I sometimes think I live my life constantly testing the borders of what's considered acceptable and what's not.
Having spent all my formative years in a Catholic convent, I became more than just a little familiar with a lot of their practices. And the one that frazzled me the most? Confessions. Not because I had things to hide, but rather because I had nothing. I remember standing in line to confess, working up a sweat, because I didn't have anything to confess and somehow, that seemed like a bigger sin than others. The tension was real. So real that soon my life revolved around collecting little sins so I could add them to my confession arsenal. Ones that were safe enough to not get me into trouble but still significant enough to "confess": sneaking in a piece of chocolate during mass, reading a Mills and Boon under the desk during class, reading under the quilt with a flashlight after lights were turned off in the dorms..
Somewhere in the next twenty years, I lost my faith in religion and god. But the habit of evaluating actions to see if it was something I could get away with, has stayed. And to add to my list of crazies, I like to ensure that my transgressions are spread evenly across the board of cardinal sins. I don't kid when I say I obsessed over the moral science/ catechism teachings. I even remember adapting Lou Bega's Mambo No. 5 to match my obsession.
A little bit of "greed" in my life
A little bit of "gluttony" by my side
A little bit of "wrath" is all I need
A little bit of "envy" is what I see
A little bit of "sloth" in the sun
A little bit of "lust" all night long
A little bit of "pride", here I come
A little bit of you makes me your rum...
Is it terrible that I still remember my cheesy adaptation?
When I am not actually testing the boundaries, I am pushing them in my head. When I am in love, I'm constantly monitoring my level of obsession - with the person, with the feeling. How much can I give without losing myself. How much can I take without appearing too greedy. How much is too much? Too much feels? Too much drama? Too much sex? And I rope myself back in when I reach some invisible boundary I draw for myself.
But recently, I was introduced to a collection of short stories by a writer who did not hesitate to explore the region beyond the invisible boundary. With ease, he delves in to the darkest corners of the mind and deftly pulls out the threads of obsession and examines them with a curiosity that I can only aspire to. Junichiro Tanizaki. Every short story of his is an explosion of the forbidden - fantasies, kinks, fixations, obsessions with food, domination, pain, people, sex... it is an endless list.
In the very first story I read of his, The Gourmet Club, The Count treats his fellow club members to a feast; a gastronomical magic, as Tanizaki likes to call it. And then he goes on to describe the assault of the dishes as follows:
"The members were able truly to savor the various dishes only after having employed every one of the senses with which they were endowed. They did not merely taste the cuisine with their tongues: they had to taste it with their eyes, their noses, their ears, and at times, their skin. At the risk of exaggerating, every part of them had to become a tongue."
This passage was then followed by descriptions of bizarre dishes, served in even more bizarre settings- but ones that made the members engage with all their different senses. Descriptions so vivid that it made even a non foodie like me to drool and crave for a feast that consumed me completely.
I was hooked.
I started every seemingly innocent story eagerly waiting for the devious twists that led to the gradual descent into the raging madness called obsession.
Tanizaki creates characters that stay in mind long after the short story collection is read and discarded. Characters whose actions, and sometimes just thoughts, make you squirm uncomfortably in your seat. Because once obsessed, they don't hesitate to cross legal, moral, accepted boundaries to get what they want.
In The Tattoer, it is a matter of consent. What if the object of your fixation, of your desire doesn't play along with your intentions?
"But the girl refused to lift her head. Still prostrate, her face buried in her sleeves, she repeated over and over that she was afraid and she wanted to leave. 'No, you must stay - I will make you a real beauty' Seikichi said, moving closer to her. Under his kimono was a vial of anesthetic which he had obtained some time ago from a dutch physician."
But Tanizaki's characters make you wonder what it would really feel like to take a step into the forbidden unknown. How it would be to cross the boundaries we draw for ourselves. How it would feel to let the madness take over; to let the obsession take rein; to let the passion consume.
For now, I'll just satisfy my craving for the dangerous by indulging in bits and pieces of Tanizaki's fantasies every now and then.
Having spent all my formative years in a Catholic convent, I became more than just a little familiar with a lot of their practices. And the one that frazzled me the most? Confessions. Not because I had things to hide, but rather because I had nothing. I remember standing in line to confess, working up a sweat, because I didn't have anything to confess and somehow, that seemed like a bigger sin than others. The tension was real. So real that soon my life revolved around collecting little sins so I could add them to my confession arsenal. Ones that were safe enough to not get me into trouble but still significant enough to "confess": sneaking in a piece of chocolate during mass, reading a Mills and Boon under the desk during class, reading under the quilt with a flashlight after lights were turned off in the dorms..
Somewhere in the next twenty years, I lost my faith in religion and god. But the habit of evaluating actions to see if it was something I could get away with, has stayed. And to add to my list of crazies, I like to ensure that my transgressions are spread evenly across the board of cardinal sins. I don't kid when I say I obsessed over the moral science/ catechism teachings. I even remember adapting Lou Bega's Mambo No. 5 to match my obsession.
A little bit of "greed" in my life
A little bit of "gluttony" by my side
A little bit of "wrath" is all I need
A little bit of "envy" is what I see
A little bit of "sloth" in the sun
A little bit of "lust" all night long
A little bit of "pride", here I come
A little bit of you makes me your rum...
Is it terrible that I still remember my cheesy adaptation?
When I am not actually testing the boundaries, I am pushing them in my head. When I am in love, I'm constantly monitoring my level of obsession - with the person, with the feeling. How much can I give without losing myself. How much can I take without appearing too greedy. How much is too much? Too much feels? Too much drama? Too much sex? And I rope myself back in when I reach some invisible boundary I draw for myself.
But recently, I was introduced to a collection of short stories by a writer who did not hesitate to explore the region beyond the invisible boundary. With ease, he delves in to the darkest corners of the mind and deftly pulls out the threads of obsession and examines them with a curiosity that I can only aspire to. Junichiro Tanizaki. Every short story of his is an explosion of the forbidden - fantasies, kinks, fixations, obsessions with food, domination, pain, people, sex... it is an endless list.
In the very first story I read of his, The Gourmet Club, The Count treats his fellow club members to a feast; a gastronomical magic, as Tanizaki likes to call it. And then he goes on to describe the assault of the dishes as follows:
"The members were able truly to savor the various dishes only after having employed every one of the senses with which they were endowed. They did not merely taste the cuisine with their tongues: they had to taste it with their eyes, their noses, their ears, and at times, their skin. At the risk of exaggerating, every part of them had to become a tongue."
This passage was then followed by descriptions of bizarre dishes, served in even more bizarre settings- but ones that made the members engage with all their different senses. Descriptions so vivid that it made even a non foodie like me to drool and crave for a feast that consumed me completely.
I was hooked.
I started every seemingly innocent story eagerly waiting for the devious twists that led to the gradual descent into the raging madness called obsession.
Tanizaki creates characters that stay in mind long after the short story collection is read and discarded. Characters whose actions, and sometimes just thoughts, make you squirm uncomfortably in your seat. Because once obsessed, they don't hesitate to cross legal, moral, accepted boundaries to get what they want.
In The Tattoer, it is a matter of consent. What if the object of your fixation, of your desire doesn't play along with your intentions?
"But the girl refused to lift her head. Still prostrate, her face buried in her sleeves, she repeated over and over that she was afraid and she wanted to leave. 'No, you must stay - I will make you a real beauty' Seikichi said, moving closer to her. Under his kimono was a vial of anesthetic which he had obtained some time ago from a dutch physician."
But Tanizaki's characters make you wonder what it would really feel like to take a step into the forbidden unknown. How it would be to cross the boundaries we draw for ourselves. How it would feel to let the madness take over; to let the obsession take rein; to let the passion consume.
For now, I'll just satisfy my craving for the dangerous by indulging in bits and pieces of Tanizaki's fantasies every now and then.