Brian W. Aldiss - The Moment of Eclipse

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The Moment of Eclipse

Brian W. Aldiss

Contents

The Moment of Eclipse

The Day We Embarked for Cythera ...

Orgy of the Living and the Dying

Super-Toys Last All Summer Long

The Village Swindler

Down the Up Escalation

That Uncomfortable Pause Between Life and Art...

Confluence

Heresies of the Huge God

The Circulation of the Blood ...

. . . And the Stagnation of the Heart

The Worm that Flies

Working in the Spaceship Yards

Swastika!

Acknowledgements

POEM AT A LUNAR ECLIPSE

Thy shadow. Earth,, from Pole to

Central Sea, Now steals along upon the Moon's

meek shine

In even monochrome and curving line Of imperturbable serenity.

How shall I link such sun-cast

symmetry With the torn troubled form I know

as thine.

That profile, placid as a brow divine, With continents of moil and misery?

And can immense Mortality but

throw So small a shade, and Heaven's high

human scheme Be hemmed within the coasts yon

arc implies?

Is such the stellar gauge of earthly

show, Nation at war with nation, brains that

teem, Heroes, and women fairer than the

skies?

THOMAS HARDY

Reprinted by kind permission of Macmillan & Co. Ltd.

The Moment of Eclipse

Beautiful women with corrupt natures - they have always been my life's target. There must be bleakness

as well as loveliness in their gaze: only then can I expect the mingled moment.

The mingled moment - it holds both terror and beauty. Those two qualities, I am aware, lie for most

people poles apart. For me, they are, or can become, one! When they do, they coincide, ah ... then joy

takes me! And in Christiania I saw many such instants promised.

But the one special instant of which I have to tell, when pain and rapture intertwined like two

hermaphrodites, overwhelmed me not when I was embracing any lascivious darling but when -after long

pursuit! - I paused on the very threshold of the room where she awaited me: paused and saw ... that

spectre....

You might say that a worm had entered into me. You might say that there I spoke metaphorically, and

that the worm per-verting my sight and taste had crept into my viscera in child-hood, had infected all my

adult life. So it may be. But who escapes the maggot? Who is not infected? Who dares call him-self

healthy? Who knows happiness except by assuaging his ill-ness or submitting to his fever?

This woman's name was Christiania. That she was to provoke in me years of pain and pursuit was not

her wish. Her wish, indeed, was at all times the very opposite.

We met for the first time at a dull party being held at the Danish Embassy in one of the minor East

European capitals. My face was known to her and, at her request, a mutual friend brought her over to

meet me.

She was introduced as a poet - her second volume of poetry was just published in Vienna. My taste for

poetry exhibiting attitudes of romantic agony was what attracted her to me in the first place; of course she

was familiar with my work.

Although we began by addressing each other in German, I soon discovered what I had suspected from

something in her looks and mannerisms, that Christiania was also Danish. We started to talk of our native

land.

Should I attempt to describe what she looked like? Christiania was a tall woman with a slightly full figure;

her face was perhaps a little too flat for great beauty, giving her, from certain angles, a look of stupidity

denied by her conversation. At that time, she had more gleaming dark hair than the fashion of the season

approved. It was her aura that attracted me, a sort of desolation in her smile which is, I fancy, a

Scandinavian in-heritance. The Norwegian painter Edvard Munch painted a naked Madonna once,

haunted, suffering, erotic, pallid, gener-ous of flesh, with death about her mouth; in Christiania, that

madonna opened her eyes and breathed!

We found ourselves talking eagerly of a certaincamera ob-scura that still exists in the Aalborghus, in

Jutland. We discov-ered that we had both been taken there as children, had both been fascinated to see

a panorama of the town of Aalborg laid out flat on a table through the medium of a small hole in the roof.

She told me that that optical toy had inspired her to write her first poem; I told her that it had directed my

interest to cameras, and thus to filming.

But we were scarcely allowed time to talk before we were separated by her husband. Which is not to

say that with look and gesture we had not already inadvertently signalled to each other, delicately but

unmistakably.

Inquiring about her after the party, I was told that she was an infanticide currently undergoing a course of

mental treat-ment which combined elements of Eastern and Western thought. Later, much of this

information proved to be false; but, at the time, it served to heighten the desires that our brief meeting had

woken in me.

Something fatally intuitive inside me knew that at her hands, though I might find suffering, I would touch

the two-faced ecstasy I sought.

At this period, I was in a position to pursue Christiania further; my latest film,Magnitudes, was

completed, although I had still some editing to do before it was shown at a certain film festival.

It chanced also that I was then free of my second wife, thatsvelte-mannered Parsi lady, ill-omened star

alike of my first film and my life, whose vast promised array of talents was too quickly revealed as little

more than a glib tongue and an over-sufficient knowledge of tropical medicine. In that very month,our

case had been settled and Sushila had retreated to Bombay, leaving me to my natural pursuits.

So I planned to cultivate my erotic garden again: and Christiania should be the first to flower in those

well-tended beds.

Specialized longings crystallize the perceptions along the axes concerned: I had needed only a moment in

Christiania's pres-ence to understand that she would not scruple to be unfaithful to her husband under

certain circumstances, and that I myself might provide such a circumstance; for those veiled grey eyes

told me that she also had an almost intuitive grasp of her own and men's desires, and that involvement

with me was far from being beyond her contemplation.

So it was without hesitation that I wrote to her and described how, for my next film, I intended to pursue

the train of thought begun inMagnitudes and hoped to produce a drama of a rather revolutionary kind to

be based on a sonnet of the English poet Thomas Hardy entitled 'At a Lunar Eclipse'. I added that I

hoped her poetic abilities might be of assistance in assembling a script, and asked if she would honour me

with a meeting.

There were other currents in my life just then. In particular, I was in negotiation through my agents with

the Prime Min-ister of a West African republic who wished to entice me out to make a film of his

country. Although I nourished an inclination to visit this strange part of the world where, it always seemed

to me, there lurked in the very atmosphere a menace compounded of grandeur and sordidness which

might be much to my taste, I was attempting to evade the Prime Minister's offer, generous though it was,

because I suspected that he needed a conservative documentary director rather than an innovator, and

was more concerned with the clamour of my reputation than its nature. However, he would not be

shaken off, and I was avoiding a cultural attache of his as eagerly as I was trying to ensnare - or be

ensnared by - Christiania.

In eluding this gigantic and genial black man, I was thrown into the company of an acquaintance of mine

at the university, a professor of Byzantine Art, whom I had known for many years. It was in his study, in

the low quiet university buildings with windows gazing from the walls like deep-set eyes, that I was

introduced to a young scholar called Petar. He stood at one ofthe deep windows in the study, looking

intently into the cobbled street, an untidy young man in unorthodox clothes.

I asked him what he watched. He indicated an old newspaper-seller moving slowly along the gutter

outside, dragging and be-ing dragged by a dog on a lead.

'We are surrounded by history, monsieur! This building was erected by the Habsburgs; and that old man

whom you see in the gutter believes himself to be a Habsburg.'

'Perhaps the belief makes the gutter easier to walk.'

'I'd say harder!' For the first time he looked at me. In those pale eyes I saw an aged thing, although at

the start I had been impressed by his extreme youth. 'My mother believes - well, that doesn't matter. In

this gloomy city, we are all surrounded by the shadows of the past. There are shutters at all our

windows.'

I had heard such rhetoric from students before. You find later they are reading Schiller for the first time.

My host and Ifell into a discussion concerning the Hardy sonnet; in the middle of it, the youth had to take

his leave of us; to visit his tutor, he said.

'A frail spirit, that, and a tormented one,' commented my host. 'Whether he will survive his course here

without losing his mental stability, who can say. Personally, I shall be thankful when his mother, that

odious woman, leaves the city; her effect on him is merely malevolent.'

'Malevolent in what respect?'

'It is whispered that when Petar was thirteen years old - of course, I don't say there's any truth in the vile

rumour - when he was slightly injured in a road accident, his mother lay beside him - nothing unnatural in

that - but the tale goes that unnatural things followed between them. Probably all nonsense, but certainly

he ran away from home. His poor father, who is a public figure - these nasty tales always centre round

public figures —'

Feeling my pulse rate beginning to mount, I inquired the family name, which I believe I had/not been

given till then. Yes! The pallid youth who felt himself surrounded by the shadows of the past was her son,

Christiania's son! Naturally, this evil legend made her only the more attractive in my eyes.

At that time I said nothing, and we continued the discus-sion of the English sonnet which I was

increasingly inspired tofilm. I had read it several years before in an Hungarian transla-tion and it had

immediately impressed me.

To synopsize a poem is absurd; but the content of this sonnet was to me as profound as its grave and

dignified style. Briefly, the poet watches the curved shadow of Earth steal over the moon's surface; he

sees that mild profile and is at a loss to link it with the continents full of trouble which he knows the

shadow represents; he wonders how the whole vast scene of human affairs can come to throw so small a

shade; and he asks himself if this is not the true gauge, by any outside standard of measurement, of all

man's hopes and desires? So truly did this correspond with my own life-long self-questionings, so nobly

was it cast, that the sonnet had come to represent one of the most precious things I knew; for this reason

I wished to destroy it and reassemble it into a series of visual images that would convey precisely the

same shade of beauty and terror allied as did the poem.

My host, however, claimed that the sequence of visual images I had sketched to him as being capable of

conveying this mys-terious sense fell too easily into the category of science-fiction, and that what I

required was a more conservative approach -conservative and yet more penetrating, something more

inward than outward; perhaps a more classical form for my romantic despair. His assertions angered me.

They angered me, and this I realized even at the time, because there was the force of truth in what he

said; the trappings should not be a distraction from but an illumination of the meaning. So we talked for a

long time, mainly of the philosophical problems involved in representing one set of objects by another -

which is the task of all art, the displacement without which we have no placement. When I left the

university, it was wearily. I felt a sense of despair at the sight of dark falling and another day completed

with my life incomplete.

Halfway down the hill, where a shrine to the virgin stands within the street wall, Petar's old news-vendor

loitered, his shabby dog at his feet. I bought a paper from him, experiencing a tremor at the thought of

how his image, glimpsed from the deep-set eye of the university, had been intertwined in my cogi-tations

with the image of that perverted madonna whose greeds, so hesitatingly whispered behind her long back,

reached outeven to colour the imaginings of dry pedants like my friend in his learned cell!

And, as if random sequences of events were narrative in the mind of some super-being, as if we were no

more than parasites in the head of a power to which Thomas Hardy himself might have yielded credulity,

when I reached my hotel, the vendor's newspaper folded unopened under my arm, it was to find, in the

rack of the ill-lit foyer, luminous, forbidding, crying aloud, silent, a letter from Christiania awaiting me. I

knew it was from her! We had our connection!

Dropping my newspaper into a nearby waste bin, I walked upstairs carrying the letter. My feet sank into

the thick fur of the carpet, slowing my ascent, my heart beat unmuffled. Was not this - so I demanded of

myself afterwards! - one of those supreme moments of life, of pain and solace inseparable? For whatever

was in the letter, it was such that, when revealed, like a fast-acting poison inserted into the bloodstream,

would con-vulse me into a new mode of feeling and behaving.

I knew I would have to have Christiania, knew it even by the violence of my perturbation, greater than I

had expected; and knew also that I was prey as well as predator. Wasn't that the meaning of life, the

ultimate displacement? Isn't - as in the English sonnet - the great also the infinitely small, and the small

also the infinitely great.

Well, once in my room, I locked the door, laid the envelope on a table and set myself down before it. I

slit the envelope with a paper knife and withdrew her - her! - letter.

What she said was brief. She was much interested in my offer and the potential she read in it.

Unfortunately, she was leaving Europe at the end of the week, the day after the morrow, since her

husband was taking up an official post in Africa on behalf of his government. She regretted that our

acquaintance would not deepen.

I folded the letter and put it down. Only then did I appreci-ate the writhe in the serpent's tail. Snatching

up the letter again, I re-read it. She and her husband - yes! - were taking up residence in the capital city

of that same republic with whose Prime Minister I had been long in negotiation. Only that morn-ing had I

written to his cultural attache to announce finallythat the making of such a film as he proposed was

beyond my abilities and interests!

That night, I slept little. In the morning, when friends called upon me, I had my man tell them I was

indisposed; and indis-posed I was; indisposed to act; yet indisposed to let slip this opportunity. It was

perversity, of course, to think of following this woman, this perverted madonna, to another continent;

there were other women with whom the darker understandings would flow if I merely lifted the somewhat

antique phone by my bedside. And it was perhaps perversity that allowed me to keep myself in

indecision for so long.

But by afternoon I had decided. From a lunar distance, Europe and Africa were within the single glance

of an eye; my fate was equally a small thing; I would follow her by the means so easily awaiting me.

Accordingly, I composed a letter to the genial black attache, saying that I regretted my decision of

yesterday, explaining how it had been instrumental in moving my mind in entirely the opposite direction,

and announcing that I now wished to make the proposed film. I said I would be willing to leave for his

native country with camera team and secretaries as soon as pos-sible. I requested him to favour me with

an early appointment. And I had this letter delivered by hand there and then.

There followed a delay which I weathered as best I could. The next two days I spent shut in the offices I

had hired in a quiet part of the city, editingMagnitudes. It would be a satis-factory enough film, but

already I saw it merely - as is the way with creative artists - as pointing towards the next work. Images of

Africa already began to steal upon my brain.

At the end of the second day, I broke my solitude and sought out a friend. I confided to him my anger

that the attache had not condescended to give me a reply when I was so keen to get away. He laughed.

'But your famous attache has returned home in disgrace! He was found robbing the funds. A lot of them

are like that, I'm afraid! Not used to authority! It was all over the evening papers a couple of days ago -

quite a scandal! You'll have to write to your Prime Minister.'

Now I saw that this was no ordinary affair. There were lines of magnetism directed towards the central

attraction, just asRemy de Gourmont claims that the markings on the fur of certain luxurious female cats

run inescapably towards their sexual quarters. Clearly, I must launch myself into this forceful pattern. This

I did by writing hastily - hastily excusing myself from my friend's presence - to the distant statesman in the

distant African city, towards which, on that very evening, my maligned lady was making her way.

Of the awful delays that followed, I shall not speak. The dis-grace of the cultural attache (and it was not

he alone who had been disgraced) had had its repercussions in the far capital, and my name, becoming

involved, was not sweetened thereby. Fin-ally, however, I received the letter I awaited, inviting me to

make the film in my own terms, and offering me full facilities. It was a letter that would have made a less

perverse man extremely happy!

To make my arrangements to leave Europe, to brief my secre-tary, and settle certain business matters

took me a week. In that time, the distinguished film festival was held, andMagnitudes enjoyed from the

critics just such a reception as I had antici-pated; that is to say, the fawners fawned and the sneerers

sneered, and both parties read into it many qualities that were not there, ignoring those that were - one

even saw it as a retell-ing of the myth of the wanderings of Adam and Eve after their expulsion from

Eden! Truly, the eyes of critics, those prideful optics, see only what they wish to see!

All irritations were finally at an end. With an entourage of five, I climbed aboard a jet liner scheduled for

Lagos.

It seemed then that the climactic moment of which I was in search could not be far distant, either in time

or space. But the unforeseen interposed.

When I arrived at my destination, it was to discover the Afri-can capital in an unsettled state, with

demonstrations and riots every day and curfews every night. My party was virtually con-fined to its hotel,

and the politicians were far-too involved to bother about a mere film-rnaker!

In such a city, none of the pursuits of man are capable of adequate fulfilment: except one. I well recall

being in Trieste when that city was in a similar state of turmoil. I was then undergoing a painful and

exquisite love affair with a woman almost twice my age - but my age then was half what it now is!- and

the disruptions and dislocations of public life, the mys-terious stoppages and equally mysterious

pandemoniums that blew in like thebora, gave a delectable contrapuntal quality to the rhythms of private

life, and to those unnerving caesuras which are inescapable in matters involving a beautiful married

woman. So I made discreet inquiries through my own country's embassy for the whereabouts of

Christiania.

The republic was in process of breaking in half, into Chris-tian South and Muslim North. Christiania's

husband had been posted to the North and his wife had accompanied him. Be-cause of the unrest, and

the demolition of a strategic bridge, there was no chance of my following them for some while.

It may appear as anti-climax if I admit that I now forgot about Christiania, the whole reason for my being

in that place and on that continent. Nevertheless, I did forget her; our de-sires, particularly the desires of

creative artists, are peripatetic: they submerge themselves sometimes unexpectedly and we never know

where they may appear again. My imp of the perverse descended. For me the demolished bridge was

never rebuilt.

Once the Army decided to support the government (which it did as soon as two of its colonels were

shot), the riots were quelled. Although the temper of the people was still fractious, some sort of order

was restored. I was then escorted about the locality. And the full beauty and horror of the city - and of its

desolated hinterland - were rapidly conveyed to me.

I had imagined nothing from West Africa. Nobody had told me of it. And this was precisely what

attracted me now, as a director. I saw that here was fresh territory from which a raid on the inarticulate

might well be made. The images of beauty-in-despair for which I thirsted were present, if in a foreign

idiom. My task was one of translation, of displacement.

So immersed was I in my work, that all the affairs of my own country, and of Europe, and of the western

world where my films were acclaimed or jeered, and of the whole globe but this little troubled patch

(where, in truth, the preoccupations of all the rest were echoed) were entirely set aside. My sonnet was

here; here, I would be able to provide more than a dead gloss on Hardy's sonnet. The relativity of

importance was here brought to new parameters!

As the political situation began to improve, so I began to work further afield, as if the relationship

between the two events was direct. A reliable Ibo hunter was placed at my disposal.

Although man was my subject and I imagined myself not to be interested in wild life, the bush strangely

moved me. I would rise at dawn, ignoring the torment of early-stirring flies, and watch the tremendous

light flood back into the world, exulting to feel myself simultaneously the most and least important of

creatures. And I would observe - and later film - how the inun-dating light launched not only flies but

whole villages into action.

There was a vibrance in those dawns and those days! I still go cold to think of it.

Suppose - how shall we say it? - suppose that while I was in Africa makingSome Eclipses, one side of

me was so fully en-gaged (a side never before exercised in open air and sunlight) that another aspect of

myself slumbered? Having never met with any theory of character which satisfied me, I cannot couch the

matter in any fashionable jargon. So let me say brutally: the black girls who laid their beauty open to me

stored in their dark skins and unusual shapes and amazing tastes enough of the unknown to hold the need

for deeper torments at bay. In those transitory alliances, I exorcized also the sari-clad ghost of my

second wife.

I became temporarily almost a different person, an explorer of the psyche in a region where before me

others of my kind had merely shot animals; and I was able to make a film that was free from my usual

flights of perversity.

I know that I created a masterpiece. By the timeSome Eclipses was a finished masterpiece, and I was

back in Copen-hagen arranging details of premiers, the regime that had given me so much assistance had

collapsed; the Prime Minister had fled to Great Britain; and Muslim North had cut itself off from Christian

South. And I was involved with another womanagain, and back in my European self, a little older, a little

more tired.

Not until two more years had spent themselves did I again cross the trail of my perverted madonna,

Christiania. By then, the lines of the magnet seemed to have disappeared altogether: and, in truth, I was

never to lie with her as I so deeply schemedto do: but magnetism goes underground and surfaces in

strange places; the invisible suddenly becomes flesh before our eyes; and terror can chill us with more

power than beauty knows.

My fortunes had now much improved - a fact not uncon-nected with the decline of my artistic powers.

Conscious that I had for a while said what I needed to say, I was now filming coloured narratives,

employing some of my old tricks in simpler form, and, in consequence, was regarded by a wide public as

a daring master of effrontery. I lived my part, and was spending the summer sailing in my yacht,The

Fantastic Venus, in the Mediterranean,

Drinking in a small French restaurant on a quayside, my party was diverted by the behaviour of a couple

at the next table, a youth quarrelling with a woman, fairly obviously his paramour, and very much his

senior. Nothing about this youth revived memories in me; but suddenly he grew tired of baiting his

companion and marched over to me, introducing himself as Petar and reminding me of our one brief

meeting, more than three years ago. He was drunk, and not charming. I saw he secretly disliked me.

We were more diverted when Petar's companion came over and introduced herself. She was an

international film person-ality, a star, one might say, whose performances of recent years had been

confined more to the bed than the screen. But she was piquant company, and provided a flow of scandal

almost un-seemly enough to be indistinguishable from wit.

She set her drunken boy firmly in the background. From him, I was able to elicit that his mother was

staying near by, at a noted hotel. In that corrupt town, it was easy to follow one's inclinations. I slipped

away from the group, called a taxi, and was soon in the presence of an unchanged Christiania, breathing

the air that she breathed. Heavy lids shielded my madonna's eyes. She looked at me with a fateful gaze

that seemed to have shone on me through many years. She was an echo undoubtedly of something

buried, something to resurrect and view as closely as possible.

'If you chased me to Africa, it seems somewhat banal to catch up with me in Cannes,' she said.

'It is Cannes that is banal, not the event. The town is here for our convenience, but we have had to wait

on the event.'

She frowned down at the carpet, and then said, 'I am not sure what event you have in mind. I have no

events in mind. I am simply here with a friend for a few days before we drive on to somewhere quieter. I

find living without events suits me par-ticularly well.'

'Does your husband —'

'I have no husband. I was divorced some while ago - over two years ago. It was scandalous enough: I

am surprised you did not hear.'

'No, I didn't know. I must still have been in Africa. Africa is practically soundproof.'

'Your devotion to that continent is very touching. I saw your film about it. I have seen it more than once,

I may confess. It is an interesting piece of work - of art, perhaps one should say only —'

'What are your reservations?'

She said, 'For me it was incomplete.'

'I also am incomplete. I need you for completion, Christiania - you who have formed a spectral part of

me for so long!' I spoke then, burningly, and not at all as obliquely as I had in-tended.

She was before me, and again the whole pattern of life seemed to direct me towards her mysteries. But

she was there with a friend, she protested. Well, he had just had to leave Cannes on a piece of vital

business (I gathered he was a minister in a certain government, a man of importance), but he would be

back on the morning plane.

So we came gradually round - now my hands were clasping hers - to the idea that she might be

entertained to dinner onThe Fantastic Venus; and I was careful to mention that next to my cabin was an

empty cabin, easily prepared for any female guest who might care to spend the night aboard before

returning home well before any morning planes circled above the bay.

And so on, and so on.

There can be few men - women either - who have not experi-enced that particular mood of controlled

ecstasy awakened by the promise of sexual fulfilment, before which obstacles are nothing and the logical

objections to which we normally fall victim less than nothing. Our movements at such times are scarcely

our own; we are, as we say, possessed: that we later possess.

A curious feature of this possessed state is that afterwards we recall little of what happened in it. I

recollect only driving fast through the crowded town and noticing that a small art theatre was showing

Some Eclipses. That fragile affair of light and shadow had lasted longer, held more vitality, than the

republic about which it centred! I remember thinking how I would like to humble the arrogant young

Petar by making him view it -'one in the eye for him', I thought, amused by the English phrase, envious of

what else his eyes might have beheld.

Before my obsessional state, all impediments dissolved. My party was easily persuaded to savour the

pleasures of an evening ashore; the crew, of course, was happy enough to escape. I sat at last alone in

the centre of the yacht, my expectations spreading through it, listening appreciatively to every quiet

movement. Music from other vessels in the harbour reached me, seeming to confirm my impregnable

isolation.

I was watching as the sun melted across the sea, its vision hazed by cloud before it finally blinked out

and the arts of evening commenced. That sun was flinging, like a negative of itself, our shadow far out

into space: an eternal blackness trail-ing after the globe, never vanquished, a blackness parasitic, claiming

half of man's nature!

Even while these and other impressions of a not unpleasant kind filtered through my mind, sudden

trembling overcame me. Curious unease seized my senses, an indescribablefrisson. Clutching the arms of

my chair, I had to fight to retain con-sciousness. The macabre sensation that undermined my being was -

this phrase occurred to me at the time - that 7 wasbeing silently inhabited, just as I at that moment

silently inhabited the empty ship.

What a moment for ghosts! When my assignation was for the flesh!

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TheMomentofEclipseBrianW.Aldiss ContentsTheMomentofEclipse TheDayWeEmbarkedforCythera... OrgyoftheLivingandtheDying Super-ToysLastAllSummerLong TheVillageSwindler DowntheUpEscalation ThatUncomfortablePauseBetweenLifeandArt... Confluence HeresiesoftheHugeGo...

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