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Nocturnes: Christine Daae's Resentment
I rarely tell Eric what he should do.
But his consent to have that interview
with that hack, gossip mongering, Leroux
was unwise. Now his novel proves my fear---
as I suspected and told Erik---true.
Although published as "literary" fiction,
the text is a continued contradiction
of the mostly mundane facts of our life.
Except for Erik's so-called 'ugliness---'
Leroux gives that chief emphasis, no less,
supplying motive. I know Erik's soul---
especially when intimate---is full
of beauty, seemingly immeasurable;
and, in our private moments, pleasurable
beyond all language. (Even if I could
find words sufficient to that task, I would
not.) All the murders and the other crimes,
were falsely manufactured for our time's
warped fascination with sordid content---
tales always stained with human sin and strife.
Leroux once said his readers seek the most
dreadful descriptions to provide a host
of killings, tortures, and bloodshed---mayhem
like that will always sell a book to them.
Although in truth, entirely innocent;
in fiction, Erik is forced to present
a figure that the readers will despise,
created by Leroux's imagined lies.
ENVOI:
But Erik laughs, and says I should not fret:
the whole debacle is not worth one sneer.
And then he says he has brought me a gift:
a token of his love for me, to lift
my mood, and help me for a while forget
my anger. This has always been his way
when I am overwhelmed by some emotion---
such is his tender and profound devotion.
A pair of stockings in that wrapped box---white,
made of the finest silk, and very sheer:
so I disrobe; then, naked, put them on.
Although only an hour has passed since dawn,
I think we will be busy this whole day,
and maybe even late into the night.
