Saturday’s are my favorite days. On Sabbath G-d rested after His creation, and he commanded us to remain idle to commemorate that special day. I am of course idle most of the week, but that’s beside the point. It’s also my favorite day because Saturday is market day in Leiden, and thus it offers me the added pleasure of watching and observing people, while reading, writing and drinking coffee at the Coffee-Star.
As has become routine during this year’s August, it was again raining when I arrived at the Coffee-Star. I managed to take some pictures and enjoy the first coffee of the day seated under a ledge, safe from the rain, looking at the abundant umbrella’s in all sorts of colors, and people attempting to take cover from the torrents. Only the small bronze statue of the sheet-seller remained unmoved by the downpour, together with the doves grouped for comfort on top of the wooden bridge crossing the canal.
I love the buzz of people, as long as I can observe from a distance and am not stuck in between. I love the busy bustle of the market-men trying to sell their wares and a range of people from all classes of society passing by. People old and young, tall, short and overweight, rich and poor, and especially lovers embracing each other tugged together underneath their sole umbrella; smiling the smile of lovers still in the midst of the thrill of it all; the fresh excitement of having someone to hold close in the rain, to shelter with, after those long and endless days of agony while alone by themselves. Who minds rain in August when the fire inside is burning and when just one glance rekindles the fire after the coolest of breezes?
So I sit every week, only the books change and the sky above, the same scene, but each time with a different setting, a different decor. Sentimental as I am, I often wonder and my mind wanders if she is among them, within the crowd; if our eyes have crossed, both as yet unknowing of the future ahead of us. Perhaps she has noticed me without me noticing, but alas, I am a dreamer. There might be those who pity me or indulge in malicious pleasure, seeing me as I am sitting idle with only my books as companion. Let them; I am truly enjoying these idle moments, and take comfort in the lines of the great writers of yore, their characters almost lifelike; full of emotions, opinions, character and virtue, virtue often far superior than that of those living. Show me the loving and gentle tenderness of women such as Sonya the downtrodden prostitute who sacrifices all for her family, show me women such as Dunya Raskolnikova!
I have finished reading ‘Crime and Punishment’ today and have lived the torment of Raskolnikov, shared his anguish and his struggle with his conscience. Surely many of us have dared to think about the worthlessness of some of our fellow men, of those led by vice, and shallow greed or status; ‘lice’, as Raskolnikov calls them. They abound nowadays, and so they did in 19th century Russia. Surely virtue is practically dead in the current age. Yet murder and suicide are not the solution as Raskolnikov discovers, and he pays the price. But bare a thought; how can virtue and the good prevail? Haven’t we passed that station completely? Some might call me a fool, and indeed I often think of myself as such; surely I am not in a very comfortable position, and I have nothing to gain by my convictions except for a clear conscience and self pride. But I digress.
I am very excited to start reading Ivan Turgenev’s ‘Fathers and Sons’ next. A small quotation from the back-cover of the penguin classics edition:
…In fathers and sons (1862), Turgenev created a beautifully drawn portrayal of the clash between generations, at a time when the vanishing land-owning class was being overturned by a brash new breed who strove to change the world.
The change, those with sharp wit and sense of perception have tasted, and it tastes indeed bitter; changes are yet occurring, as observed earlier; the only thing that never changes if the fact that everything always changes. I already ordered Chernyshevsky’s novel ‘What is to be done’ (1863); written as a reaction to Turgenev’s novel, a book which seriously influenced Lenin and other revolutionaries.
And so, slowly I continue losing myself in the depths of the history of ideas and literature, in a futile attempt to make sense of it all. I am not like Raskolnikov, I value my freedom too much. The freedom to remain idle, to read and observe, and be alone with my thoughts.
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