Webster's New Universal Unabridged Dictionary (Barnes & Noble, 1989) defines 'perfect' as "conforming absolutely to the description or definition of the type; excellent or complete beyond practical or theoretical improvement; exactly fitting the need in a certain situation or for a certain purpose; without any of the flaws or shortcomings that might be present; correct in every detail; thorough, complete, utter; pure or unmixed; unqualified, absolute; unmitigated, out-and-out." Likewise, perfection is "the state or quality of being or becoming perfect; the highest degree of proficiency, skill, or excellence; the perfect embodiment of something...." But is 'perfection' actually a state of being, or is it an ideal which may never truly be reached? James Kenneth Stephens wrote, in The Crock of Gold, "'Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect. There are lumps in it....'" It seems that he saw perfection as an impossibility, imagining that although one could see an event as perfect when it occurred, hindsight would reveal inevitable flaws. W. Somerset Maugham agreed, writing, "Perfection is a trifle dull. It is not the least of life's ironies that this, which we all aim at, is better not quite achieved." However, Karl Kraus' view, as seen in "Half-Truths and One-and-a-Half Truths," differed from Stephens' and Maugham's: "She only lacked a flaw to be perfect." Perhaps these two perspectives merely referred to different definitions of the term: Stephens and Maugham to "being without fault or defect" and Kraus to "complete." It is conceivable that there is no one way to understand 'perfection,' that it is a personal and subjective concept, both in definition and in application. While this is reasonable, it is not terribly satisfying.
I hold memories of two phenomena that I regard as absolutely perfect. One is a practical reality, and happens periodically for many, including me. This most perfect physical sensation is the simple result of the whack of a reflex hammer--the knee jumps open and the leg flies out, with no control whatever. The lack of control is the perfection, and the unanticipatable predictability of that loss of power is the sensation that is so appealing. It is an innocent, childlike feeling, and too rare. José Bergamón described it thus: "To be thirsty and to drink water is the perfection of sensuality rarely achieved. Sometimes you drink water; other times you are thirsty."
A more 'fantastic' experience of physical perfection came to me only once, briefly and unforgettably. I was in an on-again/off-again romantic relationship with someone younger than I. It was frustrating for each of us, because while we seemed to want the same things from the experience, there were many impediments to overcome. The age difference was the major one, and my preexisting friendship with his sisters was the most potentially damaging. Our life stages were very different, making our schedules difficult to reconcile. Put simply, there were several issues, and we had no hope of getting over them. We tried, somewhat, but we also denied that there were problems and regarded our relationship to be so casual that it did not require (and would not allow) any work. In a sense, we mutually surrendered any hope for its future.
We still spent time together, though: secret hours in the middle of the night or as the result of blatant lies to others. It was not easy, but the complication reinforced the air of delicious deception; we were getting away with something.
One evening shortly after dinner, there was a knock at my door, on the alley side of my house. I came up the stairs, expecting a female friend or one of my housemates. I was stunned to see J.S. through the window in the door, looking nervous but smiling broadly--I'd rarely seen his face in daylight. I opened the door and asked, inanely, "What's up?"
"I had to see you."
"Why?"
"I've been thinking about you all day, and I wanted to hold you."
With that, he leaned toward me (he was several inches taller than I), kissed me lightly on the mouth, and slipped his arms around me. He picked me up and just held me in his arms, inches off the concrete landing outside my door. He laughed quietly, apparently having accomplished what he had set out to do. I was entirely comfortable, suspended in his arms, legs dangling, my head on his shoulder and my face at his neck. My only thought was, "This is the most perfect feeling I'll ever have": loved, cherished, protected, desired, admired, tiny, lovable, complete. It was deliciously unexpected; "There is a certain perfection in accident which we never consciously attain" (Henry David Thoreau). Had he asked first, I would have demurred, out of some notion of decorum. But, as Thomas Mann wrote, "To rest in the arms of perfection is the desire of any man intent upon creating excellence; and is not nothingness a form of perfection?" That nothingness--the lack of control or responsibility--the transcendence, was the beauty and soul of the experience.
J.S. and I (obviously) did not end up together. Life got in the way, and we lost each other. I do know that he is well now, and happy. I cannot help but wonder, though, what life would be if we were still together. Would I have had that perfect feeling again? In a way, I am glad that our relationship ended. The solitariness of that moment may be what made it truly perfect. In the words of Ben Jonson, "The Noble Nature":
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May
Although it fall and die that night;
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
No comments:
Post a Comment