Alone in the World ?
Read this on Facebook recently... Written by Philip John...
It is not the way it is written, but more about what he tried to say that rang a bell....
Alone in the World
She writes a poem for her lover. She thinks it is a good poem. When she sends it to her lover he says, “Thank you, it’s nice.” As though she had given him not a poem but a cup of tea. Why, he should be grateful. How many people can say they have lovers who write poems for them? She feels alone in the world of her poem that perhaps only she truly and fully understands.
Later that week she discovers her favourite writer is going to be present at a literary festival. Finally, a chance to hear him speak, perhaps even meet him. At the festival she manages to have a word with him while he autographs her book. Many people complained they did not “get” the writer’s last book. But she loved the book and she tells the writer this. “Thank you for writing this book,” she tells him. “When an artist of your caliber writes with such intimacy and fearlessness your book is a gift to the world.” The writer thanks her warmly. But she cannot stop. Some force larger than her has seized her. So she continues: “The book is a risk, a dare. It has lingered in my mind for years. It has become a part of my interior life.” The writer thanks her again. Then he turns to leave. Something comes over her. “Sir!” she says. The writer turns around. “’Don’t bother about the readers who don’t get it,” she says, “and who don’t thank you enough, your book is great, it changed my life.”
The writer’s eyes soften. Something passes in the air between him and her. Like a bridge. He nods graciously at her and smiles. She raises her hand in an awkward half-wave. Then he is really gone for good. She watches his retreating back as it gets smaller and smaller until he disappears from view. This man who took seven years to complete that book, who arranged words and images in an intricate shape that was close to him, like the shape of a birthmark on a lover's thigh. Who wrote knowing that no one but him might truly and fully understand his design. And yet he did it, took the risk of being alone in the world with something he made. Something full of his blood and thoughts. If he could do it, she could do it too.
Later that week she discovers her favourite writer is going to be present at a literary festival. Finally, a chance to hear him speak, perhaps even meet him. At the festival she manages to have a word with him while he autographs her book. Many people complained they did not “get” the writer’s last book. But she loved the book and she tells the writer this. “Thank you for writing this book,” she tells him. “When an artist of your caliber writes with such intimacy and fearlessness your book is a gift to the world.” The writer thanks her warmly. But she cannot stop. Some force larger than her has seized her. So she continues: “The book is a risk, a dare. It has lingered in my mind for years. It has become a part of my interior life.” The writer thanks her again. Then he turns to leave. Something comes over her. “Sir!” she says. The writer turns around. “’Don’t bother about the readers who don’t get it,” she says, “and who don’t thank you enough, your book is great, it changed my life.”
The writer’s eyes soften. Something passes in the air between him and her. Like a bridge. He nods graciously at her and smiles. She raises her hand in an awkward half-wave. Then he is really gone for good. She watches his retreating back as it gets smaller and smaller until he disappears from view. This man who took seven years to complete that book, who arranged words and images in an intricate shape that was close to him, like the shape of a birthmark on a lover's thigh. Who wrote knowing that no one but him might truly and fully understand his design. And yet he did it, took the risk of being alone in the world with something he made. Something full of his blood and thoughts. If he could do it, she could do it too.
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