Then at last, in disregard of logic or timeliness, a third voice, obscure, dim of outline, stuttering-stammering, a storytelling voice that seemed to come from below, from the underbrush, from far away, butted into our essay on the successful day. — At last? Or unfortunately? To its detriment?
Fortunately or not, an “unfortunately” is in order, for a while at least; for in the following a relapse into hairsplitting cannot be avoided. Does Van Morrison’s song tell of a successful day, or only of a happy one? Because in the present context a “successful day” was dangerous, fraught with obstacles, narrow escapes, ambushes, perils, tempests, comparable to the days of Odysseus on his homeward wanderings, a story of days that can end only in eating, drinking, reveling, and the “godlike bedding of a woman.” But the dangers of my present day are neither the boulder from the giant’s sling nor any of the other well-known perils; the dangerous part of my day is the day itself. Most likely this has always been the case, especially in epochs and parts of the world where wars and other catastrophes seemed far behind (how many diaries from how many so-called Golden Ages begin in the morning with resolutions for that one day and in the evening record their failure) — but when was such a day, yours or mine, ever seen before? And in an even more golden future mightn’t its problem be even more timely and acute? At least for people like you and me, here and now in our halfway peaceful regions, the “specific demands of the day,” quite apart from its duties, struggles, distractions — days as such, available days, each moment of which offers possibilities to be grasped at — have become a challenge, a potential friend, a potential enemy, a game of chance. But if such an adventure, or duel, or mere contest between you and the day, is to be withstood, conquered, made to bear fruit, it is essential that you receive no decisive help from any third factor, neither a piece of work nor the most delightful pastime, nor even from Van Morrison’s bumpy ride; indeed, even such a distraction as “a short walk” would seem to be incompatible with a successful day — as though the day itself were the undertaking to be accomplished and brought home folded and packaged by me, preferably right here on the spot, while lying, sitting, standing, or at the most taking a few steps back and forth, doing nothing but looking and listening, or perhaps just breathing, but that involuntarily — with no effort on my part, as in every other segment of life on such a day — as though total involuntariness were prerequisite to this success. And would it thus give rise to a dance?
And now two fundamentally different versions of the individual’s adventure with this day can be plotted. In the first he succeeds, the moment he wakes up, in casting off those dreams that are mere ballast that would encumber him on his course, and taking with him those that will form a counterweight to world events and the happenings of his day; in the morning air the earth’s continents merge; at the same time a crackling is heard in the leaves of a bush in Tierra del Fuego; the alien light of the afternoon, unbewitched from one moment to the next through knowledge of a fata morgana emanating from yourself; and from then on what’s needed for success is just to let night fall without losing your eyes for the dusk. And then, though nothing has happened, you must have it in you to go on interminably about your day. Ah, the moment when at last there was nothing but the old man in the blue apron in the front garden! And the opposite version? It must be short — preferably something like this: Paralyzed by the gray of dawn, a bundle of misery is cast adrift; his ship, named The Adventure of the Day, capsizes in the waters of the forenoon, so he never gets to know the silence of midday, let alone the hours after that — and ends up deep in the night at the exact same place from which our hero should have started out at the crack of dawn. To tell the truth, the words and images with which to relate the failure of his day do not exist, except for such worn-out allegories as we have just been using.
Thus it would seem that, before you can regard a day as successful, every moment from waking to falling asleep at night must count, or, more specifically, represent a trial (or danger) faced. But aren’t you struck by the fact that for most other people a single moment counts as a successful day (and that there is something smug about your conception so different from the prevailing view)? “When I stood at the window in the dawning light, a little bird darted by and let out a sound which seemed to be meant for me — that in itself was a successful day” (Narrator A). — “The day became successful at the moment when the phone — though you had no other plan than to go on reading the book — communicated to me the Wanderlust of your voice” (Narrator B). — “To be able to tell myself that the day is successful, I had no need of a particular moment — all I needed on waking was a mere breath, un souffle, or something of the sort” (a third narrator). And hasn’t it occurred to you that as a rule the question of whether a day is to be successful has been decided before the day has properly begun? a
Here at least we shall not count a single moment, however glorious, as a successful day. (We shall count only the whole day.) Nevertheless, the moments I have mentioned, especially the first moments of full consciousness after the night’s sleep, may well provide the starting point for the Line of Beauty and Grace. And once the starting point for the day is set, let the day proceed point by point in a high arc. As I listen for a tone, the tonality of the whole day’s journey reveals itself to me. The tone does not have to be a full sound, it can be indifferent, as often as not a mere noise; the essential is that I make myself all ears for it. Didn’t the clicking of the buttons, when I stripped my shirt off the chair this morning, provide me with a kind of diapason for my day? And when yesterday morning, instead of reaching blindly and heedlessly for the first thing I needed, I did so carefully, with open eyes, didn’t that supply me with the right rhythm for taking hold of things all the rest of the day? And mightn’t the continual sensation of wind and water in the new morning — or, instead of “sensation,” wouldn’t it be preferable to say “awareness,” or simply “feeling” in my eyes, my temples, and wrists — mightn’t this sensation attune me to the coming elements of the day, prepare me to dissolve into them and let them work on me? (Answer reserved for the present.) Such a successful moment: Viaticum? Impulse? Nourishment with breath as spirit for the rest of this one day; for such a moment gives strength, and in telling about the next moment one might, drawing on another literal translation of “moment” again from a Pauline epistle, begin with “And with one casting of the eye …”: With one casting of the eye the sky turned blue, and with the next casting of the eye the green of the grass became a greening, and … Who has ever experienced a successful day? But who has ever experienced a successful day? Not to mention the difficulty of tracing the curve of that line!