The gaze I was attempting to inhabit was the one of François-René de Chateaubriand, the 19-century French writer and precursor of the European Romantic literary movement. If one adds the quirky mummy of a cat opposite the bed, the gloom gave the claustrophobic illusion of being trapped in a shrinking sarcophagus. At a boy’s height, the minuscule slice of blue sky failed to brighten the room I stood in. In front of me, high walls regrettably obstructed the lake-facing scenery. I tried to remember what the view looked like at this young age, wishing to be taller, drawing shapes of familiar constellations on a clear night with my index finger in the air. Through the eyes of an eight-year-old, the world beyond a high window is both an unattainable promise and a terrifying or mesmerising mystery.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |