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160 pages, Kindle Edition
First published November 17, 2021
I believe that the sense I have of writing — and all the struggles it involves — has to do with the satisfaction of staying beautifully within the margins and, at the same time, with the impression of loss, of waste, because of that success.
A sort of vicious circle established itself clearly in my mind: if I wanted to believe that I was a good writer, I had to write like a man, staying strictly within the male tradition; although a woman, I couldn’t write like a woman except by violating what I was diligently trying to learn from the male tradition.
I thought: everything that randomly kindles the start of a story is there outside and hits us, we collide, it confuses us, gets confused. Inside — inside us — is only the fragile machinery of our body. What we call “inner life” is a permanent flashing in the brain that wants to take shape as voice, as writing. So I looked around, waiting, for me at the time writing had, essentially, eyes: the trembling of a yellow leaf, the shiny parts of the coffee maker, my mother’s ring with the aquamarine that gave off a sky-blue light, my sisters fighting in the courtyard, the enormous ears of the bald man in the blue smock. I wanted to be a mirror. I assembled fragments according to a before and an after, I set one inside the other, a story came out. It happened naturally, and I did it constantly.
A woman who wants to write has unavoidably to deal not only with the entire literary patrimony she’s been brought up on and in virtue of which she wants to and can express herself but with the fact that that patrimony is essentially male and by its nature doesn’t provide true female sentences.
If I had to name what really struck me as a teen-ager — and not so much as a student but as a fledgling reader and aspiring writer — I would start with the discovery that Dante describes the act of writing obsessively, literally and figuratively, constantly presenting its power and its inadequacy, and the provisional nature.
هیچ زبان و نوشتهای از دل خود متولد نشده؛ هیچ زبان و نوشتهای خالق خودش نیست. به عبارت دیگر، کاتب باید آنقدر بخواند و مهارت کسب کند تا سرانجام بتواند نوشتهای را خلق کند که انگار از خودش اختیار دارد؛ کلماتی که انگار خودبهخود و بدون دخالت هیچکس و هیچچیزی، لبریز میشوند و از درون به بیرون و از قلب به کاغذ میریزند. شيوۀ تازهای که دانته حرفش را میزند، برای تازه بودن نیازمند آن است که حد و مرزهای سبکهای قدیمی را بشناسد چون تنها با شناختن حد و مرزهاست که میتوان از آن عبور کرد. اگر به چنین جایی برسیم، دیگر هرگز از دیکتۀ عشق جا نمیمانیم.
اشتباه ارنست، به دست آوردن موفقیت با احترام گذاشتن به چهارچوبها و قوانین یک بازی قدیمی است؛ فضیلت گرترود این است که به این بازی قدیمی میچسبد تا آن را در راه هدف خودش ویران کند و آنطور که میخواهد، از نو بسازد.
"At the time I also considered myself a lowly, abject woman. I was afraid, as I said, that it was precisely my female nature that kept me from bringing the pen as close as possible to the pain I wanted to express. For a woman who has something to say, does it really take a miracle—I said to myself—to dissolve the margins within which nature has enclosed her and show herself in her own words to the world?" Pg. 22
I read a lot, but what I liked was almost always written by men, not women. It seemed to me that the voice of men came from the pages, and that voice preoccupied me, I tried in every way to imitate it.
Each word is made up of so many letters and the imperious present looms up and blots out the past.
We have to accept the fact that no word is truly ours. We have to give up the idea that writing miraculously releases a voice of our own, a tonality of our own: in my view that is a lazy way of talking about writing. Writing is, rather, entering an immense cemetery where every tomb is waiting to be profaned. Writing is getting comfortable with everything that has already been written—great literature and commercial literature, if useful, the novel-essay and the screenplay—and in turn becoming, within the limits of one’s own dizzying, crowded individuality, something written. Writing is seizing everything that has already been written and gradually learning to spend that enormous fortune. We mustn’t let ourselves be flattered by those who say: here’s someone who has a tonality of her own. Everything, in writing, has a long history behind it.