Saturday, October 02, 2004 (edited, October 27, 2008)
When I stayed in Rome for a semester last year, we would frequently go to a city near campus called Albano (supposedly, it was founded by Aeneas, but he probably never existed), where we would go to bars or just hang out. Anyway, one of the most unique memories I have of Albano is the walk back to campus (we rode the bus there, but it was too late to ride the bus back). There were two sites that I always loved seeing: a panorama of the city of Rome from hill Albano was founded on, and the mausoleum on the side of the road.
A friend of mine, Kate Wolfe, used to describe that spectacular view of Rome as a sense of loss. She said that she loved seeing the City at night, especially Rome, because (as I interpreted her) it was like a human attempt to reach toward the beauty of the stars. What was lost were the real stars, because when a city is lit up all night the way Rome is, the light makes the the stars impossible to see. We have overwrought our emulation of the stars, because we block them out. To me, on the other hand, it was a succinct image of the desire that humanity seems to have to touch the divine. Our greatest dream is, if only in a small way, to finally do something that God can be proud of; to do something that the Cosmos can smile upon. However, she was still bothered by the fact that in seeing the brilliance of the City at night, she always had to sacrifice the stars themselves. And I don't know which is better to hold on to either. The only reason that the City outshined the stars was because we were so close to it, but everyone knows that those stars are so brilliant that they can cross an enormous chasm of space and still be clearly visible. The City is beautiful, but the stars are still the grand model. This is not to say that I think we should attempt to replicate the stars -- no, let the City remain only an analogy to the stars. Even better, let the stars remain visible to me at least in some places.
The mausoleum was much different, though. It was far more striking than the City. I never saw the mausoleum during the day, so I can only describe it in the ominous context of the midnight hours. We only saw it from behind a chain gate. It was a concrete structure that, in the dark, might as well have been black. It was set back from the fence about 20 feet, so it was just close enough to be visible in detail. This part of the road was always quiet. Perhaps the cars knew what they were passing, so they took different paths, in order to respect the silence of the dead. Of course, that probably didn't happen, but it seems that way, at least to my memory. The most interesting part of this mausoleum was that from the outside one couldn't tell whether there was a body in any one particular compartment or not, except by a single red light. Each compartment had a tiny, bright, red LED light on the front of it, to indicate that it was occupied (and would be for eternity). I couldn't help but think that as time passed, and these people were forgotten, they would gradually come to be known in the eyes of the living world as nothing more than red lights. An entire story, great enough for 10 tragedies and comedies at least, reduced to a single red light. How much wisdom did that light bear, and how much guilt? Every time I passed that mausoleum, I couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of content that those little red lights were required to convey. This loss seems to me much more tragic than the loss that Kate saw in the lights of the City.
I don't think I will ever forget those two things. They are enough to make me want to go back to Albano one day...
-Priam's Pride
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