Topic 4: Passion
Jan. 16th, 2006 06:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
a_sloanePassion is such an overused term, and quite often misapplied for some of the hormonal pecadillos people find themselves in which peter out in a few months, or one or two years, or to more or less endearing hobbies, like Marshall's fondness for - what was the name again - well, some computer game or the other. Not that I deny Marshall actually ispassionate about things - about his work, for example, which is why I hired him to begin with, and about his family - but the game of uncertain name does not truly deserve the term.
On the other hand, it would be foolish to ignore the power of true passion. It can be overwhelming, and no matter how much one prides oneself on one's rationality, all-consuming. I have witnessed passion, and experienced it myself, but not necessarily about what people might expect. Last year, the less than thrilling encounter with a poor fool who had been brainwashed into impersonating me brought that into sharp relief. One of his henchmen, surrounded by Rambaldi artifacts, told me, when I asked him whether he knew true meaning of Rambalid's heritage, that it was immortality, of course. That this was what they had been promised. I could see it all very clearly at that moment: a crimelord with philosophical pretensions and his goons on a quest that was a poor imitation of an Indiana Jones film. And yet, was not it not this what others would see if they looked at me?
"No," I said. In fact, I said a few more things, and certainly in a passionate manner. I believe this was one of the few times when I killed someone for irrational reasons, and in a completely irrational manner. Nadia certainly seemed to think so when she found me with his blood covering my face. But contrary to what she might have assumed and feared, my action had not been driven by my faith in Rambaldi. It was not that ignorant dilettante with his babbling about immortality I was truly furious with, you see.
There are few passions more powerful than hatred, and only one more powerful than hatred directed at yourself.
Hate often gets dismissed as something one has to overcome, as some primitive urge, which of course it can be; but more often than not, it can be the one lifeline that keeps you going, the one weapon that never fails you. Take Sydney, for example. Only a few years ago, she was a charming, splendid young woman with a gift for disguises and improvisiation, but her potential had barely been scratched. I dare say I do not flatter myself when pointing out it was her hatred for myself and what I represented to her that changed Sydney into the warrior she became, and which enabled her to survive through incredible odds. This of course had not been what I had meant to happen; I never wanted Sydney to hate me. She is one of the few people whose opinion I actually care about. But the fact remains that the mild fondness she might have felt when visiting Emily and myself at our house or telling me about her experiences abroad after the official mission debriefings were over before the unfortunate incident with her fiancé was nothing compared to the passion she showed afterwards. There was something pure and unique in her hatred for me, unrelenting and unchanging when her grief for her fiance had long faded into her new infatuation for the hapless Michael Vaughn, something that bound us together as surely as any bloodtie. After I had deduced that she had become a double agent, working for my downfall, I gave her several opportunities to leave, and she never took a single one. I used to believe it was Jack who would one day be the death of me, but after Sydney had started to hate me, I was no longer sure. I still am torn on this matter. But it surely be one of them; there is no one else I would grant the privilege to.
And yet hatred is not the strongest of the passions, as I said. Sydney, taking my hand when I asked her to dance with me while she wished to eviscarate every organ from my body was beautiful, and I will never forget the sight of her that night, but when I saw her pregnant with her child, that memory was surpassed. For this is the greatest, most terrible and most beautiful of all the passions: the feeling a parent has for his or her child. Look at Jack. He is eternally swaying between love and hate for Irina, but when he came to believe she posed a threat to Sydney, he killed her, or who he believed to be her, and that was not the first time he had organized her demise for that reason. As for myself... I loved my wife. Through thirty years, I loved her, and seeing her suffer was always a greater torture than anything any expert could ever come up with, whether it was through the loss of Jacquelyne, or through the horrors cancer inflicted on her defenseless body. And yet, when I had a choice last year, when I could have been with her and the past as I wished it to be in the safe happiness the mind offers when it closes of from reality, it was not Emily I chose. It was Nadia. My child.
My daughter, whom I had wronged twice after finally finding her. I could not fail her a third time. And so I made myself into something which I am not, because the father she deserved was not the father she had been given. What I made myself into still is not enough, but it will have to accomplish its purpose. She called me, and it was then that I knew. There was nothing rosy or comforting about the realisation. I would rather have stayed where I was; though I could not have predicted what was to occur very soon, I knew that to return would bring more harm than happiness. But Nadia told me she wanted me to come back to her, and I knew that everything, Rambaldi, that lost past I will never have again, and even Emily was secondary to this.
To call it love or passion almost seems an attempt to render it harmless.
On the other hand, it would be foolish to ignore the power of true passion. It can be overwhelming, and no matter how much one prides oneself on one's rationality, all-consuming. I have witnessed passion, and experienced it myself, but not necessarily about what people might expect. Last year, the less than thrilling encounter with a poor fool who had been brainwashed into impersonating me brought that into sharp relief. One of his henchmen, surrounded by Rambaldi artifacts, told me, when I asked him whether he knew true meaning of Rambalid's heritage, that it was immortality, of course. That this was what they had been promised. I could see it all very clearly at that moment: a crimelord with philosophical pretensions and his goons on a quest that was a poor imitation of an Indiana Jones film. And yet, was not it not this what others would see if they looked at me?
"No," I said. In fact, I said a few more things, and certainly in a passionate manner. I believe this was one of the few times when I killed someone for irrational reasons, and in a completely irrational manner. Nadia certainly seemed to think so when she found me with his blood covering my face. But contrary to what she might have assumed and feared, my action had not been driven by my faith in Rambaldi. It was not that ignorant dilettante with his babbling about immortality I was truly furious with, you see.
There are few passions more powerful than hatred, and only one more powerful than hatred directed at yourself.
Hate often gets dismissed as something one has to overcome, as some primitive urge, which of course it can be; but more often than not, it can be the one lifeline that keeps you going, the one weapon that never fails you. Take Sydney, for example. Only a few years ago, she was a charming, splendid young woman with a gift for disguises and improvisiation, but her potential had barely been scratched. I dare say I do not flatter myself when pointing out it was her hatred for myself and what I represented to her that changed Sydney into the warrior she became, and which enabled her to survive through incredible odds. This of course had not been what I had meant to happen; I never wanted Sydney to hate me. She is one of the few people whose opinion I actually care about. But the fact remains that the mild fondness she might have felt when visiting Emily and myself at our house or telling me about her experiences abroad after the official mission debriefings were over before the unfortunate incident with her fiancé was nothing compared to the passion she showed afterwards. There was something pure and unique in her hatred for me, unrelenting and unchanging when her grief for her fiance had long faded into her new infatuation for the hapless Michael Vaughn, something that bound us together as surely as any bloodtie. After I had deduced that she had become a double agent, working for my downfall, I gave her several opportunities to leave, and she never took a single one. I used to believe it was Jack who would one day be the death of me, but after Sydney had started to hate me, I was no longer sure. I still am torn on this matter. But it surely be one of them; there is no one else I would grant the privilege to.
And yet hatred is not the strongest of the passions, as I said. Sydney, taking my hand when I asked her to dance with me while she wished to eviscarate every organ from my body was beautiful, and I will never forget the sight of her that night, but when I saw her pregnant with her child, that memory was surpassed. For this is the greatest, most terrible and most beautiful of all the passions: the feeling a parent has for his or her child. Look at Jack. He is eternally swaying between love and hate for Irina, but when he came to believe she posed a threat to Sydney, he killed her, or who he believed to be her, and that was not the first time he had organized her demise for that reason. As for myself... I loved my wife. Through thirty years, I loved her, and seeing her suffer was always a greater torture than anything any expert could ever come up with, whether it was through the loss of Jacquelyne, or through the horrors cancer inflicted on her defenseless body. And yet, when I had a choice last year, when I could have been with her and the past as I wished it to be in the safe happiness the mind offers when it closes of from reality, it was not Emily I chose. It was Nadia. My child.
My daughter, whom I had wronged twice after finally finding her. I could not fail her a third time. And so I made myself into something which I am not, because the father she deserved was not the father she had been given. What I made myself into still is not enough, but it will have to accomplish its purpose. She called me, and it was then that I knew. There was nothing rosy or comforting about the realisation. I would rather have stayed where I was; though I could not have predicted what was to occur very soon, I knew that to return would bring more harm than happiness. But Nadia told me she wanted me to come back to her, and I knew that everything, Rambaldi, that lost past I will never have again, and even Emily was secondary to this.
To call it love or passion almost seems an attempt to render it harmless.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-01-16 09:35 pm (UTC)//locked to Sloane//
I got a hold of one of my contacts S. That kind of a contact. I'll post up a meet and you can comment in. We'll discuss things.
//unlocked//
Once again, well put.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-17 06:26 am (UTC)*locked to Sark*
Good to know. Surprisingly, I find myself looking forward to our discussion for more than one reason.