re-presentation of love
I love reading newspaper archives. Especially the ones on literature and writers. For in this category what is relevant then, seems to be relevant now. Possible then, possible now. Writers are people in constant discovery, finding themselves in dark alleys and skewed corners of light, bumping into each other, studying each other's strangeness, familiarising, growing intimate, making love, finally to get lost, lose touch, or to forget and to meet somewhere else again. Suffering, longing, death and despair never come with dates- like some verses and their co-owners. And it makes a fascinating read.
I say co-owners because a poem is partly what a reader makes of it. The poet creats the framework, the dots- some subtle, others hidden, certain others-even unknown to him at the time of creation- and the reader performs the duty of dreaming, of granting it flesh and blood, a rebirth. He conceives, what was in part or wholly once conceived in some other mind, subjected to the ways of that mind alone, and makes it his own. Personalises it. So, a poem is always co-owned.
Talking about reading about writers reminds me of a funny quote I read in NY times.. when was it- last month?
Goes like this-
"I read about writer's lives with the fascination of one slowing down to get a good look at an automobile accident."
-Kaye Gibbons
Do you? I know I do. Or at least I used to. No, I still do, but now with a less sadistic approach.
Whatever the case is, every time I read this quote- an impish smile dawns my face!
Now that I am aware of this weird, unholy and distasteful fascination of mine and the shallowness of the whole act- I try and do what we do when caught in the act. I cite reasons. I try to bail out my indulgence. Didn't somebody say curiosity is incurable? I didn't slow down, my tyre just blew!
What's more? The sinner that I am- I would strongly recommend this sin to any living soul who cares enough to read about writers. What you find out can often be inspiring, astounding, revealing.. nourishing to the point where it could bring in a strange healing!
It is like getting a chance to visit the writer's home, to sit in the garden and share a summer's evening over coffee and cream. For sure, you wouldn't read another word of his/her work without feeling that familiarity- the places, textures, smells, the build- everything so familiar like old mates from school. Read about one, you would know a life. Read a few more, you begin to see the circle. I call it the universal circle of serendipity! You could give your own name or just refer to it to as it, or simply say blah.
For suddenly, all things seem connected- the writers, their works and you and me and the gazillion other readers who read, half read, thought of reading, or were forced into doing so, all would seem like nodes of one big, thriving network. Never growing irrelevant, or fading from sight.
From a moody Virginia to a never-never out Oscar, a Victoria Lucas aka Sylvia Plath to an elusive, reclusive Emily, a meandering Katherine Mansfield, a Tolstoy, a Chekov, to the often irate Samuel Taylor Coleridge, his once dear friend William Wordsworth, to his sister and inspiration Dorothy Wordsworth, to the controversial Lewis Caroll, from my own Basheer to a splendid Madhavikutty - you name them- I plead guilty of satiating a gut brimming with a wicked hunger for accidents.
And, I am glad that I did. I looked into their lives with the curiosity of one taking a closer look at an automobile accident, with no intentions of getting involved, or getting my clothes and shoes dirty.
But somewhere down the line, I guess I did just that. They got me. And in knowing their foibles, I grew to appreciate and accept mine.
After all, aren't these eccentricities that often define, redeem, and dissolve us, making us distinct, making us us?
