The role of the writer is not to say what we can all say, but to say what we are unable to say.--AN
Uploaded on June 6, 2007
by Arman Zhenikeyev
*
August 5, 2007
Dear Henry,
Last night I had another one of my vivid dreams. This time I appeared to be at a library with my mother. I had discovered a large bookcase, a stack of books that I could climb to the top shelf. When I got to the top shelf I discovered books and paintings, watercolor paintings done by other students from The Residential College. These students were Asian students and the watercolors were just amazing. I had to climb down from the bookcase to show her what I had found. But when I climbed back up again to put the watercolors back, she grew anxious and I had the feeling that she thought the bookcase might topple over on me. It didn’t, I climbed back down knowing that I had discovered a treasure, but to her the treasure didn’t seem as great as what the treasure seemed to me. The treasure was the treasure of art. Jung says, what it actually was, was the treasure of the self. Perhaps it was my self reminding me of the treasure of my art, the gift of my art, and that I should not be lonely, a lonely little ego, because I have my self and my gifts. Do you suppose that’s true? I think it must be true because I felt very lonely before I fell asleep, but when I woke up I felt as though I had discovered a treasure and I was not to be lonely anymore because the treasure isn’t lost. I have it within me. What a comfort and a solace that is!
Love, M.*
from the roman a clef Marguerite
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Comments
I used to have dreams of wandering through old book shops, breathing in the dust of innumerable shelves; but never buying a thing.
I think the quote should go further. 'unable to say' makes it sound as if the poor reader received failing grades and therefore can't express him/herself. Shouldn't: 'had not yet occured to us' be added? It makes the writer's grace a little more subtle.
Darling, stop making me think so much! Now my head hurts!
Censor the body and you censor breath and speech at the same time. Write yourself. Your body must be heard.—Helene Cixous
It is very true, this letter. I have only realized in the last five years, that I stand alone with my self. Others touch me and I others, but each is essentially walking a path alone. I love it that the paintings are her gifts. I've had similiar dreams.
The photo is verty luscious.
Lucy
Hi Michael, You're right; this is part of my novel and right now it's at the end because I've been ignoring it due to the fact that I don't know how it's supposed to end. The character of Henry is shifting...and he's really, well the book revolves around the two of them, as does Marguerite Duras' The Lover (the inspiration for my book).
So I'm at an impasse and I don't know what's going to happen next. I know I should write the ending as I want it to happen, as you suggested in a prior message, but I don't know what I want to happen. What is realistic? What is possible now that I'm a little bored with Henry's character? The character he is based on recently asked me if I'm more interested in the new shiny ball or the old big ball and honestly I'm interested in the new shiny ball but the new shiny ball isn't interested in me. Que Probleme!
So your question is very apt and astute though you probably meant it to be a simple question. I often let my dreams guide me; when I have a question, I put it to my subconscious and see what comes up. Maybe I will do that with this question.
Thanks for stopping by, as always.
Renee
You could have easily answered the question with something like, "this letter fits in at the end of chapter 4", but I was trying to get a more thoughtful answer out of you. That's exactly what you gave.
How does The Lover end? I read it about 15 years ago, but don't remember much of anything about it. Maybe you could use the ending of The Lover as a springboard to determining how you'd like Marguerite to end. You could do something similar or go in the exact opposite direction to differentiate your book from its inspiration.
I don't really know what I'm talking about here. I've never been able to finish anything I've tried to write. I'm just thinking outloud.
I look forward to further bits & pieces of Marguerite.
Thank you, Michael, for the insight. This is how The Lover ends:
Years after the war, after marriages, children, books, he came to Paris with his wife. He phoned her. It’s me. She recognized him at once from the voice. He said, I just wanted to hear your voice. She said, It’s me. Hello. He was nervous, afraid, as before. His voice suddenly trembled. And with the trembling, suddenly, she heard again the voice of China. He knew she’d begun writing books, he’d heard about it through her mother whom he’d met in Saigon… And then he told her. Told her that it was as before, that he still loved her, he could never stop loving her, that he’d love her until death.
--Marguerite Duras, The Lover
Neauphle-le-Chateau-Paris 1984
I haven't read "the Lover", but I want to now. and more of your book too, Renee!