\section{Others Had Longing Thrust Upon Them}

\lettrine[lraise=0.15]{O}{thers} seem to have Longing thrust upon them: 
some traumatic event that unleashed what was dormant, 
or transformed what had been ordinary desire into something larger. 
A sudden, involuntary rupture, from which emerges a Longing 
that did not exist before, a drive that reorganizes their entire life, 
that transforms the person into something they were not.

\subsubsection{Bach}
Johann Sebastian Bach (1685--1750) was nine years old when 
both his parents died within months of each other. 
Before their deaths, he was an unremarkable schoolboy with mediocre grades, 
prone to too many trips to the principal's office for little boy infractions.

After the death of his parents, his much older brother (24 years old) and family took him in, 
and he became a different person: disciplined, focused, driven. 
He rose to the top of his class in all subjects and never stopped working. 
He went on to become a prolific composer, 
considered the finest organist of his day, 
a respected teacher and by all accounts a beloved husband and father 
of a large family. He was also an expert in organ building, consulting throughout what is now more or less Germany.

And he not only composed this music, he performed and conducted all of it.

Upon his death, the manuscript library of his compositions 
was divided evenly between two of his sons. 
One son preserved his inheritance carefully 
--- the body of work that has come down to us. 
The other son lost his --- our --- inheritance altogether.

What has survived is approximately 200 CDs worth of music 
--- a staggering volume, composed with an intensity that suggests something far deeper than mere facility. 
(By comparison, a modern rock band might produce 20 or so CDs in its career). 
We possess, therefore, maybe half of what Bach created.
 
\subsubsection{Dostoyevsky}
Fyodor Dostoyevsky (1821--1881) was arrested in 1849 for his involvement with a radical literary circle. He was sentenced to death, led before a firing squad, his sentence commuted at the last possible moment to exile in Siberia. The aborted execution, followed by exile in Siberia, shattered and remade him.

He spent four years in a Siberian prison camp, and when he emerged, he was transformed. The anxious, ambitious young writer had changed into something else. His later novels --- \textit{Crime and Punishment}, \textit{The Idiot}, \textit{The Brothers Karamazov} --- are not the work of a man writing for fame or publication. They are the work of someone who has looked into the abyss and returned, compelled to bear witness.
 
\subsubsection{Kepler}
Johannes Kepler (1571--1630) was born into a German Protestant family during the religious upheavals of the Reformation. He became a mathematician and astronomer of growing reputation, working on problems of celestial mechanics and the geometry of planetary orbits.

In 1615, his mother was accused of witchcraft. She was imprisoned, interrogated, threatened with torture, in chains for over a year. Kepler abandoned his scientific work entirely and spent years defending her, trying to orchestrate her release, fighting the machinery of accusation and fear. When she was finally freed after six years of incarceration, she was broken.

The trial transformed Kepler. 
He returned to his astronomical work with an intensity that 
had not been there before, driven now by something deeper 
than intellectual curiosity. His three laws of planetary motion 
--- the mathematical harmonies that govern the heavens 
and launched modern astrophysics --- emerged from this crucible.

He was not seeking fame or recognition; he was seeking order, pattern, meaning in a Cosmos that had revealed itself to be capable of senseless cruelty. His Longing, awakened in the terror of his mother's trial, never ceased.

\subsubsection{Dante}
Dante Alighieri (1265--1321) was a prominent figure in medieval Florence 
--- a civic leader, a poet of growing reputation, 
and a man of standing in a powerful city. 
In 1302, he was exiled from the city, stripped of his property and position, 
banished on pain of death if he returned. 
He spent the remaining 19 years of his life wandering 
--- homeless.

From this fall, from this rupture that nearly destroyed him, 
he wrote the \textit{Divine Comedy}. 
It is not a work written from comfort or security; 
it is a map of suffering itself, a journey through Hell, 
Purgatory and Paradise. 
The exile transformed him, and it became the very substance of his art. 
His Longing 
--- to understand suffering, to trace the path from damnation to redemption 
--- was forged in the fire of his banishment and could never have existed without it.

\subsubsection{John of the Cross}
By the 16th century, the Catholic Carmelite order had drifted from its original austerity into comfortable ease. John of the Cross (1542--1591) championed returning the order to its original contemplative strictness.

For his trouble, he was kidnapped by the unreformed faction of the order who preferred things as they were. 
For nine months he was held in a tiny cell in Toledo, barely large enough to lie down in. He was periodically flogged in front of the community, and given minimal food and almost no light.

It was in that cell, in that darkness, that he wrote some of the greatest mystical poetry in any language --- including the beginning of the \textit{Dark Night of the Soul} and the \textit{Spiritual Canticle}. He eventually escaped by improvising a rope from his bedding and lowering himself from a window.

His \textit{Dark Night of the Soul} is not depression misnamed --- though it can seem so from the outside. 
It is authentic Longing doing what Longing does: stripping away everything that isn't it --- the seeming foundation which turned out to be filigree, the seeming self which turns out to be costume. 

The Dark Night is not Longing misfiring. It is Longing succeeding, in the most brutal possible way, at its actual work.

That's not comfortable. It can look, from the outside --- and feel, from the inside --- like destruction. 
Because in a sense it is: the destruction of the smaller self that had to be unmade to make room for what was coming.
