A Furious Oyster
Addendum:
Missing pages from Neruda’s memoirs
... I wander over this vast beach, absorbing illusions, seeking in the silent geography a symbol that will speak, a message from the deep sea without and within ...
What does the oyster mean to us? In these unsurprised times, oysters elicit not a divine awe, or even a healthy fear, but simply a mild curiosity. For us, oysters are restaurant food, glistening shells for a mantel, the symbol on a London Tube card, good dead matter for a Dutch still life. It’s true that the oyster makes for a simple subject — so basic, so primeval. It has progressed in its bivalve form, but only in the most minimal fashion, far less so than, say, homo sapiens. Yet should we feel contempt, comparing it against our own more developed form, one that has evolved as a species, and evolves within the analogy of our individual lives as we move from child to adult? No, I do not think so. Nor am I personally capable.
I could never despise the oyster. The sea and its forms have always charmed me. Slipping shells into my bag, I have recognised what the oyster is, truly: a metaphor for resurrection.
Each time I dig up a shell it is a kind of unburial, a coming-forth. The oyster knows how to return time and again. Its outside is an external parallel to its inner strength, a hard shell that represents the dur désir de durer. The oyster persists. For a while its shell may disappear into the ocean, but it always washes back up, always returns. When I wrote my poem about the Count of Villamediana, I had this in mind. His ear is an oyster, able to return to life, listen, act.
And it does so with fury. When people think of fury they assume it has to do with violence: the uncontrolled, the unleashed, the untrammelled form of feminine revenge. They think into its Greek roots, imagining Furies, screaming harpies, cold dispensers of punishment. Fury is one of the passions most attractive to read about and least pleasant to experience, either as actor or receiver.
But the fury I mean is the opposite of duty, and also the opposite of anger. What is my fury? It is energy, intensity, force, connection. It is attention, of the kind to be found when one is listening closely. The ear-as-oyster is not angry, but active. After death, humans live out a quietude and order they have never before experienced. To emerge from death, it is necessary to emerge with fury, in an apocalyptic moment in reverse — not life at the moment of death, but death at the moment it comes into being.
A furious oyster, in other words, is a very good listener. This is probably why it also makes for such a lovely conversation partner.
A bright clear day. ‘Dangerous beach’, reads a sign. The water is flat, almost unmoving. The sun mildly shines. Seven year-old Neruda, still called Ricardo Eliécer Neftalí Reyes Basoalto, plays in the sands of Temuco. The water ripples, then from it a giant form rises.
NEFTALÍ: Who are you? Why have you come?
OYSTER: Oh hello, dear boy. I hope I haven’t interrupted. As you can see, I am a mollusk from the deepest ocean, and it appears that I have arrived at your shore. We are able to visit when the earth goes through certain stormy motions, during undersea earthquakes. Your country has many of these — perhaps this is also why it has more poets than most? Or perhaps not, as in any case, we only reach those who are disposed to see us, if you catch my drift.
NEFTALÍ: I am only a child and my eyes are unformed, but I see you are a strange creature, one others would refuse to acknowledge. What do you want? How do you come to be here, alone?
OYSTER: That is a story in itself. I suppose I should explain. In my kingdom under the sea, the question of activity and repose divides our people. In fact we have come almost to the brink of war over this question. Many see me as too calm, too ideologically radical, too restrained. Too open to the ways of other species. You must belong to our cult, the warriors said to me. They are the majority. You must act, they said. But they do not understand the true meaning of fury, the meaning the true Oysters know. I do understand their love of action, yes. Yet I could not continue to exist in such a society with my pacifism.
NEFTALÍ: So you left?
OYSTER: Yes sir. Now I will keep swimming about, I suppose, looking for others like me. And continue to work, doing one thing after another with calm intensity. The most pacific make their way, somehow.
NEFTALÍ: Have you met other humans?
OYSTER: I know there are stories about me, or other oysters like me. I know I have been seen by those willing to see. But you are the only one with whom I have spoken.
NEFTALÍ: Would you like to stay here? Is there anything I can do to help?
OYSTER: No, no, this isn’t going right. That is my question to ask you, young man. In any case, I must get back to the ocean soon. My body is made for deeper waters. What I wanted to leave you with was this seeming paradox — the paradox of me. I represent the true furious oyster, the one who believes that fury is not violent action, but thoughtful mental invention. The true Furies are neither mad shrieking revenge seekers nor blind and dutiful followers of the law, but those who seek through sensuous creation to take action in the world. O pray, I fear I am becoming a pedant. Perhaps I may try to explain with a very short story?
NEFTALÍ: Go on.
OYSTER: Do you know the tale of Orestes? In Aeschylus’ version of the play, the Erinyes, or Furies, pursue Orestes for slaying his mother in an oracle-decreed act of revenge, since she had previously killed his father to be with a lover. Dear me, this is really not appropriate for children.
NEFTALÍ: Don’t worry about that, go on.
OYSTER: What is notable is that for all the passionate actions, no character is truly furious. All act in anger or according to what they perceive as ‘duty’, which takes them in different directions. In shock, Orestes kills his mother, as he perceives it to be his duty to avenge his father, as ordered by the gods. The Erinyes attempt to carry out revenge in person, to sate their love for blood and comply with their justice-seeking ideals. Athena ultimately intervenes, deciding that justice must be decided in court rather than doled out by all-too-fallible creatures as an act of retribution. But fundamentally she agrees with the Furies, simply seeking a more rational way of dispensing justice. Most terrible acts of violence, you will find, are carried out from some mix of rage and duty.
True fury, however, has its source elsewhere. It is neither rage nor duty. Fury, rather, is a kind of calm creative act — carried out not to to seethe and squeak and hiss in revengeseeking, or to comply with a priori ideas, but to forge new ideas, fantasies, sensations, worlds. At our best, we oysters are full of this fury of the best kind, always making new things, full of passion, unconcerned with honour. An ideal oyster is no Orestes!
NEFTALÍ: But that story is ancient! Two thousand years old at least.
OYSTER: Indeed — as I was saying, I am very young. We oysters came into being just after the world itself and shall be here until just before it ends. I am here now, at any rate. You are listening. And there are two pieces of advice I’d like to give you. The first — for I sense through all my marine body that you will be a writer — is that you should not be afraid to let individual story shards exist on their own. To try to link the broken shells would be artifice, a fiction, a story one tells oneself. They could form a complete body, at whose centre lies a pearl. But let the reader find it, turning the pages backwards and forwards to gently sand away the layers. My second piece of advice is simply this. Do not be afraid of growing happy and plump.
NEFTALÍ: Thank you. You appear to have followed this second suggestion yourself, and look nicely fat and pleased with life. I hope for the same luck one day.
OYSTER: Splendid. Dear friend, do not think I speak to you from any place of satisfied authority. There is so much yet to learn. This encounter with you is part of my song of self-contemplation.
NEFTALÍ: When shall I see you again?
OYSTER: Our earth is so whimsical! Wait for a quake. Every natural event has consequences. Electrical storms affect the afterlife; earthquakes permit glimpses of creatures like myself. I truly cannot say... now I must go...
NEFTALÍ: Adios, oyster.
OYSTER: Adios, little poet.
[The creature slips back into the sea, which ripples then is silent.]
Resurrection & fury (notes for a poem)
Resurrection is the moment one visits life again. Fury is the energy that enables it. Resurrection is the possibility produced during an electrical storm. Fury is the lightning. Resurrection is the appearance of old shells on new beaches. Fury is the sea’s tossing them ashore. Resurrection is the choice of whether to intervene or let present flow. Fury is the act of choosing.
With fury, one can also resurrect certain images from cliché.
My autobiography has gone through several revisions, yet this is the one section I have never published, never even written down. Why? Am I afraid they would not believe me? I have written so many fantastical things before, and it has never mattered to me if they thought I was telling the truth.
But this memory is special. I would not have them tease me for it. That is a thought I simply cannot bear. ‘Do not laugh!’ I could say, handing over the text with uncharacteristic shyness. And of course they would. There would be no way to stop their laughter. Or, perhaps worse, they would nod their heads in understanding, to say but of course it was just a dream sweetie, many of the best memories are.
Later, thinking of this visit, I myself wondered if I’d been reading too many fairy stories, or had eaten something that affected my digestion—the digestive affects all systems, including the nervous. It’s possible, too, that I slept poorly due to the excitement of arrival at the seaside, a potent stimulus for a small mind.
Yet for all the excuses I make, I know in my heart that the memory is real.
Who was this oyster? Later I would become interested in storm gods, terrestrial gods, gods of the sea. There were similarities to my oyster within certain mythical accounts. Even if he was never depicted in exactly the way he appeared to me, I thought I could recognise his sly wit in some ancient Greek and Indian tales. And of course, every time I lifted a shell to my ear, its roar of the sea brought his image back to me.
Did I truly experience this omen orientating me towards the future? Was it the wishful thinking of a young boy? I know that it happened. Even if it were a dream, though, what does it matter? It wasn’t just a dream, sweetie. I cradle this childhood memory like a secret pearl, a hidden reminder of the strangeness in the world that pushes me to keep exploring.
Each time I tell myself the story again, the details change.
‘Neftalí, Neftalí’ —the creature speaks— ‘I am the oyster you call furious. The one you see as an ear, the one condemned to hearing. All my brothers and I under the sea are able to listen to the present, interpret the past and
make prophesies, and what we hear converges into one infinite moment. You perceive me as a giant, a monstrous form. I see you as a child, pure flesh the colour of pale coffee. Speak. Listen. What can I say? What knowledge might I impart? All the oysters in the ocean, all those on the rocks near land, are listening. What can I say of the furious character of evolution and change, the nature of survival? Child, let me talk with you directly, using simple words that do not condescend.’
Damp grains of sand form into clumps under my grasping hands. The oyster, huge and glistening, rises up before me. It is mollusk-shaped like an ear, but closer in size to a human being. This way and that it turns in the light, showing off its ridges, making its shell flicker and glitter with an iridescent sheen, almost a winking. I should be afraid, but I am too young to fear creatures that are not human. It seems to me a benevolent presence, and not at all unnatural, the way it will later, when I consider it. It has no mouth that I can see, but when it speaks I understand perfectly. It addresses me as a reasonable person, which is why I pay attention.
‘Neftalí,’ says the giant oyster again, in its deep soothing voice. ‘Listen please. Everything comes and goes and comes again, everything is a cycle. Think, Neftalí, of all those professions in which one looks at things closely through artificial lenses: the fibres of canvas through a microscope, starry skies through a telescope. Think of the vice of artificial bulbs: after too much time inside, natural sunlight hurts the eyes. It’s healthy to sit outdoors for a stretch in the afternoon, realign the particles, let the eyes relax into appropriate focus, readjust to a ‘real life’ that at first glance appears to lack texture. Press your back against the grass, stretch your arms up into a rhombus, look — a snail is passing. A slimy pulse slides with confidence around a clod of dirt, then continues on its way. Everything moves in cycles, the body, the seasons, the spiral form of certain shells. Some beings spend their whole lives trying to make sense of this cycle. There are filmmakers who transform their work into a cycle, emphasising the slowness and transparency of time, zooming in on loose-fitting clothes, wind in the vines, fabulous hair that grows, gets cut and grows again. There is that snail crawling through the grass again, slowly feeling its way. Back to the start: we look too much through other mediums. In the final hours of the night, you must examine the scalloped form of the soul.’
Minutes or days or years pass as we speak.
When he finishes, the oyster turns around with a sort of quivering open-shut motion that I understand to be a goodbye, then slips back into the sea. I watch him go. In the evening, I will collect all the plum-coloured shells on the beach that I can, then hide them away so my mother does not toss them out. Those shells will forever accompany me, since they house the voice and the laughter for which I am always listening, the home of my writing.
Addendum: Missing Pages from Pablo Neruda’s Autobiography is an excerpt from Jessica Sequeira’s beautiful novel A Furious Oyster (Dostoyevsky Wannabe). Reprinted with permission from the author. Click here to purchase.
To read more excerpt-articles from Project Jupiter, Mercurius’s ever-growing anthology of indie press titles, click here.