How the Past Possesses the Present in Signs and Symbols by Vladimir Nabokov

                My love for this short story is matched only by my disbelief at how soon it ends. This may be a short story but never before have I encountered a trinket with such immense density. Trying to discern what influences hide behind this work is like trying to extricate one grain of sand from a mandala. It is certainly easy enough to pick up the piece, but what about the millions upon billions of other pieces one would leave behind? There are simply so many categories one could choose and each would show equally remarkable connections to each other and to the past. Thus, every category must be reviewed in its respect to this story, from the literal perspective to the anagogical one.

                Literally, this story is nothing but a down trodden couple looking back at their past. They remember everything and bring it to play in their present day. Scenes of weariness and age are used to frame the couple which came from so much and has been through even more. Aches of pity spring to the surface as Nabokov describes the fall of these once proud people in their old country. The husband “had been a fairly successful businessman, was now…wholly dependent on his brother…” The wife remembers “…maid they had had in Leipzig…Minsk, the Revolution, Leipzig, Berlin, Leipzig again, a slanting house front…” The child “looked more surprised than most babies…looking away from an eager squirrel, as he would have from any other stranger.” Together they remember “…the year they left Europe…the shame, the pity, the humiliating difficulties of the journey…” There is where they live. The wife’s photo albums bear witness to the realization that nothing in the present is as good as it used to be. It is little wonder the husband cannot sleep and I cannot blame him for that. Nor can I blame the wife for placing the photo album in such high esteem. Life was not kind to this family so why not cling to what they had? However, after three phones calls even the old couple knew that “…living does mean accepting the loss of one joy after another…”

                From here the water gets much deeper. An allegorical reading of this story could find any metaphor and translation it wanted to in these words. Under a tree outside the sanitarium, the couple finds a “…tiny unfledged bird…helplessly twitching in a puddle.” What else could this represent other than the fate of the child the parents had just tried to visit? A child who, as a boy, had drawn images of those same avian animals “…with human hands and feet..” to represent himself or his being trying to escape in flight yet failing to grow wings. Yet for all his wishes, the boy remains trapped on the ground and in the dirt reminding one of “…beautiful weeds that cannot hide from the farmer.” Finally, one must remember the lesson of symbols: if something happens once it is accident, if it happens twice it is coincidence, if it happens three times then it is fate. Three phone calls later, fate has found its Icarus.

                The morality of this story inter-plays too heavily with its anagogical end to truly be able to do a separate reading of each. Thus, one sees the biblical references of “Isaac”, “Rebecca” and the “devil” placed alongside images of grief-stricken parents bringing their child a basket of bright fruits. What else can the mother be but the biblical Rebecca trying to protect her child, Isaac, from the devil that tortured him? How could one not see their “humiliating” exodus from Europe and not see the shame of Adam and Eve as they left the Gardens of Eden?

                The past is nothing but a mirror to the present in “Signs and Symbols”. Everything is represented not by itself but in reflection of something entirely different. The couple’s lives are nothing but shadows of what they used to be. While those same shadows whisper evils to their tortured son. Through their eyes, one is forced to bear witness to the immense power of the past: the power to enlighten as well as the power to absolutely destroy. It begs the question, what is the true place of the past in relation to the present? Should it be a shadow, a memory to every moment? Should it be ignored and risk a world of blindness? Perhaps it has to be both or perhaps we can only know the true meaning of the husband’s “ultimate truth” when we live in Nabokov’s world possessed of the past. 

His name was Charles. It used to be Charlie but now, just Charles. His rather pudgy frame was seen waddling up the sidewalk of Second Avenue as it has been known to do every morning on his way to work. The sun was just beginning its lazy ascent into the sky, the houses and businesses on Charles’ way were just waking with it. The heavily scuffed loafers made slight scraping noises as they shifted their way towards their destination in a sort of sleepy shuffle. Signs passed overhead until an old wooden one came into view, creaking on its rusted hinges: Teach’s Fine Footwear. Charles fished in his pocket looking for the correct key. Selecting it, he opened the door and entered the shop, a small bell announcing his arrival.

“….you are late, Charles”, came a snide, drawling voice from a corner. A sort of voice that held itself in too high of a regard for the very air it breathed. The visage of Edward Teach, store proprietor, rose from behind a desk and swept towards the unfortunate employee. Towering over Charles, the great, black beard an inch from his face, Mr. Teach continued, “What is the meaning of this tardiness?”

“I..I. am sorry sir,” stuttered Charles, “but the store does not open for another half hou”

“Save it! This laziness will be deducted from today’s rates. Now, continue with your job.” Mr. Teaches words cut through the air as if to hook one’s thoughts and drag them, mercilessly, into his folds.

“Of course, sir, m my…my apologizes sir.” With that, Charles shuffled off to grab a broom and began sweeping out the store. It was not exactly a glamorous job and certainly not a thankful job yet it kept him out of his mother’s house. Her voice echoed around in his head, as it constantly did even when she was not around. “Why do you insist on shuffling around like a lazy, good-for-nothing lump? Take some pride in yourself and do something with your life!...When will you settle down and marry a nice girl? I am getting far too old and with no grandchildren, you just insist on causing me heartache don’t you? You know I worry so about you…” Every day it was the same, one disappointment after another with no end in sight. No matter what Charles did he could never rise above her standards it seemed. He just kind of accepted his lot in life now which explained the sleepy shuffle of his gait. Mr. Teach, however horrible he treated Charles, at least paid him and got him out of his mother’s cramped apartment. Charles was grateful for that.

Midmorning found Charles behind the counter, busily counting the till for what seemed like the twentieth time this today (If one cent is missing from that till at the end of the day, it will be coming out of your pay!). Suddenly, the morning quiet was shattered by the sounds of running and laughter. Outside the front windows, a group of small boys came running into view. Each face was lit with a fierce smile and their laughter cascaded before them. They could not have been very old yet they were a common sight in this neighborhood, always running around, laughing and causing mischief. Mr. Teach sneered at them as they passed, “damn hooligans…” slid out the corner of his mouth. He went back to his bookings. Charles watched them go with a sense of longing and something close to…amusement. He continued with his counting; was he at 47 or 48?..

The sun continued to rise high into the sky. The small neighborhood kept to its quiet and cloistered habits. Leaves found their way into the store, following the heels of the couple customers that came to browse. Each time, Mr. Teach took the foliage’s invasion as a personal insult (Charles!! Get this filth out of my store! If I wished to work in a pig’s pen I would set up shop in your mother’s apartment!). Other than that there was no other excitement until just before closing time. The bell clapped out in its exuberance, it did not often get to use its voice. Charles looked up towards the door, just in time to see six small heads dashing through the aisles of shoes, laughter following everywhere.

“HOOLIGANS!”, came the bellow from the back corner. “OUT! OUT! GET THESE DAMN MISFITS OUT OF MY STORE!” The boys took no notice of Mr. Teach’s anger, instead they continued to dash through the aisles, grabbing shoe boxes and switching them with other boxes or throwing handfuls of bright leaves into the air like confetti. Charles waddled after them with a broom, trying to shoo them out the door but with little luck (or was it effort?). Finally, the boys grew tired of dodging between aisles and ducking out of the reach of Mr. Teach’s grasp. Their laughter slowly dissipated as they dashed out the front door and tore down the street. Mr. Teach ran out after them shouting obscenities and spitting in his fury. When he finally reentered his mood had not improved. “I will get those little bastards locked up if it is the last thing I do! How dare they come into my place of business like that! You, Charles, could not even succeed in keeping small hooligans out of my store! Now you will clean and reorganize the entire store without pay, even it takes you all night! Get to work!!!!”

“Ye..yea…yes sir, right away sir…” Charles trembled before his employer, not daring to say another word. He grabbed a broom and sighed as he saw the mess before him.

Hours later, Charles was seen to still be sweeping in the store. Mr. Teach had long since gone home but not before threatening to fire Charles if one speck of dirt was left in his shop by morning. The sun had even given up on Charles, sinking below the horizon without the courtesy of a good night. All was quiet and still, except the slow scratch of the broom on the clean tiles. Then, the sound of laughter caused Charles to glance up from his task as the same group of boys ran past the window again. This time one of them stopped to look into the store. His bright eyes and flashing smile swept through the aisles until he spotted Charles. His smile grew even wider (if that was possible) and he waved enthusiastically before sprinting off again. Charles glanced nervously around to confirm Mr. Teach was not lurking behind him before giving a little wave back. He returned to his sweeping but this time with a small smile on his lips, the memory of laughter ringing in his head. 

Chasing my tale.

I started with a dream, continued with my pursuit of a single moment and now I am staring into the face of what I can only assume must be the bridge between those two islands. Fog. It has to be fog. I stare at this story "Symbols and Signs", the words are opaquely apparent yet their meanings are veiled. I hope I am not the only one lost in this pursuit. I can choose a word and walk into the fog but how would I find my way back to the outside if I chose the wrong path? Maybe I will be lost forever...maybe, but Dr. Sexson said march so I begin my descent, or ascent, or charge. My eyes search the misty pages for any trace of a light or sign (pun intended) and suddenly there is one. An old inkling of recognition surfaces under a word, then another and another and another and another. Soon, my hand is running over the pages, all thoughts of bread crumbs and caution thrown to the wind in my now fevered excitement. Could I have found the right path? Am I on my way to the place where truth exists between dream and moment? Perhaps!

The fog seems to thinning, I am almost there...I am so close, my heart is pounding...I. AM. right back where I started. Staring at a page, lost in a day dream, distilled in a moment. Frustration begins to grip my mind as I finish the story, only to flip back to the beginning and find the same wall of fog. My search could continue again and again, a thousand times over (which I have to assume is what happened to the person that wrote an entire book on this short story) yet I know that, in the end, I will still end up exactly where I started. Chasing my tale.

Maybe that is not such a bad place to be though. I see the island of my dreams, yet I cannot reach it since I cannot touch or control my dreams. I also see the island of my moment, that immersive place where warm sand on a beach is continually between my toes and the last rays of a sunset never quite withdraw their warm embrace. However, my eyes see what my body cannot find. A moment can only be a moment. Surrounding and connecting all is that eternal fog. What the fog is, I do not know. Maybe it is simply the fog of questions and pursuits. One can ask and pursue til heart's content or heart's end yet it may always be a circular journey, or at least it seems that way to me. Dr. Sexson said that all literature is retold myth and to me myth is the retelling of questions and pursuits. A circle that shows itself a sphere; infinite faces and reflections but truly only one line that connects over and over.

Now do I sit here and stand idle the rest of my life or, perhaps, head off on this foolish errand made significant by my realization of its foolishness? I haven't a clue but until I figure that out I think I will dip back into the swim. I see a light house has appeared ahead and truly,

who can resist investigating a light house...

distraction from Distraction...

A question is brought up, seemingly over and over again. It floats through the back of my mind while I sit in another roasting classroom, another voice thrums through the air like radio in the background. Change scene, same plot. Another classroom, another chair, another voice. Then my thoughts are being read out for the whole class to comprehend: "What is the Point?" I blink my eyes to make sure I had not been lost in another day dream, but no, the words are repeated. Why are we here, in this classroom? A question one must have the privilege of asking themselves at least once a day if not once an hour. It is one that commands my presence in every activity and scenario. It summons my attention and stops my wanderings. That attention, as reviewed by Sven Birkerts in his story "The Art of Attention", is the center-most theme discussed with an almost complete reverence. "To pay attention, to attend. To be present, not merely in body--it is an action of the spirit." Clearer words have never spoken more to me. To be fully immersed gives me a feeling all my own. Whether that activity is an early morning 3 mile run with the rising sun at my back or reading a book at 1 in the morning because I simply cannot put it down, I am in those activities and become those activities. We discussed what T.S. Elliot might have meant when he said "...distraction from Distraction by distractions..." In my mind, that discussion became one of deep sentimentality and spirituality. I believe what Elliot meant, and what Birkerts supported, was that Distraction is not finding a small, winding path on the road of life and momentarily getting lost on it before scrambling to find your way back. Instead, it is realizing that that little pathway is the road of life. Do not misunderstand me, I am not excusing or justifying laziness. Just the opposite actually for truly following Distraction and immersion is to follow an almost religious practice. It is to follow God as "God is the moment". That line comes from a song entitled "Hold Your Head Up" by Macklemore and is the lyric that has continually popped up in my head during our class discussions. It all traces back to that root question: What is the point? For Elliot, it was to be distracted. For Birkerts, it is to pay attention. For Macklemore, it is to be in the moment. For me, it is to do each and every one of those things as they are all the same commandment. Live in a book. Live in an activity. Live in the moment, for there is where one finds their "God".

Dreams...

Like any dream there was no beginning, there was only the aquarium. There was an expanse of black asphalt underneath my shoes which shimmered and steamed in the heat. Various cages and enclosures grew out of the surface, giving depth to the unfocused surroundings. Shouts, squeaks and honks drifted lazily through the air as if weighed down by the excessive summer heat.
This was my hell. Conveniently, it was also the location my family chose for a formal portrait. That would explain why a six year old was fidgeting in his black suit in the middle of this aquarium, complaining loudly of the heat and the fact that he did not get to see the dolphins yet...
When was this stupid picture going to happen? How much longer did I have to stay in this black cotton straight jacket?! The camera man was not even paying attention to me right now, being far too occupied with the settings on his camera. My parents were desperately trying to wage a wrestling match with my little sister while simultaneously trying to keep her quiet. A difficult feat even on a good day when we were not dying of sunstroke and boredom. However, that meant no one was paying any attention to me at all...my moment of freedom was at hand!
I ran. I could not stand the heat any longer, nor this monkey suit! Plus, there were dolphins somewhere around here that I had to find. My shoes flashes with the sun while they pumped underneath me and slapped on the asphalt. My dad started shouting at me to stop but there was no turning around now. Other shouts joined my dad's as the camera man and various staff members joined in on the chase. The game was a foot! Around corners, over bridges and through puddles I ran and they chased. Another shout rang out from the pursuers making me glance back in curiosity, a possible fatal mistake. The next thing I know my world was turned upside down as I fell into an open enclosure and landed hard at the bottom.
My mom's scream was ringing in my ears as I sat up very dizzily. Nothing seemed to be broken or bruised which was a win in my book. At least it was until I looked up and realized I was not the only one in this drained pool. A mammoth sized walrus was right in front of me, its tusks gleaming lethally in the sunlight. Its eyes were the color of blood in angry, cold water. This was not some lovable stuffed animal looking for a hug but a really pissed off blob of fat equipped with two spears... Naturally I was a little afraid and began scrambling backwards with my hands and feet. The slime on the bottom of the pool had other plans for me and my hands slipped with every touch. Meanwhile, the walrus from hell began its charge. It was almost like watching the start of an avalanche, the creatures brown body gave a small lurch forward which was repeated down the it's midriff and tail. Then the lurch became a roll as gravity began its work on the tons of fat and muscles, hastening what I was convinced would be my slow death by walrus!
I chanced a glance behind me and spotted a ladder just a few feet away but of course it could not be a normal, reassuring ladder but instead a rope one like those you see at playgrounds with the children trapped in them like tuna in a net. Still, it was my only chance so I jumped onto it. Immediately, my feet fell through holes, my hands slipped on the slimy rope and parents were too far out of reach to lend a hand. The huffing of the brown train behind became louder and louder as I desperately scrambled up this net. Every time I made any progress my limbs would betray me and miss a rung, causing me to slide down again. The bottom of the ladder gave a wobble as if something else had hit it...I glanced behind me in a wild panic only to be eye to blood-red eye with the beast. Its pupil became wider, deeper, darker.
 I would have screamed at this point but fortunately I realized that the enveloping blackness of those pupils was really the back of my own eyelid...that did not stop me from checking every dark corner of my house for a walrus though.