Recently, I revisited a book that I had only partway finished. It was
Simon Van Booy's
The Secret Lives of People in Love, which is a collection of short stories.
Last night, I read 'Distant Ships,' and I found a few things that Van Booy wrote to be particularly meaningful.
In a child's handwriting, language is exposed as the pained and crooked medium it really is.
- What an interesting and accurate description Van Booy came up with! I loved this statement on two accounts. First, the image of childhood handwriting and the rough texture of crayon immediately came to my mind, and for some reason (most likely nostalgia) it made me happy. Second, Van Booy got me thinking about the nature of language. Because it is almost impossible to find the right combination of words that express a sentiment precisely, language is in fact a 'pained medium.' However, I found it funny that Van Booy's (seemingly easy) proficiency with words was used to express just how difficult writing is. In fact, his entire collection of stories contains literary 'moments' that just make me pause and sigh--how can one writer express things that I believe I have felt all along, but just could never express myself? I think this gets to the heart of what all my favorite writers have in common. They write things that I, upon reading, go, "Why didn't I think of that?" They master words in a way that I don't think I ever will. They can voice thoughts and ideas with a clarity that I envy.
My mother slipped on some ice and broke her hip, then without any warning she died in the hospital. It was like the closing of a book I never thought could end.
- When I read this, my first thought was, 'What an elegant way of expressing every child's fear.' (Even after we become adults, we are still our parents' children). For most, parents are one of the few things that are constant in our worlds. Life without them is almost unfathomable. My second thought was less of a thought and more of a feeling. I felt sad. Sad about the fact that my parents, just as every individual, would eventually reach the last Decembers of their lives.
In this village with its damp shoes and Sunday hymns, you are old the moment someone you love dies.
- This sentence carried a similar sadness about death and losing loved ones. I think that the act of losing a loved one is worse than having a lost loved one. The absence created by death is violently sudden, whereas the existence of a deceased loved one leaves one with a duller but constant heartache.
Sometimes when I read old chapters [the narrator referring to a journal-like work], I am suddenly in the midst of how things were--it's like being on a theater set that someone has built of your life. Memory is like life but with actors.
- Immediately out of pure association, I thought of Shakespeare's 'All the world's a stage' line. This statement by Van Booy taps into a similar train of thought--one based on the fact that actors are exactly what their name implies. They are not actually the characters they play, but simply interpret what the author or playwright has written about a character. Just as actors mostly resemble their characters, memories mostly, but not completely, represent reality. Our recollections of the past may, for the most part, tell the truth, but the fine details slowly disappear, just as the textures of rock are lost to beating tides.
I wake up to rain tapping on the window like a hundred Welsh mothers.
- This line just makes me want to smile and giggle (and I do!). The image of a hundred Welsh mothers (Welsh? That modifier is totally unnecessary. All mothers are like that. Especially mine!) with their faces up against a window, decorated with furrowed eyebrows and wrinkled foreheads, simply delights me.
Isn't it interesting how we use the verb 'compose' for both music and sentences? Yes, everyone knows that people compose music. But, we also compose sentences! Remember back in grade school when you took a read and writing composition class? I think it is no coincidence that the two share this verb. Both writing and music have the potential to be viscerally powerful, and only a select few can arrange the notes or words in a way that evokes that beauty.
And so I urge you all to read. You don't have to pick something up with the intention of finishing. Read. Read until you find something you like. Even if you don't finish something, at least you better understand what your likes and dislikes are. Read until you find your literary niche--books that you are comfortable reading, and books that you enjoy reading. If want to challenge yourself, read something not typically found in your library.
We only have one life to live (no, I would not like to discuss the afterlife, etc.), and writing allows you to experience ideas and thoughts that you may never have the chance of encountering. So read. Read...and live!
