Writing is embodiment. Reading is contact.
Fortunately, all of the poetry I was discovering in and out of the classroom (most notably Adrienne Rich and Audre Lorde) showed me how to come to grips with disaster without becoming one, and how to live in an unjust world, and in a culture that loves to “not get” poetry, without becoming bitter.
The “real” identity of Italian writer Elena Ferrante was recently unmasked by a male journalist who, with an investigative intensity usually reserved for political and critical cases, used financial records to prove his case. Camila Domonoske wrote a great, concise round up of the case and reactions for NPR, aptly titled “For Literary World, Unmasking Elena Ferrante’s Not A Scoop, It’s A Disgrace.”
I want to also recommend a particularly insightful text on the issue by Dayna Tortorici for n+1. Tortorici describes how crucial the pseudonymity is for Ferrante’s writing, how beneficial it is for the reader, and how the unmasking in this case is basically a form of silencing:
Ferrante’s readers were quick to denounce Gatti’s revelation. I myself was irritated. Even the stones know that Ferrante is Ferrante, and that’s the way her readers want it. More than Ferrante herself, her readers have benefited from her choice, spared so much extradiegetic noise. We are as invested in her anonymity—and her autonomy—as she is. It is a compact: she won’t tell us, we won’t ask, and she won’t change her mind and tell us anyway. In exchange, she’ll write books and we’ll read them. The feminist defense of Ferrante’s privacy was especially swift. It’s difficult to read a man’s attempt to “out” a writer who has said she would stop writing if she were ever identified as anything but an attempt to make her stop writing.
Reading the banal pages of this journal reminds me, more than anything else, of the disconnect between what I thought I was supposed to feel (what a normal person would feel) and what I actually felt. This disconnect followed me for a long time. It’s always there, a hitch or hiccup in the otherwise smooth surface of a day. Single sentences that suggest the other half of the story: “Her party just made me feel depressed. … He is a nice person, very friendly, but a little too “something I don’t like” for me. … I want to be normal, but I’m unable to do it.” It was only years after VOLUME I that I realized the disconnect was the thing I needed to write about.
The Subways – We Don’t Need Money To Have A Good Time
A 3-minute break from writing job applications, fully celebrating the irony.
The creative writer does the same as the child at play. He creates a world of phantasy which he takes very seriously — that is, which he invests with large amounts of emotion — while separating it sharply from reality.
of course i want to be successful
but i don’t crave success for me
i need to be successful to gain
enough milk and honey
to help those around
Milk and honey is equally heart-wrenching and heartwarming. Some of it, especially the first part “the hurting,” is a terrifying, intense depiction of abuse. “The hurting” and the closing part, “the healing” (including the quote above) are the strongest. In it’s middle it gets a bit repetitive, conventional in a way I did not expect after the first part. Thus, the four parts – the hurting, the loving, the breaking, the healing – are somewhat unbalanced. However, the middle is only conventional and repetitive relative to the rest. All in all the kaur’s work is fascinating, and probably a book I will return to again.
The New York Public Library podcast is a treasure trove of great recorded conversations. This week, the institution released a particularly fascinating talk between poet Elizabeth Alexander – who read her poem “Praise Song for the Day” at President Obama’s inauguration – and writer Hilton Als. They discuss Alexander’s work in poetry and academia and her life and memoir, The Light of the World. These two Black intellectuals make too many beautiful observations and pointed comments to sum up here, I highly recommend listening to the podcast. (I just spring cleaned our bedroom just to have an excuse to keep listening.)
My answer has been characterized, in various places, as an “endorsement,” a characterization that I’d object to. Despite my very obvious political biases, I’ve never felt it was really my job to get people to agree with me. My first duty, as a writer, is to myself. In that sense I simply hope to ask all the questions that keep me up at night. My second duty is to my readers. In that sense, I hope to make readers understand why those questions are critical. I don’t so much hope that any reader “agrees” with me, as I hope to haunt them, to trouble their sense of how things actually are.
Keep awake, alive, new. Perform the paradox of being hard and yet soft. Survive without calcification of the tender membranes. Be a poet. Be alive.