Writing in the Dark (4 page)
Read Writing in the Dark Online
Authors: David Grossman
What is interesting to discover is that at those rare moments when I manage to make this wish come true and reach that “core” of the Other, it is then that I—the writer—do not have a sense of losing myself, or of being assimilated into this particular Other about whom I have written, but rather I have a more lucid perception of “the otherness of the Other,” of the differentiation of this
Other from myself.
There is a sharp and mature sense of something I might call “the principle of Otherness.”
Other from myself.
There is a sharp and mature sense of something I might call “the principle of Otherness.”
I further believe that when we read a book that was written this way, in which the author reached that sought-after place and was able to know the Other from within him but still remain himself, we readers experience a unique sensation of spiritual elevation, of sharing a rare opportunity to touch a precious human secret, a deep existential experience.
This sensation is accompanied by another, no less precious and moving, which is a true intimacy with the person about whom the story is told.
It is a sense of deep, empathetic understanding of the character and his motives, even if we utterly disagree with them.
At these times we catch sight of a similarity—sometimes surprising, sometimes enraging and threatening—between this character and ourselves.
And thus, even if the character arouses resistance, aversion, or disgust, these reactions no longer create in us a total alienation to the character; they do not separate us from him.
They prevent us from sharply, unequivocally, perhaps uncompassionately condemning the character.
On the contrary: we often feel that only by some miraculous twist of fate have we been spared from becoming that detestable character ourselves, and that the possibility of being that character still exists and murmurs within us, in our genetic reservoir.
This sensation is accompanied by another, no less precious and moving, which is a true intimacy with the person about whom the story is told.
It is a sense of deep, empathetic understanding of the character and his motives, even if we utterly disagree with them.
At these times we catch sight of a similarity—sometimes surprising, sometimes enraging and threatening—between this character and ourselves.
And thus, even if the character arouses resistance, aversion, or disgust, these reactions no longer create in us a total alienation to the character; they do not separate us from him.
They prevent us from sharply, unequivocally, perhaps uncompassionately condemning the character.
On the contrary: we often feel that only by some miraculous twist of fate have we been spared from becoming that detestable character ourselves, and that the possibility of being that character still exists and murmurs within us, in our genetic reservoir.
We must not only embody the
soul
of the Other when we write of him but also be under his skin, inside his body,
experiencing his limitations and flaws, his beauty and ugliness.
In this context, I would like to recall a little story.
soul
of the Other when we write of him but also be under his skin, inside his body,
experiencing his limitations and flaws, his beauty and ugliness.
In this context, I would like to recall a little story.
A few years ago, my book
See Under: Love
was published.
Some weeks later, I was taking an evening bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, listening to the news hour on the radio along with the other passengers.
In the “cultural segment” of the program (culture, as we know, should always be confined to a segment, so that it does not swell and seep into the more important news), a stage actor read an excerpt from my novel.
The passage described Gisella, Momik’s mother, sitting at her sewing machine, a well-known Singer model, her foot moving up and down on some sort of pedal that Uncle Shimmik had installed for her at the bottom of the machine.
See Under: Love
was published.
Some weeks later, I was taking an evening bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, listening to the news hour on the radio along with the other passengers.
In the “cultural segment” of the program (culture, as we know, should always be confined to a segment, so that it does not swell and seep into the more important news), a stage actor read an excerpt from my novel.
The passage described Gisella, Momik’s mother, sitting at her sewing machine, a well-known Singer model, her foot moving up and down on some sort of pedal that Uncle Shimmik had installed for her at the bottom of the machine.
At that moment, the bus driver, who apparently could no longer tolerate the story’s gloom and doom, turned the radio dial and switched us all to a more upbeat channel playing Israeli music.
I imagine most of the passengers breathed a sigh of relief, but I was left distraught, because of the private insult—mine and my book’s—but also because I could not understand which pedal the excerpt was referring to, and why on earth Uncle Shimmik had installed an extra pedal.
The Singer I remembered had its own perfectly comfortable metal treadle, and I am not in the habit of throwing accessories or instruments into my stories for no reason.
I could not comprehend what had made me add this device when I wrote the book.
I imagine most of the passengers breathed a sigh of relief, but I was left distraught, because of the private insult—mine and my book’s—but also because I could not understand which pedal the excerpt was referring to, and why on earth Uncle Shimmik had installed an extra pedal.
The Singer I remembered had its own perfectly comfortable metal treadle, and I am not in the habit of throwing accessories or instruments into my stories for no reason.
I could not comprehend what had made me add this device when I wrote the book.
I was on edge for the rest of the journey.
When I finally
got home, I quickly opened the book and found the excerpt.
Indeed, shortly after the point at which the bus driver had cut the segment off, I found out that Gisella’s foot simply did not reach the original Singer treadle.
In another part of the book, I learned something that had somehow escaped my memory: Gisella was an extremely short woman.
When I finally
got home, I quickly opened the book and found the excerpt.
Indeed, shortly after the point at which the bus driver had cut the segment off, I found out that Gisella’s foot simply did not reach the original Singer treadle.
In another part of the book, I learned something that had somehow escaped my memory: Gisella was an extremely short woman.
I remember being filled with happiness, because I had suddenly discovered something simple and profound about writing.
If I had a broken blind at home, for example, or a door handle that needed fixing, it would undoubtedly take weeks before I found the time to repair it.
My wife would have to remind me every few days, I would leave myself notes in all sorts of places (and promptly forget about them), and finally, when I no longer had any choice and the family members’ protests were jeopardizing my already rather tenuous standing as head of the household, I would give in and fix it.
But when I write a story and a short and stocky woman named Gisella walks around in this story, then, when I write her,
I become Gisella
.
Even if she is a marginal character, even if she only passes through for a few pages, I must, I want, I long to be Gisella.
And when I write Gisella, I walk like Gisella and eat like Gisella and toss and turn in my sleep like Gisella.
I run after buses heavily, like her, and I measure every walking distance by the steps of her short, thick, bandaged feet.
And when I sit my Gisella down at a sewing machine, the extra pedal practically comes into being on its own, because without
it she could not reach the Singer treadle.
I know full well that if I had not added that extra pedal, most of my readers would not have noticed its absence when they read the description of Gisella using the machine.
Moreover, I myself, were I to read the excerpt after some time had passed, would not think anything was missing.
If I had a broken blind at home, for example, or a door handle that needed fixing, it would undoubtedly take weeks before I found the time to repair it.
My wife would have to remind me every few days, I would leave myself notes in all sorts of places (and promptly forget about them), and finally, when I no longer had any choice and the family members’ protests were jeopardizing my already rather tenuous standing as head of the household, I would give in and fix it.
But when I write a story and a short and stocky woman named Gisella walks around in this story, then, when I write her,
I become Gisella
.
Even if she is a marginal character, even if she only passes through for a few pages, I must, I want, I long to be Gisella.
And when I write Gisella, I walk like Gisella and eat like Gisella and toss and turn in my sleep like Gisella.
I run after buses heavily, like her, and I measure every walking distance by the steps of her short, thick, bandaged feet.
And when I sit my Gisella down at a sewing machine, the extra pedal practically comes into being on its own, because without
it she could not reach the Singer treadle.
I know full well that if I had not added that extra pedal, most of my readers would not have noticed its absence when they read the description of Gisella using the machine.
Moreover, I myself, were I to read the excerpt after some time had passed, would not think anything was missing.
Yet something
would
have been missing.
A small space, the size of one foot pedal, would have been exposed in the story.
And poor Gisella’s foot would be hanging forever above the Singer treadle, never able to spin the wheel.
It is entirely possible that similar tiny spaces would have emerged in other parts of the book too, and in their quiet, hidden way they would have joined forces to create a bothersome void in the reader’s mind, and a dim suspicion of some negligence on the part of the author, and even of a breach of trust.
But if the writer allows himself to be Gisella, in body and soul, if he accepts the rare and wonderful invitation to be such a Gisella, then the extra pedal will naturally occur, as will thousands of other sensations and nuances and accessories that the writer gives the characters.
would
have been missing.
A small space, the size of one foot pedal, would have been exposed in the story.
And poor Gisella’s foot would be hanging forever above the Singer treadle, never able to spin the wheel.
It is entirely possible that similar tiny spaces would have emerged in other parts of the book too, and in their quiet, hidden way they would have joined forces to create a bothersome void in the reader’s mind, and a dim suspicion of some negligence on the part of the author, and even of a breach of trust.
But if the writer allows himself to be Gisella, in body and soul, if he accepts the rare and wonderful invitation to be such a Gisella, then the extra pedal will naturally occur, as will thousands of other sensations and nuances and accessories that the writer gives the characters.
The materialization of these elements is a process mostly unnoticed by the writer, occurring as naturally as a tree bearing fruit.
When it exists, the writer can give Gisella—almost without thinking about it—the extra pedal, and then her foot can reach the machine and she can make it move, and the pedal can move the large wheel on the side, and the wheel can spin, and the wheels of the story can spin too, and the whole fragile
and slightly groundless world, born from a marriage of imagination and reality and words, can begin to move fully and confidently.
When it exists, the writer can give Gisella—almost without thinking about it—the extra pedal, and then her foot can reach the machine and she can make it move, and the pedal can move the large wheel on the side, and the wheel can spin, and the wheels of the story can spin too, and the whole fragile
and slightly groundless world, born from a marriage of imagination and reality and words, can begin to move fully and confidently.
When I write a character, I want to know and feel and experience as many characteristics and psychic arrays as possible, including things that are difficult even to name.
For example, the character’s muscle tone, both physical and emotional: the measure of vitality and alertness and tautness of his or her physical and emotional being.
The speed of her thought, the rhythm of his speech, the duration of pauses between her words when she speaks.
The roughness of his skin, the touch of her hair.
His favorite position, in sex and in sleep.
For example, the character’s muscle tone, both physical and emotional: the measure of vitality and alertness and tautness of his or her physical and emotional being.
The speed of her thought, the rhythm of his speech, the duration of pauses between her words when she speaks.
The roughness of his skin, the touch of her hair.
His favorite position, in sex and in sleep.
Not all of these things will end up in the book, of course.
I believe it is best for only the tip of the iceberg, only one-tenth of everything the writer knows about his characters, to appear in the book.
But the writer must know and feel the other nine-tenths too, even if they remain underwater.
Because without them, what surfaces above the water will not have the validity of truth.
When these complementary elements exist in the writer’s consciousness, they radiate themselves to the visible aspects and serve as a sounding board and a stable foundation for the character, and it is they that give the character its full existence.
I believe it is best for only the tip of the iceberg, only one-tenth of everything the writer knows about his characters, to appear in the book.
But the writer must know and feel the other nine-tenths too, even if they remain underwater.
Because without them, what surfaces above the water will not have the validity of truth.
When these complementary elements exist in the writer’s consciousness, they radiate themselves to the visible aspects and serve as a sounding board and a stable foundation for the character, and it is they that give the character its full existence.
I can attest that when I reach that knowledge of the Other from within him—and this does not always occur, not with every character; I wish I could reach it with every character, but regrettably that does not happen—
when I reach that place in the story, I experience one of the greatest pleasures of writing: the ability to allow my characters to be themselves—inside me.
The writer then becomes the space within which his characters can fulfill their characteristics and desires, their urges and acts of foolishness, madness, and kindness, which the writer himself is incapable of—because he is a specific, finite person, and because these characteristics, these desires and acts, threaten him or somehow contradict him, even invalidate him.
when I reach that place in the story, I experience one of the greatest pleasures of writing: the ability to allow my characters to be themselves—inside me.
The writer then becomes the space within which his characters can fulfill their characteristics and desires, their urges and acts of foolishness, madness, and kindness, which the writer himself is incapable of—because he is a specific, finite person, and because these characteristics, these desires and acts, threaten him or somehow contradict him, even invalidate him.
What marvelous happiness, what sweet reward there is in these moments, when in the very act of writing a character, the writer is also written by him or her.
Some unknown option of his personality, an option that was mute, latent, suppressed, is suddenly articulated to him, redeemed by a particular character,
brought to light
.
Some unknown option of his personality, an option that was mute, latent, suppressed, is suddenly articulated to him, redeemed by a particular character,
brought to light
.
From experience I know how wonderful it is when a character I have written surprises me this way, or even
betrays
me, by acting in contrast to my consciousness and personality and fears, acting beyond my horizons.
The feeling at those times is one of extraordinary physical and emotional pleasure.
In the simplest way, I can say that it is as though someone grabs me by the back of my neck with immense vigor and lifts me up, forcing me to take off outside my own skin.
betrays
me, by acting in contrast to my consciousness and personality and fears, acting beyond my horizons.
The feeling at those times is one of extraordinary physical and emotional pleasure.
In the simplest way, I can say that it is as though someone grabs me by the back of my neck with immense vigor and lifts me up, forcing me to take off outside my own skin.
On a closely related issue, I would like to say a few words about the meaning of literary writing—as I see it, as I believe
in it—for people who have been living for over a century in an area that can be described, without exaggeration, as a disaster zone.
in it—for people who have been living for over a century in an area that can be described, without exaggeration, as a disaster zone.
First, a clarification: I am not planning to talk “politics,” but rather to address the intimate, internal processes that occur among those who live in a disaster zone, and the role of literature and writing in a climate as lethal as the one we live in.
To live in a disaster zone means to be clenched, both physically and emotionally.
The muscles of the body and the soul are alert and tensed, ready for fight or flight.
Anyone who lives in this condition knows that not only the body clenches but also the soul, preparing itself for the next explosion or news bulletin.
“He who laughs has not yet heard the terrible tidings,” wrote Bertolt Brecht—another experienced citizen of disaster zones—in his poem “To Posterity.” Indeed, when one lives in a disaster zone, one is constantly on guard, and one’s entire being anticipates imminent pain, imminent humiliation.
The muscles of the body and the soul are alert and tensed, ready for fight or flight.
Anyone who lives in this condition knows that not only the body clenches but also the soul, preparing itself for the next explosion or news bulletin.
“He who laughs has not yet heard the terrible tidings,” wrote Bertolt Brecht—another experienced citizen of disaster zones—in his poem “To Posterity.” Indeed, when one lives in a disaster zone, one is constantly on guard, and one’s entire being anticipates imminent pain, imminent humiliation.
It is difficult to determine the moment at which the cruel reversal occurs.
When is the question of whether the pain and humiliation will in fact occur no longer significant because, either way, you are already deep inside them, even if they themselves remain only possibilities?
For you have already
created
them inside you.
You are already maintaining a routine that is saturated with humiliation because of the constant fear of humiliation.
You no longer realize to what extent your life is largely conducted within the fear of fear, and how much the anxiety
is slowly distorting your nature—as an individual and as a society—and how it is robbing you of your happiness, of your purpose in life.
When is the question of whether the pain and humiliation will in fact occur no longer significant because, either way, you are already deep inside them, even if they themselves remain only possibilities?
For you have already
created
them inside you.
You are already maintaining a routine that is saturated with humiliation because of the constant fear of humiliation.
You no longer realize to what extent your life is largely conducted within the fear of fear, and how much the anxiety
is slowly distorting your nature—as an individual and as a society—and how it is robbing you of your happiness, of your purpose in life.
In this intolerable climate, I and many other writers try to write.
In the first two years of the last intifada, for example, I went into my study every morning and wrote a story about a man and a woman who spend an entire night in a car, on an intense and turbulent journey.
There were moments when it seemed utterly mad to shut myself up with these people in the car while the world around me turned upside down.
On the other hand, writing has always been the best way for me to stay sane, and to find a grasping point in the world, which, as I grow older, seems more and more illusory and absurd, not truly graspable.
There were moments when it seemed utterly mad to shut myself up with these people in the car while the world around me turned upside down.
On the other hand, writing has always been the best way for me to stay sane, and to find a grasping point in the world, which, as I grow older, seems more and more illusory and absurd, not truly graspable.
When the book I was writing—
Her Body Knows
—was eventually published, I was frequently asked, “Why didn’t you write about the intifada?” “How could it be that the man and the woman are not a Palestinian who falls in love with an Israeli?” And also, “Is the man’s broken leg a metaphor for the fracture occurring in the Zionist idea?” And of course, “Is the car really an allegory for the stifling Occupation?”
Her Body Knows
—was eventually published, I was frequently asked, “Why didn’t you write about the intifada?” “How could it be that the man and the woman are not a Palestinian who falls in love with an Israeli?” And also, “Is the man’s broken leg a metaphor for the fracture occurring in the Zionist idea?” And of course, “Is the car really an allegory for the stifling Occupation?”
My reply was, No, these are a man and a woman who insist on turning inward, to each other—because they must.
They even turn their backs on the “situation” outside, perhaps because they instinctively feel that this “situation” may cause them to miss out on the most
important things in their lives.
They feel that because of the “situation” and its terrors, they barely have the time or energy left over to inquire into the greater questions of human existence, and their own private little existence, which happens to have been tossed into the disaster zone of the Middle East.
They even turn their backs on the “situation” outside, perhaps because they instinctively feel that this “situation” may cause them to miss out on the most
important things in their lives.
They feel that because of the “situation” and its terrors, they barely have the time or energy left over to inquire into the greater questions of human existence, and their own private little existence, which happens to have been tossed into the disaster zone of the Middle East.
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