(no subject)
Right. My father. Yes, that is another story, and not a very pleasant one.
Funny thing is, I probably understand him better than he ever understood himself on the most insightful day of his life, and I still hate him. "Scorn, defiance..." oh, yes. All that, and more. Of course, he never felt the slightest desire to know himself -- not that I blame him. He was a miserable, vindictive, bitter man. I might be miserable and vindictive, but at least I've avoided "bitter."
My father was an old man before he got the chance to be a young one. His father died before he finished University, and he had to take on what seemed like the weight of the world on his shoulders. And inadequate to the task -- or so he'd been told ever since he could remember. The only successes he ever achieved amounted to little more than childish spite, saying 'so there' to a dead man.
*~*~*~*~*
My father was only a part of his father's second family. The first one died off during the War. Not the daughters, of course -- but primogeniture, entails &c ensured that they weren't allowed to amount to much, or even inherit it, the way my father did. My aunts were the ones who got to be witnesses to the spectacle of my grandfather divorcing his wife of thirty-five years so he could marry again.
My aunt Alice once told me none of them ever married not only because of the dearth of suitable young men in the War's wake, but because the ones who remained weren't worth anything to anyone. Never thought it was the whole story, not even when I was too young to really understand what went on, but I was too well brought up to contradict my elders, then. At least to their faces.
They never had husbands because they saw things too clearly, and refused to turn away from that long enough to be deluded. They would have thought me ridiculous (or at least hopelessly pretentious) if I ever told them I believed that, but I respected them for it.
Ironically enough, it wasn't a case of an older man discarding the old for something new. It was still his first wife's tastes who ruled over the family home. The second wasn't allowed to change anything. She might as well have been Handmaid as Wife, and his disdain for her rubbed off on her children, even though she did precisely and exactly what was expected of her, in very timely fashion: two sons, within three years of marrying. I don't believe the old man ever touched her again, after that, but she hardly had the time to miss it. And yes, that's precisely what I mean. No need to put a coat of high-gloss on it, is there?
Only the dead are perfectable, unfortunately, and the degree to which my grandfather insisted on idealising his dead sons only increased his awareness of my father's faults. The dead ones probably weren't any better, but that's not what my grandfather wanted to remember, and, lucky them, the dead weren't around to contradict him in his beliefs.
*~*~*~*~*
My father didn't care for Mother, either. No great sin in itself, not among 'people like us.' To me, it just shows how petty he was. I think he envied her. The only light he ever possessed was reflected light -- he merely inherited what light he did have, the way he inherited everything else. Mother had her own: the sun to his moon. All she did was show up his imperfections, merely by existing.
Funny thing is, I probably understand him better than he ever understood himself on the most insightful day of his life, and I still hate him. "Scorn, defiance..." oh, yes. All that, and more. Of course, he never felt the slightest desire to know himself -- not that I blame him. He was a miserable, vindictive, bitter man. I might be miserable and vindictive, but at least I've avoided "bitter."
My father was an old man before he got the chance to be a young one. His father died before he finished University, and he had to take on what seemed like the weight of the world on his shoulders. And inadequate to the task -- or so he'd been told ever since he could remember. The only successes he ever achieved amounted to little more than childish spite, saying 'so there' to a dead man.
*~*~*~*~*
My father was only a part of his father's second family. The first one died off during the War. Not the daughters, of course -- but primogeniture, entails &c ensured that they weren't allowed to amount to much, or even inherit it, the way my father did. My aunts were the ones who got to be witnesses to the spectacle of my grandfather divorcing his wife of thirty-five years so he could marry again.
My aunt Alice once told me none of them ever married not only because of the dearth of suitable young men in the War's wake, but because the ones who remained weren't worth anything to anyone. Never thought it was the whole story, not even when I was too young to really understand what went on, but I was too well brought up to contradict my elders, then. At least to their faces.
They never had husbands because they saw things too clearly, and refused to turn away from that long enough to be deluded. They would have thought me ridiculous (or at least hopelessly pretentious) if I ever told them I believed that, but I respected them for it.
Ironically enough, it wasn't a case of an older man discarding the old for something new. It was still his first wife's tastes who ruled over the family home. The second wasn't allowed to change anything. She might as well have been Handmaid as Wife, and his disdain for her rubbed off on her children, even though she did precisely and exactly what was expected of her, in very timely fashion: two sons, within three years of marrying. I don't believe the old man ever touched her again, after that, but she hardly had the time to miss it. And yes, that's precisely what I mean. No need to put a coat of high-gloss on it, is there?
Only the dead are perfectable, unfortunately, and the degree to which my grandfather insisted on idealising his dead sons only increased his awareness of my father's faults. The dead ones probably weren't any better, but that's not what my grandfather wanted to remember, and, lucky them, the dead weren't around to contradict him in his beliefs.
*~*~*~*~*
My father didn't care for Mother, either. No great sin in itself, not among 'people like us.' To me, it just shows how petty he was. I think he envied her. The only light he ever possessed was reflected light -- he merely inherited what light he did have, the way he inherited everything else. Mother had her own: the sun to his moon. All she did was show up his imperfections, merely by existing.