genius. ![]() At customs, he boldly announced that he “had nothing to declare but his genius.” This apologist for art and beauty, quite froufrou with his long hair and velvet knee breeches, addressed largely feminine audiences about “The House Beautiful.” Once, Wilde was asked how to arrange some decorative screens and airily replied, “Why arrange them at all? Why not let them occur?” His charismatic originality captivated admirers as various as Longfellow, Julia Ward Howe and Washington’s noted children’s author, Frances Hodgson Burnett. Initially known simply as an esthete, Wilde hadn’t published much beyond some poems when he embarked on a lecture tour of the United States. After he settled in London in the late 1870s, Wilde - through his wit, charm and devotion - quickly won the esteem of the era’s most notable women, including the adventuress Lillie Langtry (whose portrait was prominently displayed in his living room ), the actresses Ellen Terry and Sarah Bernhardt, and even Jennie, Lady Churchill (the mother of Winston).
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