When is a tree black but not burned? When the sky is on fire.
One of my complaints about living in St. Louis has been that we do not get beautiful sunsets in the urban areas. In Idaho, you have the wide open spaces to see all the broad perspective of sky. Here, you get a slice of color at best, interrupted by many trees and tall buildings. But yesterday, November 13, 2008 around 5:00 p.m. walking home from the library, St. Louis made me eat my words. A soft purple glow summoned my attention; the trees' branches over my head spouted against lilac. Then the purple gave way to a charming Tiepolo rose, which with my walking, darkened into salmon, raspberry, cherry. Then the whole world was pink, the leaves, the air, the ground. Only a single white street lamp interrupted the hazy glow, by shining on a patch of still-green leaves.
As I walked, Robert Saint-Loup died again in WWI, trying to save his men. Saint-Loup had a glorious re-dying, as only possible in fiction. By the time I was home, Morel had received his cross for bravery, ironically. At least Saint-Loup's death was scenic and heroic. Poor Albertine was thrown from her horse while I was washing dishes. She died between scrubbing and rinsing the dinner plates. But now my humble kitchen is a landmark because I can say Albertine died there. Bergotte died by the park; his death, the precise moment, I recall well. I was looking at my favorite red tree back in October. It was barely raining. Bergotte went into another world with more than one splash of color, adding my red to his yellow.
"And since art is a faithful re-composing of life, around these truths that one has attained within oneself there floats an atmosphere of poetry, the sweetness of a mystery, which is merely the semi-darkness through which we have come" (Time Regained, 207).
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