Schadenfreude and its English Equivalent

German is a wonderful language and the long words replete with profound significance, such as Schadenfreude, are perfectly marvelous, but why don't we have our OWN words for these things?  Why should we allow ourselves to be indolent in terms of our own creative output in defining emotions such as this in our own language?  English is an interesting language because it stems from two separate roots: Anglo-Saxon and Latin.  The wealth of options provided by these twin rivers should give us ample words from which to choose one that is the equivalent of Schadenfreude and so many other psychology-based terms that have been used for over a century without any attempt to create one that is based in our own language.

So here it is:  Schadenfreude, of course, signifies the sort of joy that one feels when reading about or seeing the tragedy or agony that is being experienced by another.  Usually, it is not felt when a friend or loved one experiences pain but rather when a public figure or personal enemy is pierced by a shaft from an unlucky working of fate.  In this sense, it is quite different from sadism, which is the art of inflicting pain upon another and rejoicing in it or actually being excited by it.  Schadenfreude is a passive business, kind of a guilty pleasure but one that does not involve any action on the part of the individual who experiences it.

I have a close friend who is a novelist who delights in the use of the word.  In fact, most of his recent novels have used it more than once and it is a word that trips over the tongue and resonates with a melody all its own, but even so, let us try to create a new word for ourselves!

I have been thinking about it all morning.  It would have to be a bind-word, I think, one that combines two separate words, in the same way that Schadenfreude does.  So what combinations would give some of the same music and significance?  I think 'bliss' and 'joy' and 'thrill' might be part of the equation and on the other side of the coin as it were, 'sorrow', 'bitter' or something that instantly summons thoughts of pain or misfortune.  And then, a lovely bind-word came to me.  'Caustic-bliss'.  Or I suppose 'Thrill in sorrow' could work...  Will keep thinking about it as I am determined to add a word to our lexicon.

Later:  'Poisoned joy' or 'Poison Bliss'.  I like 'Poison Bliss' best!

The Various Moods of a Drum and Introduction to an Old Oil Lamp

Living in Nepal as a child, I was very conscious of weather and the phases of the Moon as without electricity on many roads and in many villages, the ability to see at night depended very much on a clear sky and moonlight.

In those homes without electricity, people generally used kerosene lamps.  The Sukunda lamp is a ritual item, a lamp used to make pujas and offerings to the gods more than a practical primary source of light.  I wanted to find a small oil lamp like those I remembered in my childhood.

There are many sellers who refer to items they sell as 'antiques' and inflate the prices enormously but I found a seller who had a small brass oil lamp for a fraction of the price quoted by the Western dealers in such items.  I wrote to ask if the lamp had any cracks or if it were in good working order.  He responded that, if it had any cracks or problems, it would be 'very easy to have it fixed'.  Well... that may be true if one lives in India, but I cannot image that it would be easy to find some one here to fix a crack or leak in an old brass oil lamp and, should I be fortunate enough to find some one with the skill, the price would be exorbitant.  i therefore crossed my fingers, praying the lamp would work...

In fact, it is a lovely little item that is perfectly sound.  It was tarnished and had some stubborn black spots on it but with a little polish and care, became a thing of beauty.  I only have the thin cotton 'wicks' that are used for butter lamps but after filling the lamp with oil and soaking one of those wicks in the oil, I threaded it through the little hole in the upper section of the lamp, screwed both parts together tightly and proceeded to light it.

Two hours later, it was burning bright without having devoured any part of the cotton wick.  I was thrilled.   A similar lamp was being sold by a Malaysian dealer for a small fortune but this lamp cost very litlte and the shipping was free, amazingly.  I definitely will keep in touch with this seller!  It is not that old brass lamps are particularly valuable or even popular.  I did want one, however, because it was part of my childhood landscape in Nepal.

We have had a few days of very humid, hot weather, with storms that included tornadoes and were extremely violent and destructive.  I have tried to practice the madal every day for a few minutes but the tone was off recently and it almost disgusted me to play the drum, especially when nothing I did improved the tone to any degree.

This morning, however, the beautiful deep crisp tone of the drum has returned.  The humidity has lessened and the drier weather has invigorated the madal.  Such an extraordinary transformation.  I felt I could play it happily forever... but of course, one has to go back to life's chores.

If I were not playing this drum, the shifts in the weather would not be as dramatic.  I detest humid heat and it always affects me negatively but its effect on the drum was so much more dramatic, reminding me of how distant Nature is to our lives for the most part.   In a home with central air, people are less affected by the shifts in heat and humidity.  Having this drum gives me a very close connection with Nature and her moods.

Gabriele D'Annunzio, Genius, Gentleman and Consummate Collector

Gabriele D'Annunzio was one of my father's favourite writers but oddly enough, despite my love of the Symbolists, I never read any of his work until now.  It was only recently when I decided to explore the various mysteries of my father's life that I decided to read the work of one of the primary Italian poets and larger-than-life figures and, with the ease given by the internet, was able to find 'Piacere' or 'Child of Pleasure' in the Project Gutenberg.

I do not like to read books online but I have to say that the Project Gutenberg is an incredible resource, giving free access to most of the classics to the entire world.  With some of the feelings Alice must have had when she fell down the rabbit hole, I began to read a book that obviously had shaped my father's character tremendously.  What transpired was almost eerie.  I soon began to realise that this unread writer had shaped my own character as well.  Unfortunately, it is a bit of a tragegy, but there it is.

Fed on 19th century concepts of the role and privileges divinely accorded to the aristocracy, and with the sensibility of a gentleman from the days of duels and artistic excess, as a child I wished I had been born in the age of the Cavaliers.  A voracious reader, I soaked up all the classics from the Roman Empire onward.  The 19th Century was an age when romantic novels abounded.  I read them all.  It was not only the English novelists that fell into my psyche but the French as well. Stendhal and Alexandre Dumas (another favourite of my own father) were two of my own favourite authors.  At an age when I had not been blooded in any sense of the term, my personality was influenced profoundly by 19th century concepts of Romance.

Romance was a life and death matter in that culture, rather than a natural instinct that would lead ultimately, one hoped, to marriage and the creation of a family.  It was a dangerous game of conquest.  It could be a matter that led to violent death by suicide or in a duel with a rival.  It had very little to do with reality, sad to say, in terms of real knowledge of the object of desire.

The coup de foudre or lightning bolt is very much a part of this concept of Romance.  One could catch a quick glimpse of some one from the other side of the room and fall in love passionately.    Having fallen into love in this fashion, one would suffer incredible pains and distress if the loved one failed to appear anywhere within one's sphere of influence.  Passionate declarations of undying love, whether in the form of letters, spoken conversation or even as an endless outpouring in a journal, occupied a great deal of one's energies.  It was akin to a religious fervour, albeit one that often carried with it no true positive inspiration, apart from that of appreciation of beauty, grace, intelligence, wit or any other characteristic applied to the beloved (whether true or not!) where appropriate.

I was poised to cast myself into the abyss of this sort of passion from the age of 8 or so, but it was only when I went to Nepal and fixed my glance upon an 18 year old boy that my literary fancies achieved realisation.  Bear in mind the fact that this sort of Romance is mainly fantasy.  I never lost my virginity nor even experienced any profound or meaningful dialogues with my 'Beloved' but all the dizzy ecstacy, misary and torture depicted in 19th century Romantic literature was mine.

Now, decades later, I read 'Child of Pleasure' and D'Annunzio's beautiful but absurd descriptions of love are a blueprint for my own adolescence.  It is not only Romance, but his addiction to Beauty and Art and the Unique that are fixed irrecovably in my psyche.  My own mania to collect or at least fully immerse myself in a subject or passion for a particular culture or even language are to be found in D'Annunzio's life and even his home.

The 150th Anniversary of his birth was celebrated in Italia a couple of years ago and I read an article, accompanied by photographs written by a woman who visited his palace.  Although the photographs were interesting to some extent, the woman missed the entire point of D'Annunzio and her words were a collection of ignorant criticisms of a life she failed to comprehend.  What a great pity that she was given the task of introducing an English audience from a new generation to this Colossus.

Yes, he was flawed, but genius often is greatly flawed and the entire Symbolist movement, based as it was upon moral ambiguity for its own sake, does not read like Butler's Lives of the Saints.  With her holier-than-thou repugnance towards a great man and poet who dabbled in all the vices, her article was an outpouring of arrant nonsense and nothing more.

Rather than exploring the curious juxtaposition of the cluttered objects in his rooms to find a path to the soul of the man, she dismissed it all as a collection in poor taste, writing of the experiences of caretakers and guards who found these rooms appaaring in their 'nightmares' when sleeping.

To me, this is incontrovertible evidence of the POWER of the man and his visions.  Like him or not, he was a man who could not be ignored.  Indeed, his friend, Il Duce, feared him and his possible displeasure and disapproval to the point where he was willing to bribe him to stay out of the Capital at a certain point in history.

I would like to write a proper review of 'Chlld of Pleasure' when I have finished it, but at the moment will simply allow the author to speak for himself, dropping petals from his decadent roses as it were into this post.

It is a fascinating book.  One has to suspend the taste of the 21st century and become willing to bask in the archaic susceptibilities of the 19th century in order to appreciate this extraordinary author.  Above all, he impresses with the vastness and detail of his knowledge of the arts.  More erudite than any contemporary art historian, he is able to describe and compare the works of all the Masters of painting, architecture, engraving and matalwork, embracing every age.

It is a story of passion but it is a story about Roma as well and the ways of the nobility at the fin de siecle.

Wonderful turns of phrase abound:

'His will, as useless to him now as a sword of indifferently tempered steel, hung as if at the side of an inebriated or paralysed man.'

The night before a duel, his friend advises him as follows:

'My dear boy,' he said reproachfully as they walked along, 'you are really foolhardy. In a case like this, the smallest imprudence might lead to fatal results. To preserve his full strength and activity, a good swordsman should have as much care for his person as a tenor has for his voice. The wrist is as delicate an organ as the throat—the articulations of the legs as sensitive as the vocal chords. The mechanism suffers from the smallest disturbance; the instrument gets out of gear and will not answer to the player. After a night of play or drink, Camillo Agrippa himself could not thrust straight, and his parries were neither sure nor rapid. An error of a hair's breadth will suffice to let three inches of steel into one's body.' 

Breathtaking descriptions of the beauty of Nature, of Roma, of the countryside... and of the fabulous architecture that was intrinsic to his life:

'They were at the top of the Via Condotti, and in the distance they could see the Piazza di Spagna, lighted up by the full moon, the stairway bathed in silver, and the Trinità de' Monti rising into the soft blue.

Oh, that limpid September sea! Calm and guileless as a sleeping child, it lay outstretched beneath the pearly sky—now green, the delicate and precious green of malachite, the little red sails upon it like flickering tongues of fire, now intensely—almost one might call it heraldically—blue, and veined with gold like lapis-lazuli, with pictured sails upon it as in a church procession. At other times, it took on a dull metallic lustre as polished silver mingled with the greenish-yellow tint of ripe lemons, indefinable, strange and delicate, and the sails would come crowding like the wings of the cherubim in the background of a Giotto picture.

With the new day, he awoke to new life, one of those awakenings, so fresh and limpid, that are only vouchsafed to adolescence in its triumphant springtide. It was a marvellous morning—only to breathe the air was pure delight. The whole earth rejoiced in the living light; the hills were wrapped about with a diaphanous silvery veil and seemed to[100] quiver with life, the sea appeared to be traversed by rivulets of milk, by rivers of crystal and of emerald, by a thousand currents forming the rippling intricacies of a watery labyrinth. A sense of nuptial joy and religious grace emanated from the concord between earth and sky.

He gazed and listened mutely, fondly, letting the flood of immortal life penetrate to his heart's core. Never had the sacred music of a great master—an Offertory of Haydn, a Te Deum of Mozart—produced in him the emotion caused now by the simple chimes of the distant village churches, as they greeted the rising of the sun into the heavens. His soul swelled and overflowed with unspeakable emotion. Some vision, vague but sublime, hovered over him like a rippling veil through which gleamed the splendour of the mysterious treasure of ultimate felicity. Up till now, he had always known exactly what he wished for, and had never found any pleasure in desiring vainly. Now, he could not have named his desire, but he had no doubts that the thing wished for was infinitely sweet, since the very act of wishing was bliss. The words of the Chimera in 'The King of Cyprus'—old world, half-forgotten verses, recurred to him with all the force of a caressing appeal—

Art! Art! She was the only faithful mistress—forever young—immortal; there was the Fountain of all pure joys, closed to the multitude but freely open to the elect; that was the precious Food which makes a man like unto a god! How could he have quaffed from other cups after having pressed his lips to that one?—how have followed after other joys when he had tasted that supreme one?

'But what if my intellect has become decadent?—if my[102] hand has lost its cunning? What if I am no longer worthy?' He was seized with such panic at the thought, that he set himself wildly to find some immediate means of proving to himself the irrational nature of his fears. He would instantly compose some difficult verses, draw a figure, engrave a plate, solve some problem of form. Well—and what then? Might not the result be entirely fallacious? The slow decay of power may be imperceptible to the possessor—that is the terrible thing about it. The artist who loses his genius little by little is unaware of his progressive feebleness, for as he loses his power of production he also loses his critical faculty, his judgment. He no longer perceives the defects of his work—does not know that it is mediocre or bad. That is the horror of it! The artist who has fallen from his original high estate is no more conscious of his failings than the lunatic is aware of his mental aberration.

Other lines came back to him, and yet others—a riot of verse. His soul was filled with the music of rhymes and rhythmic measures. He was overjoyed; coming to him thus spontaneously and unexpectedly, this poetic agitation caused him inexpressible happiness. And he gave ear to the music, delighting himself in rich imagery, in rare epithets, in the luminous metaphors, the exquisite harmonies, the subtle refinements which distinguished his metrical style and the mysterious artifices of the endecasyllabic verse learned from the admirable poets of the fourteenth century, and more especially from Petrarch. Once more the magic spell of versification subjugated his soul, and he felt the full force of the sentiment of a contemporary poet—Verse is everything!

A perfect line of verse is absolute, immutable, deathless. It encloses a thought as within a clearly marked circle which no force can break; it belongs no more to the poet, it belongs to all and yet to none, as do space, light, all things intransitory and perpetual. When the poet is about to bring forth one of these deathless lines he is warned by a divine torrent of joy which sweeps over his soul.

Andrea half closed his eyes to prolong this delicious tremor which with him was ever the forerunner of inspiration, and more especially of poetic inspiration, and he determined in a moment upon the metrical form into which he would pour his thoughts, like wine into a cup—the sonnet.

While composing Andrea studied himself curiously. It was long since he had made verses. Had this interval of idleness[104] been harmful to his technical capacities? It seemed to him that the lines, rising one by one out of the depths of his brain, had a new grace. The consonance came of itself, and ideas were born of the rhymes. Then suddenly some obstacle would intercept the flow, a line would rebel and the whole verse would be displaced like a shaken puzzle; the syllables would struggle against the constraint of the measure; a musical and luminous word which had taken his fancy had to be excluded by the severity of the rhythm, do what he would to retain it, and the verse was like a medal which has turned out imperfect through the inexperience of the caster, who has not calculated the proper quantity of metal necessary for filling the mould. With ingenious patience he poured the metal back into the crucible and began all over again. Finally the verse came out full and clear, and the whole sonnet lived and breathed like a free and perfect creature.

Why allow a woman who obviously has no interest or feeling for this extraordinary man to write an article on the occasion of his 150th Anniversary?

Description of an English beauty who had experienced liaisons with artists and poets:

Art therefore had conferred upon her the stamp of nobility. But, at bottom, she possessed no spiritual qualities whatsoever; she even became tiresome in the long-run by reason of that sentimental romanticism so often affected by English demi-mondaines which contrasts so strangely with the depravity of their licentiousness.

How I regret the loss of my intelligence and learning!  There was a time when I could read 19th century literature and comprehend all the bits that were written in other languages.  But now... I think I know it but cannot be certain of the following:

Giulia,' said Andrea with his eyes on her mouth, 'Saint Bernard uses, in one of his sermons, an epithet which would suit you marvellously. And I'll be bound you don't know this either.'

Giulia laughed her sonorous rather vacant laugh, exhaling, in the excitement of her hilarity, a more poignant perfume, like a scented shrub when it is shaken.

'What will you give me,' continued Andrea, 'if I extract from the holy sermon a voluptuous motto to fit you?'

'I don't know,' she replied laughing, holding a glass of Chablis in her long slender fingers. 'Anything you like.'

'The substantive of the adjective.'

'What?'

'We will come back to that presently. The word is: linguatica—Messer Ludovico, you can add this clause to your litanies—'Rosa linguatica, glube nos.'

Is 'linguatica' even a word?  Glube means 'to rob'.  He spoke earlier of her tongue, like a rose that she frequently ran over her teeth.  Would it be 'Tongue of a rose, rob us!' ?

]The chief reason of his unfailing success lay in the fact that, in the game of love, he shrank from no artifice, no duplicity, no falsehood that might further his cause. A great portion of his strength lay in his capacity for deception.'

'Minds that have the habit of imaginative contemplation and poetic dreaming attribute to inanimate objects a soul, sensitive and variable as their own, and recognise in all things—be it form or colour, sound or perfume—a transparent symbol, an emblem of some emotion or thought; in every phenomenon and every group of phenomena they claim to discover a psychical condition, a moral significance. At times the vision is so lucid as to produce actual pain in such minds, they feel themselves overwhelmed by the plenitude of life revealed to them and are terrified by the phantom of their own creation.'

From that point of view his stage was certainly quite perfect, and he himself a most adroit actor-manager; for he almost always entered heart and soul into his own artifice, he forgot himself so completely that he was deceived by his own deception, fell into the trap of his own laying, and wounded himself with his own weapons—a magician enclosed in the spells of his own weaving.

It was one of those wonderful January nights, cold and serene, which turn Rome into a city of silver set in a ring of diamonds. The full moon, hanging in mid-sky, shed a triple purity of light, of frost, and of silence.

His thoughts turned to the dead father with boundless yearning and regret. And he had not the shadow of a suspicion that in the very teachings of that father lay the primary cause of his wretchedness.

Then with cold lucidity, he mapped out his plan of campaign. He reviewed every detail of the interview that had taken place on New Year's Eve—more than a week ago—and it pleased him to re-construct the scene, but without the slightest indignation or excitement, only smiling cynically both at Elena and himself. Why had she come?—Simply because this impromptu tête-à-tête with a former lover, in the well-known place, after a lapse of two years, had tempted a spirit always on the look-out for fresh emotions, had inflamed her imagination and her curiosity. She thirsted to see into what new situations, new intrigues the dangerous game would lead her. She was perhaps attracted by the novelty of a[216] platonic affection with a person who had already been the object of her sensual passion. As ever, she had thrown herself into the new part with a certain imaginative fervour. Also it was quite possible that, for the moment, she believed what she said, and that this illusory sincerity had furnished her with that deep tenderness of accent, those despairing attitudes, those tears. How well he knew it all! She had a sentimental hallucination as other people have a physical one. She forgot that she was acting a lie, was no longer conscious whether she were living in a world of truth or falsehood, of fiction or reality.

Now this was precisely the moral phenomenon which so constantly took place in himself. Therefore he could not reproach her without injustice. But the discovery very naturally deprived him of the hope of deriving any pleasure from her other than sensual ones. In any case, mistrust would poison all the sweetness of abandon, all soulful rapture. To deceive a confiding and faithful heart, dominate a soul by artifice, possess it wholly and make it vibrate like an instrument—habere non haberi—all this, doubtless, gives intense pleasure; but to deceive, and know that one is being deceived in return, is a stupid and fruitless labour, a tiresome and aimless pursuit.

Here is  a link to the truly stupid article about D'Annunzio and his home written by an apparent half-wit:
http://www.italymagazine.com/featured-story/dannunzio-and-il-vittoriale-degli-italiani-poets-fantasy
The World of D'Annunzio

There has been a ridiculous tendency that has only increased during the past couple of decades, to obliterate the art of any one associated with certain political movements or epochs, namely that of the Third Reich or the Fascist government of Italia.  This is patently absurd.  I have argued again and again about the fact that the genius of an artist must not be forgotten or dismissed simply because he or she may have become associated with a political movement with which one may disagree or even find repugnant.  

Artists are only human.  Their livestyles may be filled with errors of one sort or another.  They may commit acts of stupidty, cruelty or even crimes against humanity and yet their art can remain sublime, untouched by the sooty wings of their demons.  

Many great artists either flirted with or genuinely supported the politics of the Third Reich, at least in its infant stages.  The greatness of their art is in no way diminished by this and yet various influential elements in the media particularly seek to obliterate all that is associated with that movement.  Fascism was another movement that appealed to many artists and indeed, was eloquent in its embrace of all that was Good and Beautiful in Italia's past... whatever occurred later is a different matter.  The instinct of a broken and beaten Nation to attempt to recover its lost glory, pride and honour actually is a very natural one.   I have spoken to many Germans who lived through the humiliating defeat at the end of the First World War, who lived through terrible famine and privation while the victors demanded endless reparations.  Was this right???  Yet, no one speaks of this now.  No one who is a citizen of one of those arrogant victors is willing to accept partial responsibility for the rise of the Third Reich.  Ironically, these often are the same peoole who believe in 'reparations' for the descendants of slaves in the U.S.   Talk about hypocrisy and double standards...

Any one who has studied the history of Italia cannot be blind to the fact that she was raped again and again by foreign powers, from the time of the fall of Rome onwards.  It was only in the 19th century that she finally became a Nation once more.   The seeds of Fascism lay in the desire to regain some of the pride that belonged to Rome.

It is interesting how Americans boast of their national pride, of the great projects of the Roosevelt Era and yet avert their glances from the great architecture of the Third Reich and Fascist Italia.  Arno Breker was an amazing sculptor and the beauty of his figures is absolutely heart-stopping, breathtaking... a timeless salute to all that is ideal and beautiful in the human form.  How many students now are familiar with his work?

I do not subscribe by any means to the political philosophy of Nazism or Fascism but I most definitely refuse to toss out the baby with the bathwater.  Beauty is eternal and untouchable.  Any webs of political thought that cling to it must be brushed off in the same way that one would remove any dust or spiderwebs that clung to a great painting or tapestry.

Furthermore, a great deal of history is lost if one does not explore all aspects of a period, including the art that inspired its people.  D'Annunzio actually lived through two Wars and fought in the First World War, along with my own father.  That was the last war of the Gentleman, where a warrior rode a horse and carried a sword only to be mowed down by a mechanised enemy.  Both my father and D'Annunzio survied that hellish war but at what price to their psyches? 

They both continued to believe in the principles of archaic Nobility, a sort of idealised warrior's code that bore little resemblance to the Wars that followed.  Theirs was the code of the duel, where a slight to personal honour or even an opportunity to prove that one had courage and skill when confronted by naked steel was an essential element in a Gentleman's life.  Unfortunately, real wars bear little resemblance to the art of the duel but much of D'Annunzio's art refereneces this code.  

I know the code of the Gentleman all too well.  One can amass a multitude of Romantic Conquests without dishonour for Romance is a Game and to the victor are accorded the spoils.  A Gentleman always honours a gambling debt or 'debt of honour' because, in those days, those wagers usually were made between members of the same class but one need not feel obliged to pay one's creditors.  There is a sort of divine right to Beauty and Art that allowed members of the Aristocracy to ravish markets and auction houses as well as foreign lands.  Many of the treasures in museums throughout Europe are the result of this 19th century attitude.  The Elgin Marbles really should not have been named after the noble thief who stole them from their native land and that is only the very tip of the iceburg of the rape of the poorer, less powerful nations by the rich.  It happens still, albeit in a more furtive fashion.  The Yuppies have taken the place of the aristocracy, foraging throughout the globe, pillaging the ruins of temples and taking advantage of true aristocrats from other lands who have fallen upon hard times but now it is in pursuit of wealth rather than collecting for the sake of Beauty and Art.  Most of the fruits of their rapacious explorations are sold to private collectors rather than being donated to public museums.

And yet, the glory that was Greece and the greatness of the Roman Empire was built upon similar rapacity.  Every war that was fought, every foreign adventure, had its parades and processions wherein carts laden with 'spoils', often in the form of priceless artifacts, were displayed to the people as proof of the divine right of the Conqueror not only to rule but to HAVE.

The Parable of the Water Pot

The Parable of the Water Pot

There was a Master Craftsman, an artist in the field of metalwork, who once made a Karuwa, a Water Pot for a family who lived in the next village.  With pride, he made not only a vessell that would hold water for a century or more, but one that was ornamented beautifully, with a belly that resembled the pleating of a golden silk sari and a spout that was encircled with devices that resembled an arm laden with gold bangles.  His brasswork was his legacy to his people and he lay awake some nights thinking of new ways to decorate his pots and tals.

He made statues once in awhile, but his fame was based on the items he made for practical uses.  Women who used his spoons and ladles in cooking or who drew water from the village square into one of his pots, felt a little prouder of their role in life because of the beauty that called out from these humble items.

And so it was during his lifetime... but then the house where the pot had been cherished collapsed in a landslide of mud one day and the family did not rebuild on the site.  Instead, as was often the case in those days, they found it easier to build on a new site a few thousand steps form that where the old house had been.  They built a new house and bought new household goods.  Indeed, the son married and part of his new wife's dowry was a collection of new brass that shone like the sun.  It may not have been crafted with as much detail and pride as the old items, but everything matched and it all was new.  Neighbours praised the wisdom and good fortune of the family in taking a bride that brought such a wealth of household goods into their home and life went on...

Decades past and the small country, once almost inaccessible to the world because of its high mountain walls, became less so with the advent of paved roads and airplanes.  Men came from the West to buy goods from this small country, delighting in its uniqueness.  They pillaged temples that had fallen into ruin and sent messages throughout the villages that they would be willing to pay well for old traditional items.  Pay well in the sense that the money was more than a farmer could make when he sold a season's harvest of rice or a man when he sold a young goat.  In fact, what these merchants made by selling the items in the faraway lands far surpassed the amounts given to the poor people of the land.

One day, one of the people of the village remembered the house that had been buried in mud and set out to reclaim some of the items.  Thrilled to find a number of brass pieces, including the old water pot, he sent word to his cousin who lived in the capital.  The foreign merchant came and bought everything, taking it back to his own country to sell to the highest bidder.

To him, the thick incrustation of mud on the items increased their value, speaking as it did of age.  He made no effort to clean anything, and the people who bought the items referred to the mud often as a patina, a charming artistic addition to the original brass.

The poor Karuwa though was miserable.  Her spirit longed to isng again, to delight in the coolnees of the water that once lay in her belly and coursed through her spout to give life to humankind.  The mud stopped up her senses.  She was blind and dumb and shamed by the ugliness that obscured her natural brilliance.

What use is a water pot that cannot dispense water to the thirsy?  What value does such an item have when it is defined more by ancient mud than the careful and beautiful details given to it by its creator?

Is not the person who allows such a travesty to remain untouched an unenlightened being, whatever claims are made as to Eastern enlightenment on his or her part?  Buying an item of power does not confer any automatic power on its purchaser.  If the Karuwa spends decades in her new home miserable, darkened still by the filth of years gone by, indeed filth created by an ancient tragedy and the ruin of a home, will this not dim any potential to enlightenment?

People speak glibly about ritual items and the beauty of Eastern cultures and yet understand NOTHING.  Surely the greatest gift one could make to the artist and the water pot herself would be to strip her of the ancient filth and restore her beauty, to collect water in her belly and drink it.

Snow White and the Goddess Freya

A Goddess is quite a different creature from a Princess, after all.  In the original version, the Goddess Freya could distribute her favours equally between four hefty dwarves in order to win the Brisingamen, retaining all her power and glory throughout.  Snow White, on the other hand, a mere mortal Princess, could play at keeping house for seven dwarves but at the end, had to retire gracefully to her coffin of glass, innocence and virginity intact, there to await her destiny in the form of her Prince Charming, submissive and quiescent until the kiss of true love should dislodge the awful (uneaten!) Apple of Knowledge from her throat.

The Karuwa

The Karuwa is a traditional water jug that once was found in most Newar homes in Nepal.  It is an extraordinary vessel, a combination of yoni and lingam, yin and yang.  I did not perceive this when I drank water from the Karuwas of my friends as a child.  I simply did my best not to spill any of the water that cascaded from the spout, held half a foot from my mouth.  You do not suck from the spout like an infant nursing from its mother's breast.  You hold it far from your mouth and make certain that your aim is true.

Do the Newars still drink from a Karuwa or is there running water in every home now?  Since the terrible earthquakes, I daresay many of the modern conveniences have disappeared or been interrupted, taking people back to the Karuwa and the fountains in the centre of the villages.

Above are photographs of a vintage Karuwa.  I do believe it was buried somewhere for a long time, as it is not patina but a heavy crust of mud that obscures the brass.  Some people believe in leaving 'artifacts' the way they are found, but I am not one of them, especially when the object has an intended use as well as a sacred significance.  The Karuwa is both a ritual item and a very practical household item.  It is made to hold and dispense water.  How can it be right to keep a Karuwa encrusted with mud?  Furthermore, the artist and, it was an artist who crafted this particular vessel, laboured to create a sound jug or pitcher that would hold water and dispense it properly.

When I first encountered the Karuwa, I thought it a bit bizarre-looking, squat and heavy, without the grace of a swan vase or other type of pitcher.  I then began to associate this particular style with Nepal and in later years, a photograph or drawing of one would bring memories of my childhood flooding through the locked gates I had erected.

Finally, though, I began to appreciate its beauty and the genius really of its design.  The rounded belly of it is quintessentially feminine, a fecund shape that speaks eloquently of the fertility of the Great Goddess.  The narrow spout is masculine, a phallic symbol of the God.  Hinduism is filled with symbols that are overtly phallic as well as those of the female genitalia.   They are symbols of great power and are worshipped as such, both in temples and in private homes.  I now see the Karuwa as a very potent form that brings both male and female together in a vessel that dispenses to its users the very water of life.

The weight of this Karuwa is very satisfying in a visceral way.  When filled with water, it does feel pregnant with life itself.  The design is perfect in a practical sense.  The spout is positioned to filter out any silt or impurities in the water and to send forth a perfectly-directed thin stream of water that can travel unerringly at least half a foot from the end of the spout to the user's open mouth.  It therefore is very hygenic, much more than cups or chalices shared by more than one person.

The people who had this Karuwa appear to be more focused on Tibet and Buddhism than Hinduism and the Newar culture.  They told me that this particular Karuwa had been in their bedroom for a decade filled with silk flowers.  Aesthetically pleasing in its way I suppose but so very contrary to the spirit of this vessel!  Silk flowers are artificial and have nothing whatsoever to do with the powers of life.  They are beautiful admittedly and symbolise all sorts of things, but they have no need for water.

Furthermore, although the dark patterns of the mud on the surface of the vessel may be interesting and even beautiful in their own way, they too run contrary to the very essence of the Karuwa.  I originally thought I would be able to place it by my bed and drink water from it during the night.  I see now that doing so would be tantamount to a game of Russian roulette at this point in time.   I wanted it to bring life, not death, even though the Great Goddess and God dispense both equally, with sublime indifference.

I then thought to use it in my bath to rinse my hair.  This proved to be a wiser choice and very pleasing aesthetically.  When I first rinsed it out, I found some ancient insect had adhered to the inner wall.  It was a dessicated creature shaped more like a leech than anything else, but I could not and did not even wish to explore its identity.  It was the mud that gushed forth with abandon from the spout that was the most dramatic result of first use, sending a dark brown stream into the basin.  Fortunately, I did not choose the bath for its baptism as it were, but rinsed it out a few times under the spout of the washbasin.

Much of the mud remained stubbornly part of the vessel's exterior and I was able to use it in my bath without sending too much into my bathwater.  The heaviness of the Karuwa and the way the water poured from the spout brought back so many memories of times spent with my girlfriends in Banepa.  It brought back memories of bhojs, the festival meals served on heavy brass tals where we always were treated as the most honoured guests.  It would have been an insult to refuse an invitation to a bhoj and so we went from house to house, eating one meal after another in quick succession, often full to bursting before we even reached the third home.   Some of the pickles served with the curries and rice were very hot.  I often was reduced to tears by them and had to learn how to dilute the pickle with heaps of rice and a lot of water.

Back to the Karuwa...  Contemporary Western life usually does not include the ritual of polishing silver and brass.  It once was an essential part of domestic life, even if many had servants to perform the task.  Even as a child, though, I always enjoyed polishing the silver.  It gave me a sense of real satisfaction to see the dark tarnish disappear slowly, allowing the pure light of the silver to emerge.  I liked polishing brass as well. Where silver represents the icy light of the moon, brass and gold represent the sun in its brilliance.  I am very fond of brass... and gold.  Indeed, I love all metals and gems.

To restore the Karuwa to its original glory therefore will be not only a labour of love but a real pleasure, even if it takes months.  I do not intend to destroy its patina, but I do intend to clean it thoroughly so that one can drink water from it without danger of illness.

Although there is a certain nostalgic power in feeling the mud of Nepal beneath my fingernails, Nepal's dirt was NOT clean by any means.  It was filled with parasites as there were no toilets outdoors.  Certain streets were designated for this in villages but on the paths in the hills, people simply squatted whenever they felt the urge and one encountered these leavings almost at every step.   The most common parasite found on these trails was the hookworm that fastened its greedy mouth to any bare flesh that it could reach.  I would doubt that this ancient dirt contained any parasites and even if it did, I would hope that the passage of time killed them off, but even so, I shall make certain that it all is removed before I ever drink from this vessel.


This is not a Karuwa for an alter, although there are miniature versions that are perfect for puja or other forms of home worship.  This Karuwa is full-sized, created to dispense water to a family.  I am not Hindu but I do love the ritual of the puja as well as the Western pagan alters and rituals of blessing.  In Northern Pagan traditions, the alter is a circle divided into four quadrants and each is ruled by one of the Elements.  Earth in the North, Air in the East, Fire in the South and Water in the West....  there are other variations upon this but this was the form I liked.

The Element of Earth could be represented by a stone or a dish of Salt.  The element of Air can be a bit difficult but can be represented by a Bell, a fan or even incense.  Fire usually would be represented by a candle or oil lamp and finally Water would be a chalice or other vessel.

The dagger or athame or a wand can be a symbol for air, even if the association is more arcane.  In point of fact, it is all invented and people can do whatever makes sense to them. 

A small Karuwa is a perfect symbol for Water as a Sukunda lamp is a perfect symbol for the Element of Fire.  A figure of a God or Goddess can be the symbol of Earth and incense or a Bell can be the symbol for Air.  One can combine the ritual of Hindu puja with a traditional Western pagan blessing. 

In fact, I believe that all religions for the most part share a common source and exist for the sole purpose of bringing us closer to the Divine.  In Islam, they call it 'qurbatan ilallah' or 'nearness to God' and the prayer rug serves as the magic carpet or altar that allows the worshipper to enter a sacred space.    The Shias use a Muhr (Moor) stone made from the sacred soil of Karbala as a focal point.  When the perform sajeda, they do so by resting their foreheads upon the muhr.  Some Sunni object to this but I think it is a perfect focus for Salat.  The mud or clay of Karbala is sacred soil.  By making it a part of every Salat, the Shia are reminded of one of the great Sacrifices of Faith.