Henry James in Paris

I am not a writer, nor would I ever consider myself as one. However, today I am writing, as I will call it, “The Outsider”, for I feel nothing more or less than such. I am an outsider in a way that which everyone surrounding me seems to understand and relate, while I am a cast in the shadows attempting to slip off half of the mask. The past weeks have been ones of exploration and searching of the soul but the results are some of disappointment while others achievement. New York City is a world of comfort; hence it is a place where I feel the opportunity of choice. New York City is one to be in the bones, where its experience is of pure confidence, which masks the ultimate bliss. I, now in Paris, have yet to experience this confidence that masks bliss but rather bliss that masks confidence. Eugene Lang of New York City is pure freedom while Parsons of Paris has been, to me at least so far, claustrophobic. This claustrophobia, caused by minute selection of courses and opportunity, feels as if there is no freedom of choice, and is one of my reasoning’s of feeling as the outsider.

Henry James was the author of the past week reading and it was as alien to me as Paris itself, for I have never read in such ways that he writes. Henry James has a style of complication. His literary style of realism is more of one of dense, poetic symbolism- one that deranges my mind in grasping. There is a connection to the writing style of James and of Hemingway, for they produce on paper life through their perception. Despite this comparison, Hemingway’s style is more of simplistic and direct, but also extremely visual. James too, is visual but his optical is one of philosophic. Yet, the two approach ways in identifying not just life, but life in Paris.

As mentioned earlier, the results since my arrival in Paris have been ones of disappointment and achievement. Achievements have made their way in bombarding my life of the new. Places, art, food, people, language, architecture, and way of living- it is all new. New is of one that excites me the most. But what is this disappointment? There seems to be a dark hole that is lying beneath this electric flesh that is barricading what should have been the confidence and bliss that was expected. Maybe it is the act of expecting. Although with only twenty years of life, it has occurred to me when one abides by the act of prediction, negative or positive, the aftermath always fails to triumph.

Now, this pessimism shouldn’t and does not relate to Paris itself, for the city is full of beauty, and when one is cornered by beauty, happiness occurs. It is not that there is no happiness being felt, for it is confidence that is being lacked, and when one lacks confidence, one lacks independence. As I am writing this, the root of the problem has finally become clear in its path. It is fear. The dark hole lying beneath my electric flesh is fear. Is it possible that it is the fear that fears me? Is it fear that is holding back the light that was prepared to take advantage of every opportunity of the new this city has to offer? What if it is fear of the new, fear of letting go of what was once convenient and now being forced to appreciate the excruciating awkwardness?  What is ironic about this current state is that this was the reasoning of leaving New York City, a place that is so familiar now being thousands of miles away.

Fear, disappointment, discomfort, are what swarm my body when I am placed in a situation where I feel as if I do not understand, do not belong. This is true in the case that it is intimidating to attempt to speak French because I do not, although know enough and could easily put sentences together, but instead stick to English and still feel as a fool. This is also why going out alone, other than places familiar, has not happened yet. My disappointment now is the equivalent of lack of confidence and independence. This is so when reading, for example, Henry James; one whose literary style appears unfamiliar, is difficult to understand, and requires full consideration. Feeling as a fool. This is yet another that falls under the genre of my disappointment, even a subgenre of my fear. But maybe this is the reasoning of coming to Paris, to learn not to feel as a fool even when wrong or clueless. What is wrong with being wrong or clueless? It is impossible to be correct and knowledgeable of everything, right? These are things, which need to become an acceptance and a closure, for, and then confidence and independence will be regained and the outsider will be diminished.