Wednesday, May 22, 2013

The Writing Self: Love Letters and the Unadorned Intensity of Prose

It has been suggested to me as of late that the written word was merely a poor cousin to the declared equivalent, that the spoken variation was indubitably to be preferred when the choice existed between the two. I beg to differ; indeed remain convinced that there are particular circumstances in which the inscribed phrase reigns supreme. Kafka offers intriguing insight: "I write differently from what I speak, I speak differently from what I think, I think differently from the way I ought to think, and so it all proceeds into deepest darkness." In this analysis manifested modalities of the expressive self reveal disparate attributes, with the written variant being quite distinct from verbalizing or ruminating corollaries.

Words, written or pondered, jostle through my veins hitching a ride with the haemoglobin in the swirl and stream of red blood cells, or cascade through the neural network like the flash and fire of a storm-lit cloudbank; they are an integral component within the context of a writer's life, as essential to intellectual nourishment as water is to the sustenance of the physical self. Perhaps I might take Kafka's rumination and add a caveat of my own: for the laboring writer a pondered word oft-becomes a written one...unspoken perhaps, but for all it's muteness encapsulating a powerful intensity that can, in certain circumstances, achieve an absolute pinnacle of expression.

With this in mind I have been musing upon the emotive force of simply written words; contemplating most particularly the powerful phrase and the manner in which the deliberate aggregation, clustering and recombination of letters can produce a sequence of words so imbued with an emotional intensity that they can bring us to tears. Love letters convey a message more fervent than the spoken equivalent could do - they are unadorned by material trappings, literally a congregation of ink on paper that somehow envelops and conveys a broader impassioned ardor: a metaphorical life-blood spill, a tremulous heartbeat defined in ink.

Imagine, if you will, the lover's utterance at the other end of a scrawled declaration: pronounced with all the attendant nervousness of uncertain reception, or with the languid smoothness of an accomplished Lothario - and almost immediately your mind's eye is assailed with distractions - the appearance of things, the oily sheen of hair, the twitch and murmur of restless limbs, the thrum and clatter of ambient bustle. One must force a certain attentive focus to the spoken words and even then a sentence is pronounced and the previous forgotten....that within the confines of breathless moment, the uttered words fly and disperse like mist in the warmth of the rising sun. Writing these words, however, I am reminded of Eliot's Love Song and the shallow digressions of indifferently languorous women denigrating onset baldness and lanky limbs. I do not disparage the declaration of affection, quite the contrary - but simply admire the stark intensity of the written equivalent.

Jack London writes to Anna: "You elude me. I cannot place you, cannot grasp you. I  may boast that of nine out of ten, by their word or action, I may feel the pulse of their hearts. But of the tenth I despair. It is beyond me. You are that tenth." Or Balzac to Evaline: "My beloved angel. I am nearly mad about you, as much as one can be mad: I cannot bring together two ideas that you do not interpose yourself between them." Or Kafka:."for hours on end my head hums with the desire to hear the name Felice..." I cannot help but feel that love letters achieve a certain ascendency; perhaps it is also the implied nakedness, the laying bare of the soul, the revelation of vulnerabilities and the poignantly yearning hope.

When reading these ardently eloquent letters, so utterly private in their intended audience, I abhor the very notion of another reading them aloud - a misplaced intermediary that squarely positions themselves between myself and the narrative. One cannot get lost in the content with such physical impediments to the imagination; but then I  have never been inclined to books-on-tape: infinitely preferring a self-directed pace, the flexibility to read and re-read, the prerogative to formulate my own perceptions of the narrative sound and rhythm. But it is a context-specific preference - literary prose of the descriptive kind, the lush gorgeousness of depicted environment, or the particular predilections of a well-drawn out character - these works I invariably prefer to linger over, to read and re-read passages of delighted appreciation....relying for interpretation upon my unique imaginative landscape that colors the literary hillside and imbues it with the most pungent of flavors.

It may also be a nostalgic thing - for indubitably the love letters of the kind referenced above were of a different age, one of letters ink-penned and stamped, where lipstick marks, coffee rings, smears and blotches provided visual clues to the writer's state of mind. Love letters now tend to be of an electronically transmitted variety, formulated in the relative sterility of binary code and instantaneously sent and delivered through the dark obscurity of cyberspace. Sans wineglass rings, tear-stains and inky flourishes. The words are the same, they are simply draped in a more blandly uniform garment - generically typed as opposed to the flamboyance of unique penmanship. Certainly, contemporary penned letters of love are not unknown - but what treasures they are indeed! Denoting the painstaking care taken, the implied patience in post and receipt - they are a rarity in the rapid-fire age of electronic immediacy.

For the writer, it is not simply the romantic allure of love, but the written expression of the innermost emotional self - the laying bare of what lies at the center. It is the labored work of focused emotional intent transcribed by all manner of men and women - writers and otherwise. Missives that were intended to be read, fraught with the stops, starts and stutters, the scrawls and start-overs, the crossed out bits and the smeared corrections, they are a literary testimonial (from the fluttering paper to the faint lingering fragrance) of a profound emotional connection. Reading them I can readily imagine the eager haste with which the envelope is torn and discarded, the anxious rush over words, the fearful crescendo of a heartbeat slowly subsiding...' they are alive - they love me still.' With an intensity all the greater for the lack of all else - simply the eloquent loneliness of ink-clustered letters that fill a page or two...

16 comments:

  1. Makes me want to rush out and write a love letter - the old fashioned kind!

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    1. Thank you dear Sarah - what an utterly wonderful idea indeed!

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  2. Dear PJ, I couldn't agree with you more. The oral medium is unstable and words are swept by the wind. Nothing can weaken the power of the written word, to which we can return once and again for solace or for tears, as the case may be.
    I deplore the new-fangled habit of "sexting". I find it to be an unfair devaluation of love letters. Even worse, when words are gone, feelings remained gagged. Let's keep on writing as torch bearers of a sublime art.

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    1. Thank you Marta for taking the time to read my musing and for the treat of your insightful eloquence - I utterly agree - we will endeavor keep the literary flames burning bright!

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    2. "When words are gone, feelings remained gagged." Marta, that is so true - so I've decided to abstain from one of the lesser obligations of writers - to observe the pageant of follies called fashions - and to remain blissfully unaware of what 'sexting' is; I truly do not have a clue.
      Also, I concur with the connexion you establish between the love letter and literature; and if someone is to ask me what that connexion is, I will refer to PJ's musing above...

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  3. PJ--this reminded me of the love letter that was read at the end of the first episode of Ken Burn's "The Civil War." The letter, from a simple soldier to his wife, tried to convey how much he loved her and how much their lives together had meant to him. Tragically, the soldier was killed not long after, but his communication to his wife was one of the most powerful things I have ever heard. I can't imagine how that woman felt when she received that letter (perhaps even after she learned of her husband's death).

    For me, both the spoken word and written word can be equally powerful for different reasons. I think the power of the written word comes from the fact that it is communicated in a space/time realm where one is slowed down and more insulated from distraction or other people's interruptions or reactions. A singular force, if you will, one that can paint pictures, create worlds, or communicate something in silence that is sometimes too difficult to say out loud.

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    1. Thank you, Jenn Gritt, for referring to 'The Civil War' and the love letter in it.

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    2. Thank you Jenn - yes I remember the letter you refer to - one i read many years ago which you now inspire me to revisit. Thank you for your visit and your most insightful commentary.

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  4. Wonderful post and blog. I can't wait to read more!
    Jen

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    1. Thank you Jen - thrilled you enjoyed my humble musing, and grateful for your kind comment!

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  5. PJ and friends, Yet another wonderful musing. As out of character as it may seem to some, I am a lover of love letters, the old fashioned kind. I have kept copies of all or nearly all of the love letters exchanged between my wife and me, and I am the custodian of a large quantity of love letters between my father and mother in the late 1930's and 1940's, mostly before and during WWII.

    One of my theater professors in college proclaimed "I cry over card tricks." (I think he was exaggerating to make a point). I cry over love letters and many other things.

    James

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    1. Thank you James - what a wonderful repository of precious letters you hold indeed - and how magical to peruse them at your leisure, imagining their sending, their receipt and the anxieties in between. Thank you for your kind visit and your wonderful commentary left behind.

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  6. After Dark

    As twilight ascends into tender turquoise,
    I peer from my window to catch the first stars.
    It sweetly reminds me of our first meeting
    and when we kissed under the stars after dark.

    You looked in my eyes and I saw the attraction.
    The rush of your touch was electricity
    as you brough my face closer, and our lips connected
    so perfectly paired in our love after dark.

    Now I adore you, so blessed to be near you.
    You have all my heart and give me all your love.
    I wonder if ever you seem to grow weary
    until our lips meet when we greet after dark.

    Shari Jo LeKane-Yentumi 05/25/2013

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    1. Sublimely beautiful Shari! A love letter within the confines of a poem, as indeed the best of them often are. Reminds me of Shakespearean sonnets...I am most grateful for your perusal of my humble offerings and your lovely poem left behind!

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  7. Thank you so much for this spot-on and beautiful homage to the written word in regard to the matters of love. Though it is a different sort of love, I have a wonderful friend that writes me a postcard every day and has since I became too sick with treatments. She has written me for over three years now. Every day. Those words read in her hand mean more than an email every day, even sent over three years, could ever mean. That is the love of a great friend.

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    1. Dear Lee - thank you! The love of a great friend, indeed! That, I think, is indeed the pinnacle. And it is particularly the love, the care, the thoughtfulness that accompanies the stamp - the emotive force that is sent along with the postcard. I am sorry to hear of your illness, and do hope that you are in the recovery stage of things - but thrilled that you have such a special individual in your life - that is what makes it all meaningful after all, is it not? Do take care, PJ

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