Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx
Thanks to the release of the new movie by Ang Lee, the New Yorker has reposted the original short story.
Ah, cowboys falling in love. I read the story a couple of years ago, one summer afternoon by a lake, I think (as all good humanist short-stories should be read; or, if it is winter, by a fire with hot chocolate near by). I teared up then. When I read it over again last night, I teared up again.
At its essence is a straight forward enough tale, complicated by the very regular dilemmas that stand in the way of intimacy (mostly communication) but the most poignant element of the story is that of language, or the lack of facility with language. The young men are constantly obstructed by a paucity of words to describe what they feel for one another, not just to one another, but also themselves. It's the frustration of being a couple of uneducated, rural lads who have only ever been given the tools to work, and drink, and fight; and make those decisions which would emulate the day to day operating around them; not to imagine, or love. They were never given words to describe their feelings. So they sometimes get lost in the morass of their own undefined emotions, with no up from down, only physical intuition.
It's a good subject matter for this kind of predicament: the development of a love which by its very nature refuses to be defined, and is difficult even to acknowledge. It's something which a lot of queer individuals, even those educated and gifted with linguistic facility, intuitively understand because of the process it takes for you to find your own compass to self explanation. It's hard to define yourself when you don't even know what it is you're defining.
I'm happy not to know Wyoming in the 1960's personally. It's close enough to the setting I grew up in, the backwater woods of Northern Ontario, the Ottawa Valley; there was enough confusionon and inability to define there, even in the 90's, and more than enough intolerance and bigotry to make it miserable. Stuck on a ranch past the tree line with nothing but a bottle of whiskey and a skittish horse back then probably would have killed me a hell of a lot faster than death comes up on Jack and Ennis in the story.
We do come a long way sometimes. Personally and collectively.
Ang Lee should do an admirable job of it. My god, he made The Hulk a disquieting, beautiful film; hard love in a hard place shouldn't be too much of stretch.
Now I just need someone to go and see it with; but, unfortunately, I'm not in love.
Ah, cowboys falling in love. I read the story a couple of years ago, one summer afternoon by a lake, I think (as all good humanist short-stories should be read; or, if it is winter, by a fire with hot chocolate near by). I teared up then. When I read it over again last night, I teared up again.
At its essence is a straight forward enough tale, complicated by the very regular dilemmas that stand in the way of intimacy (mostly communication) but the most poignant element of the story is that of language, or the lack of facility with language. The young men are constantly obstructed by a paucity of words to describe what they feel for one another, not just to one another, but also themselves. It's the frustration of being a couple of uneducated, rural lads who have only ever been given the tools to work, and drink, and fight; and make those decisions which would emulate the day to day operating around them; not to imagine, or love. They were never given words to describe their feelings. So they sometimes get lost in the morass of their own undefined emotions, with no up from down, only physical intuition.
“Right,” said Jack, and they shook hands, hit each other on the shoulder; then there was forty feet of distance between them and nothing to do but drive away in opposite directions. Within a mile Ennis felt like someone was pulling his guts out hand over hand a yard at a time. He stopped at the side of the road and, in the whirling new snow, tried to puke but nothing came up. He felt about as bad as he ever had and it took a long time for the feeling to wear off.The problem in experiencing something you can't name is that later it's hard to know if you were feeling it at all.
It's a good subject matter for this kind of predicament: the development of a love which by its very nature refuses to be defined, and is difficult even to acknowledge. It's something which a lot of queer individuals, even those educated and gifted with linguistic facility, intuitively understand because of the process it takes for you to find your own compass to self explanation. It's hard to define yourself when you don't even know what it is you're defining.
I'm happy not to know Wyoming in the 1960's personally. It's close enough to the setting I grew up in, the backwater woods of Northern Ontario, the Ottawa Valley; there was enough confusionon and inability to define there, even in the 90's, and more than enough intolerance and bigotry to make it miserable. Stuck on a ranch past the tree line with nothing but a bottle of whiskey and a skittish horse back then probably would have killed me a hell of a lot faster than death comes up on Jack and Ennis in the story.
We do come a long way sometimes. Personally and collectively.
Ang Lee should do an admirable job of it. My god, he made The Hulk a disquieting, beautiful film; hard love in a hard place shouldn't be too much of stretch.
Now I just need someone to go and see it with; but, unfortunately, I'm not in love.
Comments