What Confuses You?

I was rereading my bookmarks in Dostoyevsky’s Demons because sometimes we’re seized by the urge to revisit moments that once held us so tightly, their grip never really loosened. And I’d love to talk more about the book, but maybe I’ll save that for another post (hopefully).

What I’ve always noticed when I read is that whenever I stumble upon an interesting passage, I almost always have something to say about it (because I’m very opinionated like that).

I came across this passage again - one I didn’t quite grasp before, probably because I had no direct experience at the time. Even less so when I was in the thick of it myself. And to be honest, I still don’t claim to understand it fully now.

Anyway, the passage:

Perhaps there was nothing in it but the play of femininity on her side; the manifestation of an unconscious feminine yearning so natural in some extremely feminine types. However, I won’t answer for it; the depths of the female heart have not been explored to this day.

This was written in 19th-century Russia (roughly 150 years ago), yet men still haven’t figured it out - even today. Because if they had, let’s be honest, everything would be smooth sailing by now (there may be few exceptions, but I think it’s okay to generalise).

The passage, by the way, refers to Varvara Petrovna, who had a profound influence on the protagonist, Stepan Trofimovich Verkhovensky, as is repeatedly shown throughout the story. Varvara was such a woman - and I think I get what John Lennon meant when he said, “There is a great woman behind every idiot.” But before this slips into a book review, I should probably get on with what actually confuses me.

Dostoyevsky has never been one to explain things outright, and I think that’s what I like about him. Some things are just too delicate to explain directly. And instead of forcing clarity, he lets his characters do the speaking. And they do so extremely masterfully - pulling you right into the middle of it, making you grapple with their messes as if they were your own.

All I’m trying to say is: rather than approach and answer this question in microessay fashion (though I realise I may already be contradicting myself), I think I’ll just wade through it, personally, with rhyme and reason… or, as you’ll soon see, perhaps with no reason at all. Or better yet: rhyme without reason.

Introverts love yapping, don’t they? Or is it just me?

What Confuses You?

She loves me, and she loves me not.
None confounds me but a female heart.
One breath, she clings insatiably,
Then she stands - aloof, a memory.

I tried to wade through her tides,
Amid relentless waves of guarded pride.
She drifts beyond my desperate reach,
Then lights the shore, only to retreat.

I thought she was poetry,
I saw only a play of femininity.
A puzzle with no shape or line,
Yet insists I read it like a sign.

Away with me, away with me.
This endless swing tortures me.
We weren’t meant to last.
Let’s drift apart, let go at last.

You'll find calm when I'm gone,
While I haunt what went wrong.
We're poetry in hindsight,
But faltered badly in plain sight.

Even now, my memory of you,
Fragile as it is and few,
Still manages a touch of magic,
A faint smile on my lips - ironic.

Do I still long to hold you again,
Or just mourn who I was back then?
I’ll never know - of this I'm sure:
The depths of a female heart remain obscure.

I have nothing more to add. I even thought about asking Freud - but it seems he was just as confused.

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