Magical things happen to all of us on our way through life without our noticing for a time they have happened. “Surely it has been there all along,” you think. “Surely I have always loved him.” “She has always been mine,” you tell yourself. And of course, being magic, it is all true, even when it is still only becoming so.

And so it was for the pirate and the mermaid who fell in love.

This mermaid of whom I speak was not unlike a certain Wendy of whom I’m sure you all have heard, who always knew just when to sit thoughtfully at a window and when to step to the window’s edge and take flight toward the stars. The pirate was not unlike Peter Pan, who, despite choosing never to grow up, knew all the best pathways through enchanted woods, which only the wisest of adults know. But above all, the mermaid and the pirate were not unlike each other, for while both delighted in the kind of solitary escapades that can only be undertaken in secret, they each separately believed that true adventure, is best when undertaken with a friend; For adventures are always sweetest when you can see in another’s smile, that Yes, this is an unforgettable moment.

Both the pirate and the mermaid were frequenters of a certain lagoon, nestled in a corner of a much-loved island. Though both spent many days and nights and weeks throughout the years enjoying the lagoon, they both thought of it as their own, and rarely, at least in the beginning, noticed that anyone other soul besides themself kept is as a home away from home.

For the mermaid, naturally, lived at the edge of the sea. On evenings when the sunset promised to be dazzling, the young mermaid would climb to a secret spot on the cliff overlooking the ocean to watch the sun settle down to bed in the deeper sea beyond her reach.

To the south, in an isolated patch of woods, the young pirate enjoyed the solitude offered by tall trees and disguised hideouts. Even as a boy, the pirate was a superb swordsman and parried with dazzling rapidity against imaginary foes.

And while the years passed, we would be mistaken if we thought the pirate and mermaid never noticed one another or spoke, for to be sure, it was not a very large lagoon they frequented. But did they recognize each other? Not quite. “How can this be,” you ask, “if they shared a home away from home.”

Some would say it was because the pirate and the mermaid had seen each other so often in their dreams, they did not know the other was real. I’m inclined to agree with those that say so.

And this would explain how one night, when both the pirate and the mermaid were invited to the same banquet, they fell into conversation so easily.

The mermaid thought herself dreaming, though wide awake, when she noticed a rakish-looking man in a well-haberdashered suit and fine boots. The mermaid said to herself, “Here’s a flashy fellow, but not in the artificial way of bobs and bangles. No, his is a flash like sunset beams on the water, natural and luminous.”

The pirate recognized the mermaid from across the room. “I have seen her before” he thought, “ seen her standing on the shore in a bright dress with her hair dancing in the wind, have seen her facing the rain on a hillside, bundled against the storm yet eager for more. Have these things happened already or are they about to?” He wondered.

And it seemed only natural that he should cross the room to her and speak.

“I know you,” he said. “I know who you are.”
“You know me?” said she, “Well, I am not hard to find. Many know my name.”
“But I know who you are. You are a mermaid.”

She was taken aback. For though she had recognized him, she did not expect him to recognize her.
“What you say is true,” said the mermaid. “But how did you know?”
The pirate replied, “There is a certain lagoon I’ve had reason to visit often. I’ve seen you there laughing with your sisters, and teaching the little fishes new games to play.”

“And I recognize you,” admitted the mermaid. “But maybe I mistook you for a fish. I see now I must have been mistaken. You are a pirate, aren’t you?” she said.
He smiled his ‘Yes.’
“Do you pillage and plunder for treasure”
“Certainly not. I design treasures and share them. What treasure do you seek?”
“Well” said the mermaid, “I should like something to keep me warm on my windy walks on the shore.”

And just like that, the mermaid found herself wrapped in the warmth sown by this pirate, her friend.
“You made this just for me?” she inquired.
“Truth be told, I made it for myself, but thought it would suit you better.”
“Then I like it all the more. What else can you do?” asked the mermaid.

The pirate leaned in so that only the mermaid could hear, and said, “I can fill a single day with one thousand adventures. I can make wearing a tie look fun. I can walk in the wind and the rain and snow so long as it’s a new place to go.”

The mermaid smiled, put her hands on her hips and winked up at him. “Well, sir pirate. I shall put you to the test.”

And she did. For if you cannot already tell, both the mermaid and the pirate had lion courage. Neither was tame, but both were good. From that day forward, adventures were of daily occurrence. The difficulty is which one to choose to close our tale. Should we follow them snowshoeing up the frozen volcano? That is a pretty story and shows how brave both can be when the other is there to encourage them. Or we could join them at their favorite talking spot and eavesdrop on their secrets.

But since our time is short, I think the best story would be the adventure of the sunken treasure. For, after years of many mini-adventures, the pirate and mermaid decided that to live together would be an awfully big adventure.

“Now forever more, I will call you ‘my pirate,’” said the mermaid. “What now will you call me?”
Her pirate replied, “I will call you Lucy, for your own name is the sound I like most of all.”

And hearing this, she took him by the hand, leapt into the surf, and led him swimming to a place she’d always wanted to explore, but had not yet had reason to. There, glittering under the water, hidden by undersea caves was a pirate ship, not ravaged by wreck, but in perfect condition, as if its crew decided to put it to there to sleep after a long day afloat. And as the mermaid began to unroll slippery maps on the captain’s table, the pirate waved her over to a small bronze chest whose lock was broken. Eager to see what was inside, the pirate and the mermaid opened the case together and what do you think they found inside, but two golden rings, studded with sapphires.

“They match,” said the mermaid to the pirate once they were back on shore.
“And so do we,” said the pirate.

It will come to no surprise to any of you here to learn that not long after this, the mermaid and the pirate invited all their friends together to a beautiful spot, not far from their lagoon, so they could give these rings to one another.

And if you are a lucky one, on a day such as this, if you happen to wander onto a certain island, you might, just as the sun is setting and the stars are beginning to wake, see a mermaid and a pirate dancing to the rhythm of the sea, as the night sings “This is love, this is love, this is love, that we’re feeling.”

If you see this, you will have no doubt that, Yes, this is an unforgettable moment.

*wedding photos stolen from Facebook friends

For those expecting “Diaries of a French Burlesque Dancer”, prepare to be disappointed. While one may approach Colette’s behind-the-scenes of a traveling pantomime artist in turn-of-the-century France expecting it to be flavored with salacious frivolity to match Colette’s reputation, what you’ll find is more an existentialist rumination on ambivalence, than story of a passionate life. In fact, if there’s one thing that most defines the divorcee-turned-stage-performer Reneé Neré, it’s her distrust of passion. Colette’s largely-biographical novel tracks the frustrations, distractions and depressions of a woman in her early thirties whom, in the fallout of a disastrous and damaging marriage, chooses a life of solitude on the stage, rather than one of societal rules. But it’s not a story of the gay and free life of an artist. Instead, the monotony and doubt expressed by Reneé are all-too-recognizable for any single woman reader today, particularly if that reader is in-between jobs and still trying to figure out what to do with her life, with men, and with herself. (ahem).

Did I enjoy this book? Not particularly. The protagonist’s reflections on self-doubt and self-denial are disruptive, and even at times, numbing.
Do I respect this book? Absolutely. To read something that speaks so frankly about women’s experience, women’s fears and women’s strength much less about a woman living in her own apartment and making her own living during a time when corsets were still ubiquitous, is both humbling and empowering. But to spend time with Reneé Neré, is to linger in a space of dissociative hesitation and unconscious compulsion. It’s uncomfortable, but truthful.

Read, respect, but do not expect to revel.



**The Dover Edition is terrible. Stanley Applebaum’s introduction is meant to replace what endnotes would be, but this book desperately needs endnotes for the cultural and historical references. Also, Applebaums new “Americanized” translation reads at times like an Archie comic book. The Enid MacLeod translation may be 60 years old and egregiously British, but it’s still better.**



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Certainly an enjoyable read, but it necessitated wearing my “early 19th-century” lenses to be carried into it. Not sure if as literature it resonates beyond its own context. In other words, I was really only ever impressed or amused by the book when I tried to imagine how it would have been received by novel readers in 1832. Would they have identified with the heroine? Been annoyed at her earnestness? Would they have rooted for the love affair only to be shocked (or insulted) when it became clear the guy was a narcissistic idiot, and she, a dupe? Or does Sand truly think her heroic? Was Sand playing with her readers’ expectations to mock to mock them or just to mock society?

Having never read Sand’s work before, I couldn’t tell. But the character of Raymon, and our access to the inner-logic of his self-inflation is priceless. If ever there was a more cowardly, self-deluded, empty-headed romantic hero, I don’t think I’ve found him. As much as you hate him (which you are most definitely meant to do), he’s still the best character in the book, or at least the only one you’ll groan over and chuckle about, not just groan.

I recommend Indiana as an historically interesting satirical novel, but really only as that. It won’t stir you much beyond the chance to enjoy a 19th century woman’s critique of men. Though where the line between critique and praise for women is considered, you may be baffled.



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