Last time I wrote about "In the Presence of Absence," I didn't mention one of the things that drew me to the book: it's a self-elegy. At the time, Darwish (a celebrated Arab poet) thought "Absence" would be the last thing he'd ever write; he'd already received a diagnosis of incurable cancer. In the foreword, the translator (Sinan Antoon) wrote of it: "It is one of the most beautiful books I have read in Arabic."
Several nights ago, I was standing on the Delhi Metro. It was crowded, late at night, and I was exhausted from one of the most difficult work days I'd had in a while. I was preoccupied. And then I read these lines:
"Be a child again. Teach me poetry. Teach me the rhythm of the sea. Return to words their initial innocence. Give birth to me from a grain of wheat, not from a wound. Give birth to me and take me back to a world before meaning, so I can embrace you on the grass."
Over a year ago, I wrote a travel story about Varanasi. Here's what I didn't say in that story: for me, the most meaningful moment of the trip was when I stepped up on the ghat and saw the Ganges River for the first time. I didn't expect to be moved by it; but I was. And in that moment, what I wanted most was to turn to someone and say "Do you see what I'm seeing?" But I was alone.
Instead, I wrote about it. I wrote a story about Varanasi, and the people who read it became the people who would have been with me.
It's taken me a long time to understand why I write as much as I do. Sometimes, I read my fiction and I wonder where I draw the inspiration for some of my characters. They're exactly like me, but with one key difference: they're usually braver. Like me, they reach a point in their lives when they have to cast aside their habitual caution. Unlike me, they do it without even thinking about it. (Life itself is no dress rehearsal; you can't rehearse a scene endlessly until you get it right. But writing offers us the illusion of a perfected life, a place where every opportunity is taken advantage of. A world where "opportunity cost" doesn't need to exist.)
What I think about when I read "Absence" is that only life can teach us to be brave. This is one of the bravest books I've ever read. It contains some of the most heartbreaking descriptions of life that I've ever come across. Darwish remembers walking in the gardens of his childhood, he remembers the daily difficulties of feeling exiled and homeless, he remembers the absolutely transcendental intensity of love and desire, and how these last two things cut through all the darkness in life and remind us why we're alive. (It's funny he doesn't talk about love affairs, only that moment when you see someone who reminds you that you're capable of feeling - maybe that's the luxury of being a poet, to think of love only in its purest form and not as the accumulated weight of daily striving)
I can't imagine trying to eulogize myself. Reading Darwish makes me grateful that I'm standing in front of my life, not my death (not that I could understand that anyway).
It also reminds me that in the moments of greatest doubt and uncertainty, our first love returns to us. For me, that was and will always be the written word. Until I write something down, I haven't made it real (even if, as mentioned above, it's something that never could have been real) There are times - especially recently - when I go back through my writing and I realize, somehow, that I am only now living things I wrote about years ago. It's as if I was preparing myself.
But I also realize something else: that for writers, the written word is a refuge, too. Darwish didn't write "Absence" because he was ready to die; he wrote "Absence" because he couldn't accept that he was dying. That is self-elegy: a writer's refusal to accept the inevitable; an attempt to create a world in which another possibility exists. A chance to perfect life, which is imperfect.
My characters experience loneliness, death and heartbreak, but they experience muted forms of these emotions, because in the end they aren't real. It's easy to be brave when you can live life a thousand times over until you get it right. It's easy to accept the inevitable when nothing is inevitable.
I used to believe that writing is how I make life more real, because I don't feel deeply enough. But I realize now that writing is also how I make life less real in those moments when I feel too deeply.
I am not the first person to do this; and this is not the last time I will do it. Darwish reminds me why I will never stop doing this. Whenever I need reassurance, I turn to the written word. And it never fails me.
Several nights ago, I was standing on the Delhi Metro. It was crowded, late at night, and I was exhausted from one of the most difficult work days I'd had in a while. I was preoccupied. And then I read these lines:
"Be a child again. Teach me poetry. Teach me the rhythm of the sea. Return to words their initial innocence. Give birth to me from a grain of wheat, not from a wound. Give birth to me and take me back to a world before meaning, so I can embrace you on the grass."
Over a year ago, I wrote a travel story about Varanasi. Here's what I didn't say in that story: for me, the most meaningful moment of the trip was when I stepped up on the ghat and saw the Ganges River for the first time. I didn't expect to be moved by it; but I was. And in that moment, what I wanted most was to turn to someone and say "Do you see what I'm seeing?" But I was alone.
Instead, I wrote about it. I wrote a story about Varanasi, and the people who read it became the people who would have been with me.
It's taken me a long time to understand why I write as much as I do. Sometimes, I read my fiction and I wonder where I draw the inspiration for some of my characters. They're exactly like me, but with one key difference: they're usually braver. Like me, they reach a point in their lives when they have to cast aside their habitual caution. Unlike me, they do it without even thinking about it. (Life itself is no dress rehearsal; you can't rehearse a scene endlessly until you get it right. But writing offers us the illusion of a perfected life, a place where every opportunity is taken advantage of. A world where "opportunity cost" doesn't need to exist.)
What I think about when I read "Absence" is that only life can teach us to be brave. This is one of the bravest books I've ever read. It contains some of the most heartbreaking descriptions of life that I've ever come across. Darwish remembers walking in the gardens of his childhood, he remembers the daily difficulties of feeling exiled and homeless, he remembers the absolutely transcendental intensity of love and desire, and how these last two things cut through all the darkness in life and remind us why we're alive. (It's funny he doesn't talk about love affairs, only that moment when you see someone who reminds you that you're capable of feeling - maybe that's the luxury of being a poet, to think of love only in its purest form and not as the accumulated weight of daily striving)
I can't imagine trying to eulogize myself. Reading Darwish makes me grateful that I'm standing in front of my life, not my death (not that I could understand that anyway).
It also reminds me that in the moments of greatest doubt and uncertainty, our first love returns to us. For me, that was and will always be the written word. Until I write something down, I haven't made it real (even if, as mentioned above, it's something that never could have been real) There are times - especially recently - when I go back through my writing and I realize, somehow, that I am only now living things I wrote about years ago. It's as if I was preparing myself.
But I also realize something else: that for writers, the written word is a refuge, too. Darwish didn't write "Absence" because he was ready to die; he wrote "Absence" because he couldn't accept that he was dying. That is self-elegy: a writer's refusal to accept the inevitable; an attempt to create a world in which another possibility exists. A chance to perfect life, which is imperfect.
My characters experience loneliness, death and heartbreak, but they experience muted forms of these emotions, because in the end they aren't real. It's easy to be brave when you can live life a thousand times over until you get it right. It's easy to accept the inevitable when nothing is inevitable.
I used to believe that writing is how I make life more real, because I don't feel deeply enough. But I realize now that writing is also how I make life less real in those moments when I feel too deeply.
I am not the first person to do this; and this is not the last time I will do it. Darwish reminds me why I will never stop doing this. Whenever I need reassurance, I turn to the written word. And it never fails me.
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