Storytellersunplugged

Frank T. Wydra

It is August, and the Sun’s blistering rays blind. Little wonder that Caesar’s adopted son took this brilliant month as his namesake. Yet inside the windowless bowels of the Gonquin the atmosphere is no different than that of any other month. The conditioned air feels silky. The light is muted. Irises open wide.

Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath sit at opposite ends of the table, Sylvia next to me and Virginia at Mary Shelley’s right hand. Spaced between us are Papa, Edgar, and Bram. Cozy company.

Virginia says, “This group of yours, it reminds me a bit of my husband’s Bloomsbury Group.”

Bram chuckling to himself puns, “Dread not, dear lady, we do not play pranks.”

Virginia uncharacteristically reddens. “Not at all what I meant. Mary says your passion is discussing aspects of literature. Though Leonard’s group did not meet as regularly, their focus tended toward the intellectual.”

Al, the Gonquin’s owner, leans over my shoulder and asks, “What was that all about?”

I try to whisper but, in the confines of the Gonquin, sound carries. “Leonard Woolf, Virginia’s husband, was part of an intellectual circle called The Bloomsbury Group. They played a prank on the British Navy by posing as Abyssinian royalty and tricked the Navy into giving them a royal tour of a the battleship HMS Dreadnaught. Caused a stir at the time.”

Mary, perhaps to redirect the discussion, perhaps to assert control, perhaps both, says, “While the sun shines so brightly outside, it is so gloomy in here, as if we were in Plato’s cave, which brings to mind Emerson’s assertion, ‘There is no object so foul that intense light will not make it beautiful.’ Is that what we do as we write? Illuminate ugly things?”

Papa, wags his head and says, “Of course. Whether it be directly or through metaphor, thoughtful writing shines a spot on the human condition.

Edgar says, “Perhaps, though, Emerson is mistaken. Perhaps we, as writers, do a disservice by illuminating the ugly. How can any writing no matter how brilliant make rape, molestation, or genocide beautiful? And if it could, do we want it too?”

There is silence around the table. Only Edgar has the pluck to challenge Emerson’s insight.

To my surprise it is Sylvia who breaks the hush. “Dear Edgar, that is rubbish. What you suggest is nothing more than self-censorship. Things need to be written. Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing.”

Echoing her sentiment, Virginia says, “Mental fight means thinking against the current, not with it. It is our business to puncture gas bags and discover the seeds of truth.

Edgar says, “Yes, but in illuminating evil, savagery, we make it understandable, acceptable, commonplace, more likely to be imitated in the future.”

Bram says, “As when Capote made the monstrous murderers In Cold Blood human.” He rudely aims an accusing finger at Papa. “By the time he finished the book he seemed more attached to the killers than to the victims.”

Edgar, seemingly glad to have an ally, says, “Exactly.”

Virginia shakes her head and jumps in before papa can. “On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points and writes. Someone has to die in order that the rest of us should value life more. Nothing has really happened until it has been recorded.”

Mary says, “But sometimes the illumination is so painful. Styron’s Sophie’s Choice comes to mind. What purpose was served by illuminating poor Sophie’s agony.”

Virginia gives Mary a strange look and turns away. It is as if the choice of this particular book as an example is an unwelcome mirror.

Sylvia says, “Everything in life is writable about if you have the guts to do it and the imagination to improvise. Dying is an art, like everything else.” She pauses, as if to reflect, then strips her soul clean. “I do it exceptionally well. I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real.” A melancholy smile. “I guess you could say I’ve a call.”

Mary, as if understanding Virginia’s anguish, places a hand on hers, but says to Sylvia, “Yes, but that does not address the question. What is served by illuminating Sophie’s plight? Is it no more than voyeurism?”

Papa harrumphs and says, “I will tell you. The story is not about Sophie. It is about those who would create utopia. The Nazi’s were driven by the fantasy of creating a such a world. They were not so different from Stalin or Pol Pot who killed millions to create their version of utopia.”

Virginia, back with us, nods her head, “Utopias are phantoms. It is far harder to kill a phantom than a reality. They are never the work of a single person. Yet, great bodies of people are never responsible for what they do.”

“There you have it,” Papa says. “As a writer Styron brought the Nazi horror down to the agony of a single person. He cast a light that illuminated the evil.”

Bram says, “What was more evil, the killing of the boy or forcing Sophie to make a choice?

Mary says, “Are there degrees of evil or is it an absolute?”

Papa says. “In the abstract evil is an intellectual exercise. For most of us the bomb dropped on Hiroshima was an abstraction. Something distant. But when Hersey wrote Hiroshima showing the effect on five Japanese lives, the piece matched the blinding illumination of the explosion. Say what you will about the saving of a million American lives, the book had power. The question is, which light was stronger, that of the bomb or the book?”

Virginia says, “Only God can answer that. I read the book of Job last night; I don’t think God comes out well in it.” She shuddered, closed her eyes and shook her head. “I hate war. Yet, to be honest, Hersey wrote of things past. I can only say that the past is beautiful because one never realizes an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past.”

Mary, always the marm, says, “Back to Edgar’s point. When we as writers illuminate a horror are we inuring it to our readers, making the horrific acts acceptable by rendering them under the light of art?”

Virginia says, “Fiction is like a spider’s web, attached ever so slightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible. The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder. Yet at its core is truth. Sometimes horrid truth. If you do not tell the truth about yourself you cannot tell it about other people.”

Bram, who has made his reputation showcasing horror, says, “Sometimes horrible acts are not obvious. Take, for instance, a person, a family, a corporation, a government sucking life from some innocent in the darkness of night. Is that not evil? Yet it can not be addressed unless it is illuminated. The shining of light is why we exist.”

Virginia says, “Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works. Yet there are horrors we do not acknowledge. For most of history, Anonymous was a woman. Is that not a horror?”

Sylvia seems to agree, saying, “We talk to God but the sky is empty. How frail the human heart must be. No more than a mirrored pool of thought. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again. But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion. As writers shine their light they must take the long view.”

Mary says, “So, in the end, writers writing about life illuminate injustice and the weakness of man, and that makes it beautiful.”

Heads nod.

Note: Most of Woolf’s and Platt’s observations are quotes from things they have said or written, and, as usual, seasoned to the taste of this writer.”

mailto:frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Monday, August 13, 2007