“In the end, as in the beginning, all they had were the stories. The stories they told about one another, and the stories they told to themselves.” – Melanie Benjamin
It feels like there’s a resurgence of swans in my life, and with it all the complicated glamour and ferocity of their species. From this emotional rendering of ‘Swan Lake’ to this unexpectedly devastating book ‘The Swans of Fifth Avenue’ by Melanie Benjamin, the equally celebrated and maligned bird is emblematic of all the complexity and beauty of life around us. Ms. Benjamin proffers an embellished story of what might have gone on behind the painted faces of Truman Capote’s temporary coterie of swans along Fifth Avenue, and the demons and conflicted journey of Mr. Capote himself. It’s a tale of human connections torn asunder by decadence, betrayal and the binds of society that seem to pull more tightly the higher one ascends in social strata. It’s a view of the precarious threads of friendship, how delicate such a thing can be, even after years of thinking you know someone. It’s also the story of beaut, and how we always seem to want more, even when entirely immersed in it. Because that’s when it’s hardest to see.
“But there was always more. More beauty to be seen, more places to travel, more acclaim to be won. More love to earn, to barter, to exchange or withhold. To miss, always. Outside, looking in. Why did he always feel that way, every moment of every day?” ~ Melanie Benjamin
There is something very sad and almost sinister about the way the world works to challenge certain people. There’s an element of chance and luck that doesn’t always dole itself out fairly, a sliver of destiny that almost dares us to believe, if only for a moment, that we have some sort of say in the trajectory of our lives, that we have some bit of control. It’s a tease. It lends a delicious tension to whatever events flutter about us, a tempting but ever-elusive golden ring for which we reach over and over, grabbing and grasping in desperate, pathetic attempts at snatching it. The wiser ones among us take joy in trying, in going through the strenuous motions. They understand it’s all for naught, and they relax and let go, allowing themselves happiness in the simple act unto itself. The rest of us go through life thinking it is possible to reach it, to foolishly believe that others have reached it, that others have found happiness upon reaching it. In the end, it’s not something you can grab or hold. It’s not something you can ever reach. It exists always a little ahead, or perhaps a bit behind, but never close enough to touch. To some it’s a green light, to others a diamond ring. To all, a desire – a want – and it makes us feel alive.
Now there were no more stories to tell, to soothe, to comfort, to draw strangers close together; to link the hearts and minds.
To wound, to hurt. To destroy the one thing they each loved more than anything else…
Beauty. Beauty in all its glory, in all its iterations; the exquisite moment of perfect understanding between two lonely, damaged souls, sitting silently by a pool, or in the twilight, or lying in bed, vulnerable and naked in every way that mattered. The haunting glanced of a woman who knew she was beautiful because of how she saw herself reflected in her friend’s eyes.
The splendor of belonging, being included, prized, coveted.
The loveliness of a flower, lilies of the valley, teardrop blossoms snowy white against glossy green foliage. Made lovelier because of the friend’s hand tenderly proffering the blossom, a present, a balm.
The beauty of understanding tears in an understanding face.
The beauty of a perfectly tailored shirt, crisp, blinding white, just out of the box.
The beauty of a swirl of taffeta, the tinkling of bells, diamonds, emeralds; a pristine paper flower.
Beauty.
~ Melanie Benjamin
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