Nauseous & Shadowed Sun

"…and the next thing I knew we were looking at the most miraculous paintings ever painted by an American not even Bellows excepted- these paintings by Georgia o'Keefe, and Irish woman from Texas-comparatively unknown but Christ what paintings passionately chaste and cool explosions into things cool and white (almost hospital white) and there were great vagina flowers color of orchids and young roses, flowers young and strong and magnificently physical and rich in color and as simple as silence, the body flower unfolding in the soul{…} How Odilon Redon would have bowed before these flowers."

Dec. 6, 1928 from Shadows of the Sun, when Harry Crosby encounters Georgia O'Keefe's paintings for the first time:


I finished two books this week which came into some strange alignment and did a number of moodiness to my head: Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre and Shadows of the Sun: The Diaries of Harry Crosby.

I know, some people will say, "Oh, I read Nausea when I was in high school", but I would reply, "Did you understand it?" People often exclaim how they read so and so in high school but rarely can say anything intelligent about the work. I say yes, read as much as possible in high school then after you graduate, forget that you read those books and read them again in few years after some life experiences.

Regarding Nausea, I was surprised how internalized and moody this book turned out to be. After reading the bio (Tête á Tête) then reading this novel; I found myself trying to fit the pieces of Sartre's life into the shape of the novel, not a good tactic.

Questions arouse. Why did the main character only interact with the autodidact, pederast and a petulant, aging actress? And who was the narrator, really? Was this an exercise in depression? Is existentialism a society-wide depression? Nevertheless, existentialism and the Roquentins of this world has come and gone. Trends shift, and people are still having kids, romances, cars, wars; not much has changed. Yes, perhaps there are more options for those who chose to step outside of the line of "progress", but how many can really sustain a life of introspection?

On the other hand, Shadows of the Sun: The Diaries of Harry Crosby, was a romp into pure self-indulgence. Harry Crosby acquired notoriety as an American poet who served in WWI, moved to Paris in the mid-1890's, lived madly among other expatriates, drinking champagne cocktails, placing bets on horse races and chasing tail, then committing a sensationalist double suicide with his girl lover-proto Sid & Nancy.

Even though Crosby knew many people in this Paris scene, one doesn't get any insight about history in reading his diaries. It is written in a codified, fragmented, impressionist way; however, one does learn about how many cocktails Crosby drank, or how much money was gained or lost on horses, or what woman du jour Crosby obsessed about. All this wrapped around very mythological and breathless paeans to the sun and fire.

Crosby would be someone I would go drinking with and listen to his extravagant stories, but I unless I kept distant, I don't think I would personally like him very well. His diaries reveal a not very considerate and self-absorbed person bent on self-destruction. Nevertheless, what makes this diary interesting is that it presents a rare window into a time and a life that might have dissolved into history.

More about Crosby's chaotic life.
http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/a_f/crosby/bio.htm