The Pool

My last piece – 'On Mirrors and Photographs and Self' – was pure self-indulgence. It was all melancholy and self-loathing. It wasn't even particularly well-written, which bothers me more than anything.

One word haunted me after I wrote 'On Mirrors and Photographs and Self': Narcissus. Narcissism, and the boundless pool of reflection. It got me thinking about my favourite myth, the story of Echo and Narcissus.

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'Don't fuck with the gods'

Echo was a lovely wisp of a girl, a wood nymph who was a particular favourite of Diana, goddess of the moon and the hunt. But, like all things beautiful and dangerous, she loved to speak. She knew the awful power of words and tales and stories, and like all things proud, had to have the last word. Once day when Zeus was entertaining three infamously lithe and nimble nymphs, Echo used the power of her words to distract Zeus's wife, the jealous Hera, from his infidelity. When Hera learned of Echo's deception, she doomed her to a life of response only. 'You shall not lose that enchanting voice, nor that silver tongue,' Hera pronounced, 'but you shall never speak first! From this day forth, you will repeat everything you hear.'

'Love will always destroy you'

Narcissus was pure beauty. His blonde curls and delicate cheekbones were the rival of Apollo himself, and he inspired devotion in everyone he met. But Narcissus was cruel; secure in his beauty, he turned away with a wicked smile all those who would court him. We are all stupid in the face of beauty, and Echo fell in love with Narcissus the moment he wandered into her forest. Chasing after him, she longed to cry out, but her curse stopped her voice even as she choked on the words of love.

After days of this, chasing and circling the woods in what had become a delightful game for the cruel boy, Narcissus stopped, turned, and cried out 'Come here!' 'Here!' Echo said. 'Please!' he said. 'Please,' she answered. 'Let us be together!' he said, and wildly she replied, 'Together!', and came forth from the trees, her lovely arms held aloft. But Narcissus, being cruel, drew back, and his delicate lips curled into a snarl. 'Away!' he shouted, and she answered 'Away?' 'I would rather die than you should have me', he said, and Echo replied, softly, 'Have me', and retreated into the woods. Soon she faded away into the shadows of the trees and moss and stones, her bones became wood and her lovely face the subtle whirl of a knotted pine. Only her voice remained, and it can be heard today, still echoing on and on and on.

'The vengeance of water'

Narcissus continued to hurt the wood nymphs with his dangerous beauty, and one day a wailing nymph asked the goddess Diana for help. The goddess heard her lamentation and waited.

Narcissus wandered into the forest further and further, and came across a pool, deep and silver and silent. This pool was known by those who listened to be sacred, but Narcissus did not concern himself with this. He laid himself next to the water, and saw a vision of beauty so pure he had no choice but to stare. The vision before him was so lovely he mistook if for a water-spirit. He fell in love with this vision of himself at once, and spent his days pining for the watery, wavering boy before him. He leaned in to kiss the perfect lips; the vision rippled and disappeared, but as he drew back, it returned, closing in on itself and smiling.

Narcissus spent years by the pool, and he wasted slowly away, and the colour left his apple cheeks, and his lips became cracked and dry, and slowly, slowly, he fell into his final sleep. 'Alas, alas, my love!' he cried out before closing his eyes, and Echo (still there, always there, a voice in the trees) repeated this word, once – 'Love!'

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Beautiful, isn't it? I love the symmetry of the story, the themes of love and destruction and beauty and vanity that - yes - echo through the tale of Echo and Narcissus. I love how it simultaneously anthropomorphizes a natural phenomenon and deftly, simply, illustrates a psychological disorder. I love how it explains so much, so elegantly, about love. I love that it recognizes the cruelty inherent in beauty. I love it so much that I keep coming back to it - in my dreams, my daydreams, my nightmares, and my fantasies – again and again, echoing down through the years, and I am certain I will be forever, always, staring, reaching and pulling back, from the pool of silver water.

The End

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For those who are curious, although I wrote the myth above using my own words, I borrowed heavily from 'The Age of Fable' by Thomas Bulfinch. Along with 'The Golden Bough' by James Frazer, this is my favourite book of mythology, and the source of many recurring dreams and nightmares.