Dark as White

I know the houses too. As I walk along they seem to run forward in the streets to look out at me from every window, and almost to say: "Good-morning! How do you do? I am quite well, thank God, and I am to have a new storey in May," or, "How are you? I am being redecorated to-morrow;" or, "I was almost burnt down and had such a fright," and so on. I have my favourites among them, some are dear friends; one of them intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I shall go every day on purpose to see that the operation is not a failure. God forbid! But I shall never forget an incident with a very pretty little house of a light pink colour. It was such a charming little brick house, it looked so hospitably at me, and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my heart rejoiced whenever I happened to pass it. Suddenly last week I walked along the street, and when I looked at my friend I heard a plaintive, "They are painting me yellow!" The villains! The barbarians! They had spared nothing, neither columns, nor cornices, and my poor little friend was as yellow as a canary.

“White Nights and Other Stories” by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, 1848

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Dear Alex,

In dialogue, certain details of a house might be better left unsaid.

Sure, we talk about house as capital asset or home with its master and metaphor more telling of ourselves than words. We set our table and head in order, slouch over coffee mug 3 or 4 times a day and flap eyelids on pillow in the refuge of our nest. My property is safe so we can talk about housing.

But we don’t talk to house as human. You must be too creative or acutely febrile to splash emotion on brick, turning timber with a mouthful of windows into “dear friends”, your ecstasy erected on concrete. The peculiar piece of this exchange between you and house manifests the vividness of your invisible companion, loneliness and lunacy in spotlight. So cold are you in this neighborhood, wandering to days from daze, tears tender as dew on leaf.

On this night in 18th-century St. Petersburg with Dostoyevsky, the residents on vacation have escaped to their summer villas. From deserted balconies you slip into “white night” as the sun strikes this northern city around the clock. Glory flips to insomnia.

Why do houses talk back with such varied state of urgency? One is shamed from pink to yellow; another nearly crumbles to ashes. Still others are flourishing, anointed with fresh paint or crowned with a new storey. You hear holy or broken hallelujah - bets flopped on the right side of a wrong chip, house in distress, cardiac arrest, some still in deep rest, singing:

He giveth more grace as our burdens grow greater,
He sendeth more strength as our labors increase;
To added afflictions He added His mercy,
To multiplied trials He multiplies peace.

Houses talk to us about what is housed in us, especially in the brilliance of night.

Yours, Kate