Excerpt: The Will of Venus: the print of Ophelia
From The Will of Venus:
Livia’s relationship with Ophelia, and particularly with Ophelia as she had been painted by Millais, had a long history. She had bought a print of that painting during her sophomore year at college, and it had accompanied her ever since. The year she gave the print to Danae, there was an exhibition of Pre- Raphaelite paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Livia went with Erik. That was back in the days when she had boyfriends. Erik had been one of the last ones, the last one but one, in fact. He was a graduate student in comparative literature. He traveled once a week from New York to New Haven, where he listened in raptured awe to a lecture about Derrida and différance and the fact that words weren’t really words (they were much more arbitrary than that); that différance was more important than similarity, and that words weren’t really yours after you had said them—they were Discourse. Erik had been enamored of Derrida.
Livia went to the exhibition with Erik on a gelid day late in November, when the wind blew from all directions, when you needed a heavy coat even though it wasn’t Thanksgiving yet. They stared together for what seemed like hours at the painting of Ophelia.
Erik had noticed in a soft, awed voice. “She looks just like you.”
Just before taking the train uptown, Erik and Livia had made excruciating love in the early twilight, and her hand hadn’t left his since their pale cheeks first made contact with the frigid November air. On their way out of the exhibition, Livia bought the print, just like the one she already had, but much bigger. She needed something big enough to contain Ophelia’s lavish new significance. The print in her apartment wouldn’t bear up under the weight of all that significance, but this one would do nicely.
Three days later, Erik broke up with Livia. He was in love with a dark-haired girl with full breasts and a foreign mouth. He saw her every Tuesday when he rode the train to New Haven to attend Derrida’s lectures. He and the girl talked about différance.
Livia hid the print in her closet for several days, ashamed of the swelling, tender significance she had lavished on it, mortified by her stupidity, her gullibility, and by the sheer size of the thing. Then she had the idea of giving it to Danae for Christmas. Danae was an incurable romantic; she would adore it. Livia took it to an expensive frame shop the very next day, and now Danae had it in her bedroom, just beside the mirror above her dressing table.
