Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher
One of the last books that I read during my most recent hospitalization at Winter Solstice by Rosamunde Pilcher. I read a paperback version of the novel, which was 505 pages. I began reading Friday evening, but only got through about 15 pages or so. On Saturday afternoon , I began reading in earnest as I was drawn into the story, and then I didn't put the book down until I had finished with it on Sunday evening, a sign to me that my depression was improving as the pace with which I read was more reminiscent of my childhood days, when I wouldn't put a book down until I was finished with it, especially if the story held my interest, which, for some reason, Winter Solstice definitely did.
If you're interested in reading the book (which I highly recommend), you can find reviews about it all over the net. There are three pages that I had photocopied, as those passages spoke to me in that certain way that other books have been doing -- therapeutically. Once you get past the first fifteen or twenty pages or so, I dare you to put the book down. There's nothing bizarre, outlandish, or radical about the plot, which is one of the best things about this book; it's just a beautifully written story.
"What does the poor child do all day?"This penultimate paragraph describes very well how I've felt for the past fie years of my life, and a great deal of how I currently feel about life. I know that I've done things with my life -- accomplishments of which I should be very proud. But in the grand scheme of things, they don't seem all that important. I don't feel as though I've accomplished much, even though I know that I have. And this is what depression does to a person. It makes them feel worthless -- it makes me feel worthless. I know that, intellectually, that I can do more with my life, and that I have many years ahead. But I don't feel that way. I'm just now beginning to feel that I can live again, that I might be able to make something more of my life. Options are opening up for me. But again, like Carrie, when I begin to think about it, I just feel drained of all energy, especially when I think of what I'm going to have to do to get anything done.
"Most of the time, she's at school. She's got a nice little room of her own in the flat, and a friend called Emma. . . ."
"I suppose she never sees a man. Or a boy."
"The school is all-girls, and if she does visit her father, the dreaded Marilyn is always much in evidence. Jealous, probably, stupid cow."
"I think she was rather taken by Rory Kennedy. Quite apart from being immensely brave and rescuing Horace, he has dyed hair. And an earring."
"We've all been asked up to the Manse tomorrow evening for a drink with the Kennedys. I'd love you to be able to come, because I want you to meet Tabitha Kennedy, but perhaps you aren't feeling up to such wild sociality."
"And then, apparently, there's some shindig on in the school hall, all the children are going to dance reels. Rory asked Lucy if she'd go with him and his sister, and she's all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed about this, and says she's going to wash her hair tonight."
Carrie drank her tea, which was scalding-hot and smoky tasting because Elfrida had made it with Lapsang Souchong tea-bags. She said rather sadly, "I have an awful feeling that when the time comes to go back to London, we're going to have terrible sadness and tears."
"Don't say it. I can't bear to think about it."
"I've been thinking about this job with the travel company. In London. I've decided I'll take it. Maybe just for a year. Then I can be around for Lucy, try to brighten things up for her a bit. I'll bludgeon Dodie into submission, force her to let me take Lucy to Cornwall to stay with Jeffrey and Serena. You know, she's never seen Jeffrey. She was just a baby when they divorced, and Dodie's resentment and grudges show no signs of abating."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because she has nothing else to think about. More tea?" Carrie held out her empty cup and Elfrida refilled it.
"Did Nicola ring today?"
"Nicola? Were you expecting a call?"
"No. But tomorrow she's flying to Florida. I thought she might have called to say goodbye to Lucy. But she obviously hasn't."
"Lucy never spoke about it. To be truthful, I think she's too preoccupied with doggy adventures, Rory Kennedy, and buying Christmas tree decorations with Oscar."
"Good for Lucy."
They fell silent, sipping tea, companionable. The house was very quiet. Elfrida said, as casually as she could, "Is this a good time to talk?"
Carrie raised her head, and her beautiful dark eyes gazed into Elfrida's face.
"You said you would tell me. Some time. Later. Why you left Austria. Why you came home so precipitantly. Why you are taking this job in London. Perhaps now, with no person to interrupt, is as good as any. I'm not prying. I just want to know. Not so much about Austria, as why you are so worn out and sad-looking."
"Is that how I look?"
"But no less beautiful."
"Oh, Elfrida, what a star you are. I don't feel beautiful. I feel old and finished. I'm nearly thirty now. It's like a watershed. And I don't know what's waiting for me on the other side of the hill. Since I last saw you, the years have gone so fast. Thirty once seemed an age away. Now, before I know it, I shall be forty and then fifty and I have to make something of my life. But the simple prospect of decisions and meeting new people and finding old friends drains me of all energy."
"That's probably why you caught this horrible cold. Why a small virus has laid you so low."
As the nutritionist -- who happens to be a very sympathetic ear and great therapist -- said to me, "How do you eat an elephant, Peter?"
The answer: one bite at a time. I know that I have to do things in steps, and baby steps at that. Yet -- still -- I feel so drained when I think about it all. Anyway, you can see how beautifully this book is written, and how it can describe life in its many stages. On to more ....
"My dad and I used to do that. When I was little and we were all still together. We read The Borrowers. And when he wanted to tease, he called me Arietty. And he put Babedas in his bath and made the whole house smell piny. What else did Francesca like doing?"I don't know that I've ever been good at living. I think that when we were children, and innocent, we were all good at living. We didn't know any better. But as we age and grow supposedly wiser, we lose in ourselves our own ability to live. At least, it seems to be such as the case to me. What secrets -- other than innocence from the cruelty of reality in the world -- do children possess that allow them to live and not merely exist? This is a question in search of an answer in this day of enlightenment and wonderment -- quite pitiful that we can exist so well and live so poorly.
"Everything. She had a little phony, and an old bicycle, and a guinea pig in a hutch, and a bedroom full of books. On wet days, she used to go into the kitchen and make biscuits. They were always either burned or raw, and I used to have to eat them and sweat they were delicious. And we listened to music together, and played duets on the piano. . . ."
"Was she good at the piano?"
"Was she good at lessons?"
"What was she really good at?"
"That's important, isn't it?"
How does one not become overwhelmed with the realities of life such that one is prevented from living it? This, gentle readers, is perhaps the billion dollar question of our century.
The passage continues,
Their eyes met, and they gazed at each other, both silenced by the enormity of what Oscar had just said. It was as though he had spoken without thought, and the word hung between them like a lie. Francesca had been good at living, but now she was dead, her young life ended with the brutal finality of a fatal car crash.Who hasn't had a moment such as this in their life, when unbearable emotions overwhelm one's self-control amidst a witness or two? This writing is real -- it is three-dimensional; it is felt. Continuing on,
Lucy did not know what to say. To her horror she saw Oscar's eyes fill with tears, his mouth tremble. Then, in an abrupt movement, he covered his eyes with his hand. He tried to speak, but words did not come; instead, a sound was torn from deep in his chest, a sob of utter despair.
She had never before seen a grown-up weep, rendered incapable by an almost overwhelming grief. She stared at him, wondering what she could do to comfort, and saw him shake his head, denying his own weakness, somehow struggling for control of his unbearable emotion. After a bit, to her huge relief, he took his hand from his face and reached into his breast pocket for his handkerchief. Then he blew his nose, made an effort to smile at her, reassuring her. He said, "Sorry."
"It doesn't matter, Oscar. I don't mind. Really I understand."This type of writing evokes imagery in one's mind, does it not? It's just beautiful, beautiful writing filled with wondrous characters and a not-so-far-fetched plot. And remembering is important, as it's what keeps the dead alive. To me, a person is defined by his or her own actions. (I've been told that this is an extremely existentialist viewpoint) Thus, remembrance of those actions -- expending energy by keeping such thoughts in the present -- in essence keeps that person in the present, at least in part. But enough of my spiritual beliefs, and on to more great writing. This last passage is more toward the beginning of the book (I've not presented these passages in the order in which they appear in the book):
"Yes, I think you do. Death is part of living. I have to remember that, but from time to time the truth eludes me."
"Living is important, isn't it? And remembering?"
"More important than anything else." He stowed his handkerchief away once more. "That first day, the day you arrived, you and I sat in the church and talked about Christmas and the Winter Solstice. It was then that I remembered Francesca, for the first time, without total desolation. I remembered having exactly the same conversation with her a year or so ago. Trying to explain about the Christmas star and the scientists' theory of time. And she listened but was not convinced. She didn't want to be convinced. She liked the story just as it was.""In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone.
"That was the way she wanted Christmas to be, and for Francesca it wouldn't have been magic any other way. Because the carols and the darkness and the presents were all part of a time when life took flight, and the whole world soared to the stars."
Lucy said, "That's how this Christmas is going to be."
"Stay with us."
"I do love you, Oscar."
"There's a lot of love around. Don't ever forget that."
"Do you want to come downstairs now, and join the others, and have some supper? If they've left any for us. . . ."
"I have to comb my hair and wash my face."
"In that case." He relinquished her hand with a little pat, got off the bed, and went to the door. She watched him go. As he left the room, he turned back for a final reassuring smile.
"Don't be too long, my duck."
... A split second. And Gloria's car was destroyed, unrecognizable, and Gloria and Francesca were both dead.The past almost five and one-half years of my life have been an existed devoid of any emotion. I'm just now beginning to reach the stage where I'm gradually beginning to feel again -- to live again. I take that back a minute. I've actually been able to feel certain things in the past five years or so -- sad things. Things that make one depressed. Things that rob the sound from one's throats in utter gasps of horror and sadness. But now, I'm able to feel just a tiny bit of joy, which I think originates from a number of sources, about which I'll blog later. But for now, on with the rest of this passage:
"The news was broken to me by the police. A nice young sergeant. Poor boy, I cannot describe my reaction, because I felt nothing. Numb. Empty. Devoid of any emotion. And then, gradually, the void filled with a bitter rage and resentment, against whoever, or whatever, had allowed this thing to happen to me. The world, I know, is filled with horror, and one becomes hardened. Horrified, but hardened. Watching television images of destroyed villages, starving children, monumental natural disasters. But this was me. This was my life, my being. My wife. My child! If a God was there . . . and I had never been totally certain that he was . . . I didn't want to have any part of him.
"Out cleric in Dibton called to comfort. He told me that God sends people only what they are strong enough to bear. And I rounded on him, and said that I wished I were as weak as water, and still had my child. And then I sent him away. We never got around to the guilt. I knew Gloria's weakness. I should have been with them. I should have been behind the wheel of the car. If only. If only is my nightmare."With my anxiety disorder, if only, what if, what about, I should have, and other such thoughts become an all-consuming part of life. I literally get trapped in these thoughts -- in cycles of these types of thoughts -- and can't function in the outside world. Some scientists posit that there are an infinite number of multiple realities (a/k/a multiple universes), and getting caught up in all of these "if" questions is like being caught up in an infinite programming loop, effectively shutting me down. Interaction with the outside world becomes nearly impossible, as the "what if" questions just keep flying out of my mind. This loss of functionality, of course, affects my chronic depression, sending me further into the bowels of what some might deem hell-like conditions. Everything -- evening going to the bathroom -- becomes a laborious task to be completed and there simply is no energy left to complete any of these tasks, as it is being expended on the infinite loop-causing "what if" questions. But on with our story:
"If only is like hindsight. A useless exercise. The accident seemed to me to have been one composed of several tragic circumstances. Who knows? Perhaps you would have died, too, Oscar, and then an even larger hole would have been left in the lives of those who knew and loved you all. . . . As for God, I frankly admit that I find it easier to live with the age-old questions about suffering than with many of the easy or pious explanations offered from time to time. Some of which seem to verge on blasphemy. I hope so much that no one has sought to try and comfort you by saying that God must have needed Francesca more than you. I would find it impossible to worship a God who deliberately stole my child from me. Such a God would be a moral monster."
Oscar was astounded. "Is that," he asked at last, "what you really believe?"I have to stop here, because here exists a striking similarity between the character of Henry and who I believe I used to be. I believe that prior to my accident, I was a very giving person, and almost never took from others -- in any sense of the word. One of the things that's been most difficult for me to face, I believe, since my accident, is that I now must rely on others for a great many number of things, especially given the events that have occurred since my accident took place. I'm not used to taking; I'm not used to being on the receiving end of the gift, and it's been extremely difficult for me to even accept what is being offered.
Peter nodded. "It is what I truly believe. Thirty years in the ministry has taught me that the one thing we should never say when a young person dies is 'It is the will of God.' We simply don't know enough to say that. I am in fact convinced that when Francesca died in that terrible accident, God's was the first heart to break."
"I want to move on, to go on living, to be able to accept; to be able to give again. I don't like taking all the time. I've never been that sort of person."
But slowly, I'm coming around to doing just that -- to beginning to accept help from others. To realizing that I need to rely on others, and must take from others. Hopefully, in the not-too-distant future, I'll be able to give again. But right now, I must receive. It's been a difficult realization, and I still have difficulty with the notion and action of receiving (even before the accident, I would always blush and not know what to do when someone thanked me for something). I believe that giving is a part of who I am, who I need to be in order for me to feel whole again.
And slowly -- ever so slowly -- I think I'm starting down the path of beginning to feel like a whole person again.
"Oh, Oscar. It will be all right. Because of your profession, the Church has been so much part of your life for so many years that you will be as familiar as I am with the great biblical promises about life and death. The problem is that traumatic grief can often render them unreal. For a while, what you are probably going to need most is not people who will quote the Bible to you, but close friends who will continue to hold your hand, and lend you a listening ear when you want to speak about Francesca."
Oscar thought about Elfrida, and Peter paused for a moment, as though to give him time to argue this new conception. But Oscar did not say anything.
"Life is sweet," Peter went on. "Beyond the pain, life continues to be sweet. The basics are still there, Beauty, food, and friendship, reservoirs of love and understanding. Later, possibly not yet, you are going to need others who will encourage you to make new beginnings. Welcome them. They will help you move on, to cherish happy memories and confront the painful ones with more than bitterness and anger."
Oscar remembered the dark night, and the image of Francesca, and how, for the first time, it had not reduced him to the painful tears of loss, but had filled his being with a peaceful comfort. Perhaps that had been the start of his recovery. Perhaps this conversation, this interview, whatever one called it, was the continuance.
He did not know. He only knew that he felt better, stronger, not so useless. Perhaps, after all, he hadn't done so badly.
He said, "Thank you."
"Oh, my friend, I wish I could give you so much more."
"No. Don't wish that. You have given me enough."