On returning home and the sense of nostalgia

Returning home is a common subject in literature, especially in fantasy or epic genres. These stories are often compelling and exciting. We love to read about the wonderful landscapes these characters encounter along their way, the magnificent creatures and the great thrills they must surpass. We long for the excitement of a great adventure. At the end, these characters may succeed returning to their homes. The premise often involves a main character who goes on an adventure - by his choice or not - and, along the journey, feels a strong desire of returning home. In “The Lord of the Rings”, Frodo and the other hobbits long for their beloved Shire. In Homer’s “Odyssey”, Odysseus (or Ulysses) struggles to get home.

But what does one expect when returning home? Why is there such a need to return to our places? We may say it can be because of the people we love live there. Or perhaps because everything we possess is there: our belongings, our small treasures, our memories. Or maybe it is because we know we have changed so much that we feel we need to come back to that small piece of ourselves we lost along the way. And how do we call this feeling exactly?

Milan Kundera tried to explain this in his book “Ignorance”:

“The Greek word for "return" is nostos. Algos means "suffering." So nostalgia is the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return. To express that fundamental notion most Europeans can utilize a word derived from the Greek (nostalgia, nostalgie) as well as other words with roots in their national languages: añoranza, say the Spaniards; saudade, say the Portuguese. In each language these words have a different semantic nuance. Often they mean only the sadness caused by the impossibility of returning to one's country: a longing for country, for home. What in English is called "homesickness." Or in German: Heimweh. In Dutch: heimwee. But this reduces that great notion to just its spatial element. One of the oldest European languages, Icelandic (like English) makes a distinction between two terms: söknuour: nostalgia in its general sense; and heimprá: longing for the homeland.”
― Ignorance, Milan Kundera

 I grew up in a small city. As many cities in the interior of my country, it was a quiet place, surrounded by mountains and crossed by a river. There weren’t many big stores, theaters or shopping malls. There was no university there, so everyone who wished to continue their studies had to move by the time they were eighteen years old. I always knew that day would come, so I accepted that easily. Many people of my age were eager to leave; after all, my hometown was too small, too “slow paced” for a teenager who wished to travel around the world and see and experience new things. I chose to study in Lisbon, the vibrant capital and its sunny weather, so different from the cold and misty winters I had spent in my hometown.

My hometown

I would often walk through the crowded streets and admire the small bookstores, the beautiful golden light spreading through the Tejo river. I spent a lot of time taking pictures; in fact, many of my favorite pictures were taken there. Whenever I had the chance, I would explore flea markets, listen to new music or take a walk in one of my favorite gardens. But sometimes, amongst the warm and soft breeze, a feeling would surprise me. I have this memory of leaving a bus and being hit by that breeze. I remember smelling something smoky, turning around and watching the big blue sky, the white clouds and the sun setting down on the backdrop of the tall city buildings. It was the smell of my hometown. My eyes were seeing the same sky I saw there. I pictured myself there.

At that time, it all made sense. I had just found a piece of me I had forgotten. It was buried underneath all the daily chores, classes and exams. As this amazing song (Welcome Home, Son) by Radical Face states:

“Ships are launching from my chest / Some have names but most do not / If you find one, please let me know what piece I've lost

Peel the scars from off my back / I don't need them anymore / You can throw them out or keep them in your mason jars / I've come home”

 I have read some important books about returning home. Some of them, like Kundera’s “Ignorance” which deals with emigration and the impossibility of coming back home, are of undeniable importance, but for now, I’d like to focus on a particular book which I’ve valued over the last few years.

The Portuguese edition of “The Window in the Willows”, by Kenneth Grahame

When we are younger, the “returning home” theme may not mean much for us. We long for adventures, excitement and traveling. Maybe this is one of the reasons why this subject may not be evident for those who first read “The Wind in the Willows”, by Kenneth Grahame. This is a lovely and classic children’s novel which I had the pleasure of reading a couple years ago. I really enjoyed reading the tales of Ratty, Mole, Toad, and Badger but a passage in particular stands out as important to me. Mole and Rat were returning from a winter walk when Mole suddenly caught the scent of his old home on the air:

“It was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly reached Mole in the darkness, making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal, even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was. He stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so strongly moved him. A moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.”
― The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

 Mole felt a strong desire to see his home again. When I read this passage, I pictured myself as this character; I saw myself freezing still in those noisy streets, my body responding to a memory I thought lost. 

“Home! That was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way! Why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found the River! And now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in. Since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences. Now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him.”
― The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

 After reading this paragraph, I felt tears rolling down my face. As a soft stream of a river during spring, I felt I had finally found the words I had been longing for so many years. In addition to missing a place where I grew up, I realized I also missed a part of me. The hopeful me, the ingenuous me. A part of me who loved to wander in the streets with a feeling of permanent fascination by everything. I remembered how I spent hours in my favorite garden looking at the trees, capturing sights that would stay in my mind and that I’d transform years later in photographs. I remembered the scent of fresh bread in my grandparent’s house, the way the sunlight would start flooding the old dining room in the wee hours of the morning. I remembered the shape of the clouds rolling over the mountains, the conversations and plans set in my teenager years and the frustrations that taught me the meaning of grit. I remembered the unending rainy months that felt like a battle for the sun’s blessing. I remembered the first time I felt the smell of petrichor coming from my backyard, so intense that I thought it would never leave my skin.

 “Poor Mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back speech and choked it as it came. "I know it's a—shabby, dingy little place," he sobbed forth at last brokenly: "not like—your cosy quarters—or Toad's beautiful hall—or Badger's great house—but it was my own little home—and I was fond of it—and I went away and forgot all about it—and then I smelt it suddenly—on the road, when I called and you wouldn't listen, Rat—and everything came back to me with a rush—and I wantedit!—O dear, O dear!—and when you wouldn'tturn back, Ratty—and I had to leave it, though I was smelling it all the time—I thought my heart would break.—We might have just gone and had one look at it, Ratty—only one look—it was close by—but you wouldn't turn back, Ratty, you wouldn't turn back! O dear, O dear!”
― The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

 I think the greatness of these stories is that they show us some important things for us, humans. We may love the excitement of something new. Everything we encounter on our way helps us to build our characters; this is the reason why Frodo could never be the same when he returned to the Shire. I often picture myself - my life - as a book, whose pages I tear up and then set free in their one place in time. Coming back home means finding some of those pages spread in the corners of remembrance and realizing a part of me is immutable. They remind me that I should not forget the one I was, the one I’m not anymore, the one that survives inside me.

It’s not a matter of not allowing oneself to change or abandoning who you once were – it’s the courage to rediscover ourselves at every instant. Because you can’t abandon something that helped you becoming who you are, even if they are just memories.

 At least I can’t.

“He saw clearly how plain and simple—how narrow, even—it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.”
― The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame

On being moved by art and writers

When I started writing this post, I was faced with a difficult task of naming a feeling. I sat down and stared blankly at my computer, wondering how I’d call it. As the sun slowly set in the horizon, the sunset expanded brightly through the sky, as if someone had been playing with yellow and red leaves. In my quest to make clear what I had in my mind, I came across the definition of “being moved”, which can mean the same as to “stir the emotions of a person or group. It suggests a strong or deep emotional impact that is often expressed openly.” I decided to go with it, even if it is far from being a perfect word to describe it.

In fact, I simply don’t know how to define this strong and enormous feeling, mostly because there are various degrees of “being moved”. The same thing happens with people. There are people we love; our relatives, our closest friends, our husband or wife, our children. But there is a different kind of interaction which I have trouble defining: when I meet someone who moves me. A person who deeply affects me, not in a romantic or friendly sense, but in a unique, profound and impactful sense. Some of these people come and go abruptly, leaving you with words, images and thoughts that change you forever. 

 Over the last years, I noticed there were several authors whose work moved me. We are moved by an author due to several different reasons. We might appreciate the way they entrance us through a captivating plot, using words like threads of a web, their arachnid eyes chasing us through their sentences. We might feel enthusiastic with their bold style, with the sort of novelty that is not sold on supermarkets. Or we might admire their characters, their worlds, the laws and beliefs that sometimes seem even more plausible than those to which we are subjugated.

 We all have authors and books that we admire. I could choose several who have touched and surprised me: Haruki Murakami and his volatile and mysterious stories; Stefan Zweig and his social critique; Gabriel García Marquez and his magical realism; Virginia Woolf and her poetic narrative. But in the course of our lives, there are a number of authors who move us deeply and provoke a deeper impact. Something in their works, phrases and ideas - perhaps an echo, a whisper – vibrates our heart’s tendinous cords, making them shiver and tremble like clothes in the wind.

 I do not intend to review all the books that have awakened in me this myriad of unique sensations, but I would like to write about two particular authors that have moved me in recent years. Deep down, I feel as if I am writing a letter to these authors - a letter without a destination, a silent ode of gratitude.

 In May 2016, I wrote down some words in my notebook after I had finished reading my first book by Patti Smith, "M Train”. "M Train" is itself the product of Patti Smith’s notebook’s writings, a kind of autobiographical work that portrays her thoughts, her wanderings through cafes, her memories, readings and reflections. "M Train" lives in the shadow of "Just Kids", the American singer's most popular work, which portrays her years of youth and her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe. However, I chose "M Train” only by a matter of availability on my usual bookstore.

 What prompted me to read something written by Patti Smith? It was surely because I had had the pleasure of watching her concert back in 2015. Until then, I had never explored the discography of Patti Smith, although I was aware of her influence on music in general. Everything else about her was unknown for me.

 As a side note, I must say that until then I had always distrusted writers who kept another parallel artistic activity. Patti Smith was no exception. Perhaps my suspicion dates back to a time when many popular actors and musicians published self-help books and autobiographies. I now know that distrust was a form of personal bias, even if I didn’t know it when I first started reading “M Train”.

 Let's go back to the moment I read "M Train". Something in me was suspended in Patti Smith’s words - not because of her lyricism, but because of her honest ability to translate contradictory feelings through her writing, feelings which seemed inherent to my own being. Whole scenes where slowly built in my mind, scenes that transcended the photographs that illustrated some of the passages in the book. Patti Smith talks about writing in a way that did not scare me. During my life I have tried - and read - several books on the art of writing. Advice from writers, reflections on how best to complete and publish a book. Most of these works, however, aroused in me an endless fear of failure and of generic and empty opinions and critics. To read Patti Smith was to find a calm voice amidst the background noise of a society in perpetual movement, thirsting for competition.

 Simultaneously, reading Patti Smith was to see validated emotions I rarely reveal to other people. The identification with some passages was so intense that it forced me to pause and reflect on its content.

“Overhead the fans spin, feigning the four directions of a traversing weather vane. High winds, cold rain, or the threat of rain; a looming continuum of calamitous skies that subtly permeate my entire being.Without noticing, I slip into a light yet lingering malaise. Not a depression, more like a fascination for melancholia, which I turn in my hand as if it were a small planet, streaked in shadow, impossibly blue.”
― M Train, Patti Smith

Me at NOS Primavera Sound reading “Woolgathering”, by Patti Smith

 Why did I empathize with Patti Smith’s words? I would never live what she did nor would I be able to imagine exactly what she felt on her own time - and yet my body and thoughts slowly became one with her words and ideas.

The moments described in the book took the form of instant snapshots which I would vividly remember in the following days as something tangible and real. Through her work, Patti Smith had taught me to nurture those feelings, those tiny obsessions as a form of symbiosis with oneself and with life itself. 

This feeling endured for a few days, in the same way a fond memory does; however, it eventually dissipated. I read all of Patti Smith’s books that I could get my hands on and in all of them the same original feeling keep resurfacing repetadly. 

After finishing her published work, I turned to her social media presence and, despite still admiring her, I feel that the special connection I just described only seems to come up with her literary pieces.

A few months had gone by. April had returned and with it a light drizzle whose persistence echoed slivers of eternity. In that day, traces of light drained through a body of dense and dark clouds, whose softness imparted it a celestial and undying nature. I found myself in a city close to the sea, where seagulls screamed distant and cryptic words as they flew overhead. I had lived in this city a few years ago and the avenues, shops and naked trees all felt strangely familiar. Nostalgia took over me and I felt the same happiness that had been present when I took my trips there and met some people with whom I experienced moments of happiness and discovery. In moments like these, I usually end up at bookshops, as if compelled by a thirst for words, and that day was no exception.

As I sat in my favorite café with “My Brilliant Friend”, I wondered what lead me to choose that particular book. Perhaps it had been its white contours and the solemn look of the girl in the monochromatic picture on the cover or even perhaps a long-forgotten review stored somewhere in my mind. Yet none of this was intentional.

 Elena Ferrante’s books have often described as being “addictive” in the sense that they force the reader to devour its paragraphs in order to learn the characters journey.

Something snapped in my mind as I read the detailed description of Lila Cerullo’s dissolving boundaries phenomenon, as described by Elena Greco, the story’s narrator and Lila’s childhood friend. The feeling of depersonalization had always impressed me greatly and reading such a beautiful description of this phenomenon stole my breath, as if a wave had burst through that café and kept me from breathing. I felt my hands shaking over the printed page, as if swayed by dozens of silent tones. After reading the 4 books of the so called “Neapolitan Novels”, something in me had changed; something invisible to other people but forever present.

 Some might define all of this as empathy. In some situations, I do believe that art serves as an empathy-learning vehicle. However, all that I’ve described goes beyond that definition. It is, if you will, the ultimate expression of inspiration and creative unquiet. As I see it, it is the utmost purpose of an artist to express oneself and perhaps, with some luck, to awaken in another human being something that will move and lead him or her to change socially, politically and artistically. 

Susan Sontag once said “I water my mind with books.” Few quotes are as meaningful as this one but I would add that books go beyond the mind and also influence one’s spirit, heart, body and ultimately one’s existence.

Whether with books, music or films, let us water our existence with experiences that move us and leads us to question everything around us - that is the true importance of art and literature.