Milan Kundera once said "A man can take his own life. But he cannot take his own immortality". And as I write this, I prove his point.
I was having a conversation with L the other day, and because she is a writer, I asked her a question that has been plaguing me recently: why does the artist create? Is it because he or she has to - because it's as essential to survival as water and food - or is it because he or she wants to leave something concrete behind, to make a statement about his life, to give herself existence beyond the cold, indifferent concrete of the grave?
"I guess it's a little bit of both", L said. And I suppose the urge to create is a double-edged sword. Because no matter what a writer writes, or a painter paints, or a musician composes, there is the impulse to create more. Once you decide to leave a voice behind, isn't it vital to express your sentiments the way you intended? Even if others interpret and misinterpret, as they inevitably will, you don't want to make a mistake with what you say. You want to be true to yourself. You can't fuck up your own immortality. Because it will exist long after you're gone. And really,
it's difficult to get it right. Or maybe impossible.
I very much want to write a book in my lifetime, but if you asked me why, I couldn't tell you. Isn't the act of writing itself enough? Why is it necessary to have something published in order to feel satisfied? And even if I do, will it suffice? Won't I have more to say as I age, learn, blunder, get up again? Will I worry that the voice I leave behind will in the end betray me? Maybe Kundera would have told me, "A man reckons with his immortality. But he forgets to reckon with death."
Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell, two of my favorite authors, each wrote only one book in their respective lifetimes. It has been the subject of speculation why these two women never published anything again. When asked, Harper Lee simply answered, "I said everything I wanted to say". Or maybe she didn't actually say that. Maybe that's a fiction passed down; the blessing or curse of her act of creation (immortality) and its lover (as Kundera said), death. Yet still, I wonder how she did it.
Maybe what we leave behind is necessarily illusory because even in life, it's not possible to see things clearly, and therefore not possible to express exactly we meant. We can't
quite convey what we don't understand.
In "Both Sides Now", Joni Mitchell says "I've looked at life from both sides now/ From win and lose and still somehow/ It's life's illusions I recall/ I really don't know life at all." I would tend to agree.
Excerpts from "Immortality" by Milan Kundera and "Both Sides Now" by Joni Mitchell.
5 comments:
Dear MG, it's L.
You just, here and now, left behind something that will last. Call it a blog, call it a journal, call it prose, call it a poem (one that doesn't happen to rhyme, but whose words do have a rhythm)...
...importantly, the way I see it, you CAN call this a memoir - that IS an option.
The very product of you writing ABOUT your uncertainty, your wondering, your "lacking in" (let's call it), is something left behind. In the same way you just created something that will last, BUT forgot to recognize that you just did, Jonathan Larson wrote his "One Song Glory", (with its lyric: "one song before I go") the MINUTE he put that very song to paper. Also, the character of Roger, severely depressed because he had HIV and nothing to show for his life lived, sang "One Song Glory" and with EACH note that came pouring out of him (whether singing out to us in the Broadway or movie theater, or singing to no one but the rooftops of NYC in the movie scene)... with each note, he was creating, then leaving something behind.
Jonathan also had, prior to "RENT", written a musical called "tick, tick...BOOM!" that put forth the intense concerns he had, upon turning 30, that he hadn't created anything worthwhile in his lifetime. Yet, because he worked on "RENT" for years, each time he wrote a single song, that was something concrete he had put out there. All one has to do to be convinced of this is to listen to the cast recording; it's hard to pick out that one showstopper that many musicals are limited to; there are too many amazing, unique songs that fit the bill.
Keep writing, MG. I, for one, will keep listening. See the following quotes & lyrics that say what I'd like to further say:
A LETTER FROM MARTHA GRAHAM TO HER FRIEND, AGNES DeMILLE
"There is a vitality, a life force, a quickening that is translated through you into action and because there is only one of you in all time, this expression is unique.
And if you block it, it will never exist through any other medium and will be lost. The world will not have it. It is not your business to determine how good it is nor how valuable it is nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open.
You do not even have to believe in yourself or your work. You have to keep open and aware directly to the urges that motivate you.
Keep the channel open. No artist is pleased. There is no satisfaction whatever at any time. There is only a queer, divine dissatisfaction, a blessed unrest that keeps us marching and makes us more alive."
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Or, as NIKE said it, not as profoundly, but still, to the point:
"Just do it!"
For you,
Two songs from the 2007 musical, “Little Fish” by Michael John LaChiusa:
Scene: When Kathy returns from a trip to Peru and a visit to Machu Picchu, Charlotte is delivered the first of several blows: Kathy has an illness; the friend who seemed to be perfect (and everyone has that friend like this) isn’t quite so.
REMEMBER ME
"There I was on the highest mountain
In all the universe.
Standing right where an ancient people
Had disappeared, or worse.
Around me were the remnants
Of the lives they’d left behind;
And all at once, this feeling--no,
This knowledge filled my mind:
If I, myself, were to somehow, someday
Up and disappear
What of me would be left behind
To show that I’d been here?
There I was on the highest mountain
In all the universe
And the only thing that I’d leave behind
would be cluttering my purse.
No carvings of creatures on ancient stone.
I’d vanish off of the face of earth.
Unrecognized.
Unknown.
Except for you;
You’d remember me.
You’re my friend.
You’d remember me.
I never realized what I had to fight for
And protect;
The only way we live beyond our lives
Is to connect
And carve ourselves into the souls
Of those we love.
There I was on the highest mountain
Always so-prepared.
Here I am now in New York City.
Caught off guard
And scared.
So I need you.
You’ll remember me.
I know you.
You’ll remember me.
Say that you’ll
Remember me…"
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LITTLE FISH
Marco:
“So I hurt.
Who does not?
In this vast, loud place
The hurt's on ev'ry face, you see
What to do?
Not a mystery.
You make friends.
And a history.
You make friends.
Good and bad,
Whom you learn to love
And they keep watch above
Your head.
It's a job.
One we're not taught to do;
But it's one
That we ought to do.
If I had my wish
I wouldn't follow any rules.
But because we're only little fish,
It's safer that we swim in schools;
Against the tide
Or with the flow.
There may not be a point in it at all,
But all the same, I know you know
I know
We are friends.
no escape.
And I know your love,
And I'll keep watch above your head.
Do your job.
Be a friend.
Swim with me,
Little fish.”
.
Even Maurice Sendak thinks he hasn't lived up to greatness (or even goodness) so, MG, we're keeping good (no great) company.
Love, L.
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CONCERNS BEYOND JUST WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE
By Patricia Cohen, NY Times
Sept. 10, 2008
Maurice Sendak’s 80th year — which ended with his birthday earlier this summer and is being celebrated on Monday night with a benefit at the 92nd Street Y — was a tough one. He has been gripped by grief since the death of his longtime partner; a recent triple-bypass has temporarily left him too weak to work or take long walks with his dog; and he is plagued by Norman Rockwell.
Or, to be more accurate, he is plagued by the question that has repeatedly been asked about Norman Rockwell: was he a great artist or a mere illustrator?
“Mere illustrator,” he said, repeating the phrase with contempt. It’s not that Mr. Sendak, who has illustrated more than 100 books, including many he wrote, is angry that people question Rockwell’s talent; rather, he fears he has not risen
above the “mere illustrator” label himself.
Never mind that Mr. Sendak’s originality and emotional honesty have changed the shape of children’s literature; that his work is featured in museums; that he has designed costumes and sets for operas, ballets and theater; that he has won a chest full of awards and prizes including a National Medal of the Arts. As the playwright Tony Kushner, one of his collaborators, said, “He’s one of the most important, if not the most important, writers and artists ever to work in children’s literature. In fact, he’s a significant writer and artist in literature. Period.”
Mr. Sendak protested, “But Tony is my friend.”
Mr. Sendak, a square-shaped gnome, was sitting in the dining room of his Connecticut retreat. His shoulders are a bit stooped, but his fingers are long and delicate. When he hears that the 92nd Street Y event is sold out, his eyebrows rise in surprise.
“They must be coming to see the other people,” he said, referring to guests like Mr. Kushner, Meryl Streep, James Gandolfini, Spike Jonze, Dave Eggers and Catherine Keener.
Even his heart attack doesn’t seem up to snuff. People aren’t impressed with a triple bypass, he lamented; now it has to be a quadruple: “You feel like such a failure.”
That Mr. Sendak fears that his work is inadequate, that he is racked with insecurity and anxiety, is no surprise. For more
than 50 years that has been the hallmark of his art. The extermination of most of his relatives and millions of other Jews by the Nazis; the intrusive, unemployed immigrants who survived and crowded his parents’ small apartment; his sickly childhood; his mother’s dark moods; his own ever-present depression — all lurk below the surface of his work, frequently breaking through in meticulously drawn, fantastical ways. [...]
full article:
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/10/arts/design/10sendak.html
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This Rilke passage from "Letters to a Young Poet" is what came to mind immediately when a friend shared with me the letter from Martha Graham to Agnes DeMille. (Thank you, AR, for paying that forward. I give you this letter in return.)
Rainer Maria Rilke writes this to Franz Kappus, the young poet of the title, but I imagine him writing, as well, to M. Sendak, M. Cerveris, AR, MG, me and anyone else out there who's happened to meet us here:
LETTER #1
"You ask whether your verses are any good. You ask me. You have asked others before this. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are upset when certain editors reject your work. Now (since you have said you want my advice) I beg you to stop doing that sort of thing. You are looking outside, and that is what you should most avoid right now. No one can advise or help you - no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess
to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple 'I must,' then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse."
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THAT STRONG, SIMPLE "I MUST"
Alice Ripley: "I need to have a constant stream of creative thought going out of me in order to avoid being either distracted or depressed. I don't mean clinical depression, I mean feeling spiritually flat. So I write music, I paint, I clean, I cook, I do yardwork - those are all creative outlets for me. The simplest things can be creative."
(Alice is an actress, singer, songwriter, guitarist, drummer, painter, and Sharpie artist.)
full article: www.broadway.com/gen/Buzz_Story.aspx?ci=560688
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Finally (is anyone still awake? - smile), I'm quoting the author of this blog herself. Though we're admittedly both terrible at taking our own advice & compliments, MG, you've got this thing, this "it" that those few of us "touched with fire"* have, if only because you answered Rilke's question with Yes, "I have to write" - and this was way before you even knew of his Letters to a Young Poet. It was in your first blog.
So, perhaps here, you'll see that you have some Rilke in your pen, more than you'll ever acknowledge.
MG: "When I was in college, I mentioned to a friend that I wanted to write a memoir one day. She looked at me, laughed and said “What do you have to say that anyone would want to read?” Well, to this day I still have no answer. Probably nothing. But I don’t write to interest or entertain other people – I’m frankly not capable of that ambitious an undertaking. I write for myself, and I do it simply because I have to."
In friendship,
L
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*Touched With Fire, the connection between madness and creativity, book by Kay Redfield Jamison
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I suggest you read The Courage To Create by Rollo May. It's an excellent book, one that will answer a few of your questions and perhaps brings new ones to light.
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