Human Rights Day here, a public holiday commemorating the horrible massacre at Sharpeville in 1960, in which police opened fire on unarmed protestors and shot many of them in the back as they fled. One of those old bitter memories that haunts us even today in another kind of nation. And it has been a grim and gritty week so far, a subdued, distressing funeral, rioting in neighbouring towns and major highways closed because of cars being stoned. Never mind, this too will pass.
In the evenings I have begun to reread Leon Edel’s biography of Henry James, curling up on the couch with a mug of tea, a good lamp on the side table and a thick book on my lap. I will never tire of the company of Henry James, a magnificent novelist who somehow managed to write thinly masked fiction about all his social acquaintances and family without having the pants sued off him. They were more flattered than outraged, quite an achievement.
Henry James: “Three things in human life are important: the first is to be kind; the second is to be kind; and the third is to be kind.”
He may have been kind, but very little escaped his attention. When we studied Portrait of a Lady in literature seminars years ago, the character of Isabel Archer was so sharp and true that each of us could think of somebody we knew who was this character, a beautiful, passionate and ambitious young woman eager to choose her destiny and make a life for herself, unaware that her naivety and trusting innocence might be her downfall.
Because the man Isabel Archer will fall in love with and choose for a husband is the charming entrepreneur Gilbert Osmond who will destroy her, quite casually and without remorse. We were all Isabel Archer once.
And on my writers’ forums and mailing lists we go on debating the question of how we self-censor, how we respect the privacy of those of live with us, those who would be outraged to find themselves in published works, those who might come across their misbehaviours in a family member’s blog and feel cut to the quick. What we dare not write, what we should not write, what is forbidden or unwritable.
And how we find ways to tell our secrets, betray our nearest and dearest, defy those who would stop us; how we tell the truth more fully, disrespectfully and provocatively. No easy answers. How I would like to write about that funeral! So uncomfortable an occasion with the mourners crowded into the old worn pews, the intrigues, dissensions and genuine grief, the revelations when the will was read, the eulogy stuffed with diplomatic lies, the startling gossip outside the church — all the tricky, impossible, rich material bound up with human relationships. But, no, I cannot write a word.
Some day perhaps I may be able to tell a little of the story. And grasp something of what lies behind the drama and secrecy, the facts and rumours, to touch on that core mystery of how we live and die, how we choose this and not that, how we recover or relapse, fight on in vain or surrender and win. How we approach the deeper things, the paradoxes, the hidden realities and motivations. This, from Marilynne Robinson:
“The notion that religion is intrinsically a crude explanatory strategy that should be dispelled and supplanted by science is based on a highly selective or tendentious reading of the literatures of religion. In some cases it is certainly fair to conclude that it is based on no reading at all…. In fact there is no moment in which, no perspective from which, science as science can regard human life and say that there is a beautiful, terrible mystery in it all, a great pathos. Art, music, and religion tell us that.”
I have thought for a long time that funerals are filled with two kinds of people: those who actually mourn the loss of the departed and those who are glad that they are not dead yet.
Broken hearts are not easily mended. And complicated relationships are not easy to leave or explain–love is irrational most of the time.
Science is based on hypothesis testing–some things defy that and are better left to the ether of other disciplines.
Syd, I love reading about scientific research and those methodologies make so much sense to me. But you put it in a nutshell — what defies hypothesis-testing.
And yes, those who grieve and those glad to be still alive –
Very often love and relationships are ‘no-blame’ affairs and it is rare to come across someone so calculating and evil. But Gilbert Osmond represents the kind of person we need to guard against.
Oh how I long to write about the misadventures of others on my blog. It’s like painting a picture without the availability of all the colors.
Pam I wouldn’t want to hurt others, but I learn so much from the relationships, the best intentions and worst mistakes made all around me, as well as my own. And gossip is the spice of life in some ways. But, no, we can’t write about that –
Blogging is certainly a tricky thing – I have written things I deeply regret. And yet, I plunge forward. I cannot imagine writing “for real,” having real published works on paper!
Mary Christine, I do write very openly about my own past and I do write about my dead parents at times. But others, no, unless so heavily disguised not even they could recognise themselves.
Being published is just being published. I have no idea if anyone reads me other than the publisher!
On the flip side of this, sometimes I completely leave out all the details of the really good (spitual) stuff, because sometimes seeing it written on the page diminishes it to a certain extent, mainly because there just are not any words to express what it really feels like in my heart. Have you ever heard of the “Little Red Book”?
Not sure about your Little Red Book, Patty? And yes, so much of the spiritual defies description — in medieval times, this was known as the ‘anagogical’, what could not be said or written because it was outside of human language.
Ha, ha! Spitual? I think I meant spiritual!
Spit it out, girl! You should see what I misspell in comments.
You made me ask Andrew yet again if he has any problem with my blog. He insists he does not. I try to remain semi anonymous, and I would never put up pictures of him. Daughter does not mind if I put up baby pics, I asked of course.
But honestly, there are days when I think someone I know is “spying” on me…
Lou, this is such a thorny issue. If my mother was still alive, I don’t know if I would write about her alcoholism. Yet writing about her and how I worked through that childhood has helped me so much. I am sure Andrew understands that what you write is really all about you. And he understands what addiction does to everyone in the family and why hushing things up or keeping them secret is not good. But it is never an easy call.
Who could object to pics of Smoochie?
I think we have all been Gilbert at times as well.
Carol, I’ve been sitting here thinking about this. We all make our share of mistakes and behave badly. I’ve done some appalling and selfish things in my life. But Gilbert Osmond and his mistress Madame Merle set out to take advantage of Isabel and deceive her into losing her money, her innocence and her mind. Henry James set out to show what evil looks like and I do believe that kind of cruel calculating and heartless evil is rare