{"id":15495,"date":"2021-11-26T10:31:00","date_gmt":"2021-11-26T09:31:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dirkvanbabylon.com\/uncategorized\/probing-month-purification\/"},"modified":"2026-04-19T13:04:03","modified_gmt":"2026-04-19T11:04:03","slug":"sprokkelmaand-purification","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dirkvanbabylon.com\/en\/sprokkelmaand\/sprokkelmaand-purification\/","title":{"rendered":"Sprokkelmaand: Purification"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

A Horrible Christmas<\/h2>\n

It was the Christmas that I will always remember as the most dreadful Christmas ever.<\/span><\/p>\n

I was stunned. I have never been fond of the overexcited Christmas atmosphere anyway, that pagan feast of extravagance and waste, of gluttony and drinking, of unwanted gifts and sentimental television programs. Christmas. Bah, the mother of all kitsch. A misguided feast.<\/span><\/p>\n

And even more so when you watch it on a hotel television. To explain that, we must first take a step back. From the deepest darkness light is born. The Christmas of that year was the absolute low point, though not yet the end of the relationship with Ibrahim. I did not know that it could sink even deeper, but I would soon find that out.<\/span><\/p>\n

I had the emergency duty that Christmas weekend. There always has to be a general practitioner on call on those days, but it is divided into segments so that no one in the circle has to remain on duty during the entire holiday period. That is something we arrange among ourselves as family doctors.<\/span><\/p>\n

In practice it means that I am busy the whole Saturday making house calls. There are relatively many calls, but most are easily resolved with an examination and a prescription.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am aware, however, that old Nicole, at the final stage of breast cancer, is on her last legs. I visit her almost every day, and it quickly becomes clear, on the basis of my modest experience as a family doctor, that she will not survive the weekend. That is my feeling, and for some reason it seems that she might choose precisely the Christmas weekend to exchange the temporal for the eternal.<\/span><\/p>\n

I think it cannot be a coincidence. I inform Ibrahim beforehand that the emergency duty promises to be rather heavy, and that I hope to be spared jokes and antics from his side.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was already difficult, but it would become even more difficult.<\/span><\/p>\n

Emergency Number<\/h3>\n

During the night I am called to the dying Nicole, who has fallen out of bed.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her partner, the elderly man with whom she lives, is no longer capable of carrying the heavy burden of care alone. He himself is close to collapse, as I can tell from the telephone, and he does not know what to do.<\/span><\/p>\n

Since I am on duty anyway, it does not cost me much additional effort to go to the house of the dying woman. I am working already. If she wishes to depart at Christmas, who are we to oppose it? Together, the helpless man and I lift her back into bed. They are elderly people, she considerably older than he.<\/span><\/p>\n

She is strongly built, I must add. The cancer has not greatly weakened her physically, judging by her muscular strength when she suffers convulsions. I call in the district nurse, who kindly comes to the house in the depth of the Christmas night. Fortunately someone with a vocation for hopeless care.<\/span><\/p>\n

A sturdy woman, this district nurse, the kind you still had in those days. A disappearing species. We change and wash Nicole. She calms down with a peaceful smile. After a quarter of an hour the convulsions begin again, and she is too restless to leave alone.<\/span><\/p>\n

We all know that Nicole wishes to die at home. She repeatedly declared, while still conscious, that she did not want to set foot in a hospital again, and she was fully aware that she had terminal cancer.<\/span><\/p>\n

All her life she had been a woman who made her own decisions, a strong-willed woman of the people who disposed of herself. It therefore seems only fair that we respect her wish, even now that she has become unconscious. So we spend the night watching beside her in an atmosphere of love and respect.<\/span><\/p>\n

Nicole proves somewhat difficult. She suffers repeated convulsions, so that we must keep her on the bed with all our strength. It is as though she does not want to go without fighting one last time, so as to direct her life according to her own will until the end.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her partner, the old athlete, is mentally devastated and remains almost invisible. She had always dominated him intellectually, through the correctness of her judgment. They were very ordinary people, but that takes nothing away from it; on the contrary. Though this woman had never studied and had attracted little notice during her life, she nevertheless possessed more wisdom than many who have spent years in school.<\/span><\/p>\n

A woman of the people with an everyday appearance, where only the generous bosom stood out, and a large discriminating mouth, on a sturdy figure, living in an apartment of an old house filled with furniture and souvenirs, together with her husband. Afterward he returned to a hopeless working-class existence until early retirement arrived.<\/span><\/p>\n

We relieved each other beside the deathbed, and now and then I tried to doze in the living room, seated in a dusty armchair. Nicole breathed her last at the break of day, which comes late on December twenty-fifth, in these times of darkness and wandering. Various formalities followed: filling out the death certificate and calling the police, which is required to have the body removed.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Washing of the Body<\/h3>\n

The undertaker arrives immediately.<\/span><\/p>\n

Christmas means nothing to such people either when someone has died. Death pays little attention to appointments. Strangely enough, no other emergency calls had come in during the night, and I was left entirely in peace on that front, as if the city were holding its breath.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was almost noon before I came home, exhausted. I found an opportunity to rest a little. With Ibrahim no conversation was possible. He lay inert on the bed when I fell asleep beside him. In my sleep the images of the dying woman returned, but she looked peaceful, and I was glad for her that she could depart and bring her suffering to an end.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am awakened by the doorbell. There is a man downstairs in the hall who claims to be a general practitioner. I am myself a general practitioner, and it is better not to mention that. I am not going to begin with \u201cHello, colleague.\u201d Am I still on duty or not? No, someone has taken over from me, I know that for certain. It is already long past two o\u2019clock, far beyond the agreed time.<\/span><\/p>\n

It quickly appears that the unexpected colleague has been called through the French-speaking emergency service, and indeed by Ibrahim in person. Meanwhile Ibrahim lies in a semi-comatose state on the sofa in the living room. I manage to wake him enough to hear that he no longer wishes to see the doctor. I find that rather rude.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut you did call him, didn\u2019t you? Well then you can sort it out with him yourself.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLeave me alone. I\u2019m not well.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI only hope you will be well enough to pay the doctor.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I let the colleague in, do not introduce myself, but bring him to the patient, after which I leave the building to get something to eat. Contrary to what had been agreed, there is no food in the house. My Christmas meal in the Asian restaurant, which remains open despite the festivities in people\u2019s homes, has no taste, though that cannot be blamed on the Eastern cuisine.<\/span><\/p>\n

The contrast is enormous between the tough woman who died this morning at dawn and the theatrical behavior of Ibrahim, who in his overheated reasoning apparently felt the need to draw attention to himself at such a moment. I realize that I can no longer bear it and that I am close to collapse.<\/span><\/p>\n

I return home hoping to make Ibrahim understand that things have gone too far and that we must look for solutions. I do not know where I find the courage. When I push open the door I see, to my horror, Ibrahim sitting arrogantly at the coffee table with yet another colleague, another general practitioner.<\/span><\/p>\n

This time it is even a doctor from our own emergency service, the very same doctor who has meanwhile taken over from me. I slip inside unnoticed. Fortunately the colleague sits with his back to me writing notes. I can sneak unseen to the bedroom. I lie down on the bed for a moment to think over the situation. It does not take long before the third doctor leaves the house and Ibrahim enters the bedroom.<\/span><\/p>\n

You Filthy Wretch<\/h3>\n

You were clearly drunk.<\/span><\/p>\n

Your speech was again incoherent, threatening, and insulting. \u201cYou\u2019ll see. I\u2019ll send my men. My brother from Las Vegas is coming to Brussels.\u201d Abuse, dredging up old grievances, endless repetition of unpleasant phrases. Once again you are aggressive and impossible, whining about money. Hopeless lamentation and endless complaining instead of doing anything useful.<\/span><\/p>\n

I remain calm as much as possible, but I cannot help replying: \u201cScoundrel! Serpent! Do you think everyone always does everything for free just to please you? Do you have any idea how hard I have worked?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

He stares at me glassily, eyes boring holes into empty space, bulging gaze and hollow lenses, his face an ominous leather mask. He predicts the end of the world. \u201cYou\u2019ll see, it will end badly.\u201d Then he stands before me and slowly pulls open his shirt. His chest and abdomen are covered with red inflamed scratch marks.<\/span><\/p>\n

The entire front of his torso is scarred with purple stripes and crusts of clotted blood along both sides of his rib cage. Ibrahim gazes upward into the distance behind and above me like an antique painting of Saint Sebastian, dimly lit by the meagre bulb of our bedroom. The cat flees complaining.<\/span><\/p>\n

Kyrie eleison. Lord have mercy. A silence falls while his gaze descends upon me, and in his fixed eyes there is the look of madness. That terrible look that no longer sees reality. I must get out of here.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m leaving.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you stay here. You must not go.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I head for the door but he grabs me and it turns into a brief struggle. I refuse to give in any longer. This cannot be endured. One must not accept the unacceptable, for no one benefits from that. I free myself, run down the stairs and jump into the car. I drive away.<\/span><\/p>\n

He shouts after me from the window that he did not mean it like that and that I must return. I go to a hotel. I want to think, to be calm. My heart pounds in my throat for hours while I watch a series of idiotic Christmas programs on television. I cannot believe that I am spending the Christmas weekend in a cheap little hotel, alone, after years of faithful and selfless service, and with Nicole\u2019s farewell still fresh in my mind.<\/span><\/p>\n

While I sit watching the small hotel television set and it becomes ever clearer that it is indeed Christmas, it adds, uninvited, that little extra bit of misery that was really unnecessary. Fortunately the absurd Christmas programs, after a short bout of crying, do not prevent reflection, and I can calmly consider what I must now do.<\/span><\/p>\n

Feeling nothing, realizing nothing, no longer weeping. Freed from a great pressure. Alone for a moment, catching my breath. Letting the agitated thoughts settle. I can truly no longer laugh about it. I conclude that I have no other choice than to protect this mad person against himself and to invoke the law concerning the protection of persons with mental illness.<\/span><\/p>\n

Compulsory Admission<\/h3>\n

The law for the protection of the mentally ill sets explicit conditions that must be met in order to deprive someone of his liberty.<\/span><\/p>\n

In short, it must concern a mentally ill person without insight into his illness, who represents a danger to himself or others and refuses care. It is a very good law, much better than the previous one. The image of the scratched-open chest keeps returning to me. You are engaging in self-mutilation, I tell myself.<\/span><\/p>\n

The next day I present myself at the psychiatric emergency department of the turbulent city hospital, where Ibrahim had already been brought a year earlier after an episode of disinhibited behavior, suicidal tendencies, reproaches and violent threats, in a story that kept repeating itself.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the meantime I have called home briefly and it immediately appears that the same story continues: insults, foul language, humiliations. It is not yet noon and he is already drunk as a potato. He is sober only when he oversleeps. I slam the receiver down, for negotiating no longer makes any sense.<\/span><\/p>\n

At the emergency department I identify myself as a general practitioner, hoping to be received within a reasonable time by the psychiatrist on duty. This succeeds and I explain the case. The psychiatrist indicates that it would be better if I myself called the magistrate to initiate an urgent procedure with the aim of having you committed.<\/span><\/p>\n

I am allowed to use the telephone. I take a deep breath. I feel as though I am speaking you to the gallows, but I have no choice. Your behavior is impossible and it is becoming worse. The boundary of what is acceptable has been crossed for all of us.<\/span><\/p>\n

With pain in my heart, given our many years of marriage, I must report a psychiatric problem with harmful consequences that would be criminal in nature if they were not the result of illness.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have lived with this person for sixteen years. Legally I am therefore incompetent to judge in this matter as a physician in order to initiate a procedure of compulsory observation. As a human being and as a partner, however, I must react when the situation, despite all goodwill on our side, becomes untenable and degenerates into insulting and humiliating behavior.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

On several occasions we have had to call the police during conflicts that got out of hand. Yes, dear Ibrahim, the list is long. Once you broke a finger of mine. In 1996 you jumped from a height of seven meters and recovered reasonably well after multiple orthopedic operations. Now it has degenerated into self-mutilation.<\/span><\/p>\n

Either I file a complaint against you for fraud and embezzlement, in which case you must stand trial as a free man who has done wrong. Or you are recognized for what you really are: a mentally ill person who no longer acts responsibly and who may recover with proper treatment in a psychiatric hospital.<\/span><\/p>\n

Since you refuse all care, since there is danger, and since the situation is urgent because it threatens to spiral out of control, may it please the magistrate to obtain the opinion of a psychiatrist in one of the major hospitals.<\/span><\/p>\n

Verbal aggression, exuberant and malicious. Harassment. Lies and deceit. Obscene language. Small in stature and cowardly in spirit, you are capable of little else. You make use of your stentorian voice, which has something of a muezzin about it except for the minaret, and with that overwhelming organ of sound you draw from an inexhaustible vulgar vocabulary.<\/span><\/p>\n

You overflow with insults, contempt and hurtful remarks, with resentment and envy and spite. You cause noise disturbance day and night in the apartment building where we live. Neighbors complain. You siphon off my money through fraud, abuse of trust, theft of mail and financial mismanagement.<\/span><\/p>\n

Loose agreements again and again, supported by no document, that are never honored. Endless chatter day and night, with respect for nothing. A boundless, uncontrolled discourse in which you were always the center of everything. Not to mention crude gestures and foul language in private and public, blackmail and harassment, sabotage and slander.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the past you have proved dangerous during such crises, and you become so again each time. You refuse to seek or accept care. You lie to everyone and poison the relationships of the entire family.<\/span><\/p>\n

You do not hesitate to threaten a colleague with false accusations that have no basis. When I heard that, I knew that I could never forgive you, though much forgiveness is possible in the hand of the Lord.<\/span><\/p>\n

At least I am now freed from your endless telephone calls, long conversations at impossible hours with various members of the family, at home and abroad, or with strangers.<\/span><\/p>\n

Money and Music<\/h3>\n

My thrombosis has reshuffled the cards.<\/span><\/p>\n

I no longer harbor resentment. Only the firm will to create transparency and to describe what has been salvaged. To let light shine into a darkness of loss. Now that I have moved with some belongings, I can perhaps begin again from zero for the fourth time in my life.<\/span><\/p>\n

I do not know whether I can still manage it, given the initial lack of money, but when I listen to black female singers I think there is little else to do but try again. I discover that I cannot live without music. Television is not sufficiently controllable for creating atmosphere.<\/span><\/p>\n

The point is that you must be able to control your own interior. Through music you can steer your emotional impulses to some extent, in order to summon the deeper feelings from their caverns in the brain and reflect on the situation that has arisen. It is good for the development of inner life.<\/span><\/p>\n

But there is also the problem of reality. I am broke. I remained far too long unaware of my disastrous financial situation. Now that we keep accounts again, most things are under control, though I dread that on Monday another threatening letter may appear in the mailbox with the dry message: \u201cpay, or\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

I have no other choice but to repair the deficits if I wish to continue functioning in this society. I will have to work hard for several years, renouncing certain things that I would otherwise have enjoyed, such as holidays.<\/span><\/p>\n

The fact that the CDs are still in the wrong cases speaks volumes. I must puzzle it out again. For years I had to live with CDs in the wrong sleeves under Ibrahim\u2019s reign of chaos. It is a daily sacrifice until one day the whole collection disappears during a move. Forgotten and forgiven, long ago.<\/span><\/p>\n

Then you think the dust has finally settled, and you open another saved box from the strange household of those years. A song lies inside that should not have been there, a melody badly classified, and it brings bitter memories back. When I listen to it again now, I feel a kind of nausea.<\/span><\/p>\n

The chronic chaos, the disorder of untimeliness that continues to pursue me. Yet I would like to forget it. For a hundred euros I bought myself a CD player. A gettoblaster with a gaudy sheen of imitation steel. It stands there now spinning and turning, bringing black music.<\/span><\/p>\n

The fact that I can now choose the tunes means that I have started writing again, now that I control my surroundings. To shut myself entirely off from the inhabited world, after a festival of black voices I repeatedly listen to the extremely white <\/span>Christmas Oratorio<\/span><\/i> of Johann Sebastian Bach.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is a precious rediscovery, for how much I once loved this music. \u201cJauchzet, frohlocket.\u201d Rejoice and celebrate. Be glad. Young and joyful in the opening chorus unfolds a stately and soothing yet uplifting music that tells of the birth of the Savior and of the marvelous things it will bring to human civilization.<\/span><\/p>\n

A child is born. Hallelujah. A countertenor and a boys\u2019 choir sing accomplice roles in one of my favorite pieces. All those strange voices I once collected: boy sopranos and countertenors, and black female singers. It belongs to the finest in the history of Christian culture. It is as if a closed shutter opens again now that I can enjoy it undisturbed.<\/span><\/p>\n

I uncross my arms and seek consolation in eternal art, which gives ballast to my solitude. Forget society and associations. Forget the whole idea of a life partner or a soulmate. In case of need, use the erase key. Even without union, purification and enlightenment can still find their value.<\/span><\/p>\n

The bathroom method has demonstrated that sufficiently. Not the goal but the path must remain before our eyes. The poets have devoted beautiful pages to that.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI pour new chalices and a new offering of incense rises in smoke.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Can I Do It?<\/h3>\n

Desire arises from absence, I observe once again.<\/span><\/p>\n

Only when I lay there paralyzed did I no longer wish my life to be over. Once and for all I felt there that it must truly not yet be finished. The fact that I miss the little prince proves the love and the baptism of fire of my renewed existence.<\/span><\/p>\n

The self-evidence that life simply continues has disappeared. I no longer have the feeling that it will never end and that everything will take care of itself. That is why every moment has now become dear to me, always watching for intense encounters, drifting in between like islands of insight and awareness on a primordial soup of impulses and fears during daily meditation.<\/span><\/p>\n

This moment too will pass to make room for another. It is never finished, and there is always a continuation. What can be done? What can you change? How much control do you have over your life? Are you even asking the right questions?<\/span><\/p>\n

Let us make one last attempt to seek truth in letters, for the time being with no other intention than to be able to say that I rose from paralysis in order to type this, with two hands that function.<\/span><\/p>\n

Even if one finger is somewhat crooked, the finger Ibrahim broke in my hand and which is irreparably damaged. But I already said that I harbor no resentment. Lord, deliver me from my unnecessary fears.<\/span><\/p>\n

What can one conclude? I work myself to the bone. It is no longer healthy. There is the well-attended general practice during the day, inspection and medical examination work in between, meetings about healthcare, always just on time and always a little running.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Decision of Purification<\/h3>\n

Dear Ibrahim,<\/p>\n

Do not ask me how I managed to endure sixteen years with you.<\/span><\/p>\n

How and why I defended you against my better judgment, against all common sense? Granted, in your own way you also took care of me for many years: you fed and clothed me, and accompanied me along my path through the field of care.<\/span><\/p>\n

That you became increasingly unbalanced and, in the end, impossible to live with, did not for a long time alter the fact that we were bound together, on the basis of a bond that had grown out of love. True marital love works on sexual grounds. Our relationship was a pagan marriage, founded on mutual desire, freely chosen by both parties, neither fearing publicity nor actively seeking it.<\/span><\/p>\n

It was a visible, factual relationship between two men. We made no effort to hide ourselves from others, but neither did we emphasize it. \u201cDon\u2019t tell, don\u2019t ask,\u201d as in the American army. No need to fuss about it. In civilized circles in Brussels there is no longer anyone who takes offense at two men living together. It has become the most ordinary thing in the world.<\/span><\/p>\n

At that time we could not yet marry. Fortunately, I must now say, we never did. A benevolent power spared me that fatal mistake. Ten years ago I would have done it, if it had been possible then. Quite a few people are by nature faithful, and made to function within the bonds of marriage.<\/span><\/p>\n

Attention for others fades when you believe you have found \u201cthe one.\u201d It is a mechanism that lies ready, and for some among us it makes marriage the best way to tame the devils of sexuality.<\/span><\/p>\n

By this I do not mean that sexuality is diabolical, but rather that moving through a world full of temptations leads to anxieties, excitement and uncertainty, which are partly kept under control by the bonds of marriage.<\/span><\/p>\n

A good relationship offers both partners the opportunity to unfold themselves. My dear Ibrahim. I believe that I always gave you every opportunity, that I encouraged and protected you, defended you and taught you many things. Conversely, you restricted my development by stealing my money and by telling lies. You tricked and deceived me.<\/span><\/p>\n

That is what I reproach you for, even though you did it under the influence of a terrible illness of the soul. I still sometimes think of you and wonder how you might be doing. I do not wish to see you again, but neither will I go looking for you to reproach you, let alone to demand my money back. I had better forget it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Everything happened in such a way that my feeling is simply: let it rest, so long as we at least no longer have to deal with one another. The last time I saw you, in the street on New Year\u2019s Eve, I walked straight past you, yet I could not suppress a surge of contradictory emotions.<\/span><\/p>\n

It can still make me angry that you retain the power to bring my blood to the boiling point merely by showing your false face. Everything churns together there: anger, fear, sorrow, resentment. There is absolutely no point in trying to dissect all that, and it is best simply that we no longer see each other, and that I manage my own self-development.<\/span><\/p>\n

That is the result of sixteen years of marriage. Yet we must resist the feeling that it was a failure, or something that should have been avoided. Perhaps we both gave the best of ourselves, only your best was not good enough.<\/span><\/p>\n

The soul is like a small vessel tossed about by a storm that suddenly breaks loose, one that no one can control or predict. We are delivered over to a thunderstorm of emotions that others unleash within us. When things go badly wrong it is usually too early or too late to draw lessons from it. Afterwards everyone licks their wounds.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is of no use at all to ask the question of guilt, though it automatically arises after every shipwreck. It is inborn in us to search for culprits when something unpleasant happens. Instead of seeking guilt, it is far better to seek the solution, and that solution lies in the proper use of the delete key.<\/span><\/p>\n

As far as I am concerned, liberation from confusion lies in wiping away systems of delusion and searching for the true reality and the real truth. You can no longer do that, my bewildered Ibrahim; you have lost the trail. But I will set myself free. Farewell to the psychosis! Away with it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Let the derailed search for meaning of the madman drift away. Break free from the senseless discourse of the deranged. I tried far too long to understand it, to probe it, to tolerate it and forgive it. I was an accomplice for far too long.<\/span><\/p>\n

You wanted to exercise power. You had an insatiable thirst for power, possessions and money. Unfortunately your broken mind was barely touched by civilization. A few phrases from the Qur\u2019an excepted, which you memorized but never put into practice.<\/span><\/p>\n

Only one thing counted: scraping money together. Plucking me bare, and transferring the spoils from our country to untraceable accounts.<\/span><\/p>\n

I avoided confrontations I could not win against a mentally disturbed opponent who recoiled from nothing. In that way it lasted a few years too long. This grotesque performance starring a sinister prophet of doom who spoke nonsense without cease.<\/span><\/p>\n

How must one deal with someone who has so completely lost their bearings? I still do not know, after sixteen years of trying. Should I forgive it, or forget it?<\/span><\/p>\n

The Delete Key<\/h3>\n

Forgiveness and forgetfulness: two different concepts that must not be confused.<\/span><\/p>\n

Both are necessary if we are to deal with the disasters time inflicts upon us. The daily washing-up is necessary for the kitchen, and the habits of every day are indispensable for spiritual cleanliness. The familiar, the everyday and the traditional lead to insight, according to Blaise Pascal, who suffered from panic attacks.<\/span><\/p>\n

Care rests upon the art of surviving, and that can be learned from thick books. Every morning father goes to work again, serene and reassured, or excited and sometimes sweating profusely, depending on the day. Father can only manage this thanks to much meditation and willpower, and by letting things go.<\/span><\/p>\n

On the basis of reading the dead masters, meditation is the wellspring and fountain of spiritual development. Daily contemplation wipes clean and opens up, and it reassures through contact with the rich fabric of our inner life. I gladly surrender myself to it.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is a form\u2014I would not say of spiritual laziness, but of economy\u2014of saving strength so that in the evenings and weekends one does not fall short.<\/span><\/p>\n

For there are also the moments when father puts boys into the bath, or writes about it, which costs almost as much energy and is nearly as pleasant. All that must be thought through, and it provides us with pleasure, with moments of rest to distance ourselves from the world and to feel well.<\/span><\/p>\n

I try to forget the past, though it often raises its head again, yet it wears away. Forgetting is possible through daily habit and by feeding the soul with new spiritual nourishment. In the wearing struggle of daily life, contemplation allows us to restore ourselves and to grant forgiveness.<\/span><\/p>\n

The gift of forgetfulness is the delete key of memory. How much would you accomplish without the delete key on your keyboard? The delete key, my Beloved Reader, is the most vital part of Your Keyboard.<\/span><\/p>\n

It is very good that you cannot read everything erased by the delete key, just as you would rather not see yesterday\u2019s meal lingering on today\u2019s plate, let alone at the corners of your beloved\u2019s mouth.<\/span><\/p>\n

An invisible hand has purposefully pruned the branching of creation and of civilization, and that makes the tree visible, without the jungle of excess that would otherwise stand there, without overgrowth or parasitic vines. Meaning is the fruit of erasure.<\/span><\/p>\n

Madness is the result of an absent or poorly functioning delete key. It is people whose kitchens are never tidied up\u2014or who maintain too much order in too small a space\u2014who fall prey to mental confusion. I think of a psychotic woman who once asked for a pill \u201cto forget.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

If she could obtain such a pill, she said, she would be cured of her delusion of guilt. She was certain of it. She asked her doctor because she herself could not do it: forget. The doctor had to do it for her by writing a prescription of forgiveness and forgetfulness. The purification of the past is a gigantic task that is never finished.<\/span><\/p>\n

Now pay close attention, for I will say this only once:<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThe steel of madness is forged on the anvil of memory, under the hammer of a merciless fate, heated by the fire of guilt, fanned by the bellows of fear and shame, and the burnt oxygen of the past. If you can no longer shut down that infernal forge, then you are truly mad.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Take a deep breath. It is through the art of forgetting that we sometimes succeed, during reflection, in snatching a particular fragment back from oblivion. From time to time a sculpted moment emerges from the mists of passing history.<\/span><\/p>\n

A new light falls upon a detail, the imprint of a moment, precisely chiselled from the ore of time, refined into filigree, branching like coral. A few memories like finely drawn crystals that melt upon contact with the warm skin of your hand. Like a photograph crumbling into sand.<\/span><\/p>\n

Photography<\/h3>\n

While organizing the hard drive after a virus attack, photographs came to light.<\/span><\/p>\n

Nothing is more fleeting. They were taken on a little trip I made through France. On the way there I first stopped in Redu, the book village in Belgian Luxembourg, where I gave myself an irresponsible number of second-hand books, including one for the bedside table for the coming days: the <\/span>Caract\u00e8res<\/span><\/i> of Jean de La Bruy\u00e8re (17th century).<\/span><\/p>\n

In Ars, above Lyon, I greet the holy parish priest Jean-Marie Vianney (19th century). A man troubled in mind yet overflowing with pastoral love\u2014crackling, eccentric and somewhat unhinged\u2014but with a good heart, who was nevertheless canonized because of the inspiration and fervor he shared with large numbers of people.<\/span><\/p>\n

The little holy priest had hallucinations and eating disorders, though that was hardly surprising in those undernourished times just above Lyon. He also performed miracles, though I do not believe so much in those anymore. In Nice I mainly read a great deal. Roland Dorgel\u00e8s: a blood-chilling fresco of the Great War of 1914\u201318. The madness of the previous century, in which war and medicine became industries.<\/span><\/p>\n

Medicine and war: applied sciences, lying together in a scandalous bed of adulterous frenzy, which have presented humanity with some of the finest orthopedic inventions, such as the intramedullary nail, the bone screw, and the stainless-steel femoral head.<\/span><\/p>\n

The sewing machines in Oradour-sur-Glane. Christ seen from the back. This year I have cancelled my holiday and prefer to spend a few quiet days behind closed doors and drawn curtains. Then I gladly return once more to the seventeenth century.<\/span><\/p>\n

We are alone, terribly alone, on our pilgrimage. From time to time someone accompanies us for a short stretch of the journey in the carriage, as Father Surin and the boy once did on their way to Pontoise.<\/span><\/p>\n

To be continued\u2026<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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