I didn't write it for you. Put it down! Stop reading that!
I wrote it for her. Only ever for her. Only because of her. And now you're reading it. That's private, personal, limited, confidential, and ours. Now you're reading it. Please give me a chance to explain, if you're going to keep reading.
I'm hers--heart, soul, and body. All. What she wants, I do. What makes her happy is my mandate. I'm sure you understand; you have one in your life, probably. I mean, we all seem to make a lover for ourselves out of whatever God puts in our way. (Not that I particularly believe in God's hand, if you will; but it seems to be the social norm.) Well, I love her. And so we twined our lives in that way which is peculiar to humans. I said in front of her, the government, and everybody that if she wanted me, she had me, and I would take her--good, bad, and ugly. So we live and love. We laugh and cry and feel everything for and with each other. That's all the backstory we have.
And yet, my work takes me from home too often for my tastes, and far too often for hers. What am I supposed to do, trapped in a foreign country on an affair that forces me away from my heart? I write her letters. Of course; anyone would do it. Every famous person has a folio of their correspondence published shortly after their death. There is always a section of sordid love letters that is the main focus of the book. Well, I am no different than the rich and famous, though I am just a humble writer. I love her, and she loves me, so I write my love for her on terribly fragile letters and then send it through the rough hands of the post. This much of my story I offer by way of explanation for a start to it.
I am a writer. I use words to express my feelings. So while the famous reuse such lifeless truisims as "I miss you/love you/wish for you daily," I am not so limited. I can tell her the truth; I feel the want of her creep through me like fog across the moor. It saps first the strength from my hands, so they die in the middle of a sentence. Then they steal the taste from my tongue, so I stop with food halfway to my mouth, my desire for aught but her stilled to silence. Then they steal words from my head, so when I am to talk, all I find is her name. And I can be far more creative--but only to her, you understand. The truth of my desire is so terrible and overwhelming that it pours out on each page in a scrawling script as the words press themselves out of my pen. I let my mind run and my hand fly, and what comes is for her eyes only. She saves these in a box with a lock and only takes them out to read them when I am quite away and she misses the life that is us.
And now, you have them. I understand your curiosity. They are quite piquant. They are titillating, even, to a prurient mind. I understand your actions. I do not condemn you. And now that she is gone, I cannot find even the strength to force you to stop. I would only ask that you remember the love of a man for his woman.
Only remember that I loved her, and that you are not seeing for your sake only. You are not just reading the impassioned letters from a man to his wife. You are reading, even as ridiculous as it sounds, my soul.
Pray, have respect.
- J. Joyce
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Oh, James Joyce. Oh, Robby.
ReplyDeleteYeah. I'm just as angry that people read his love letters as I am angry that people read Anne Frank's diary. Private means no!
ReplyDeleteI don't know how Joyce felt about his letters, but maybe Anne Frank doesn't mind that her dairy is read by the world. I mean, after your dead what's the point of keeping secrets? And, hey, if someone's interested in what you wrote . . . is that not considered awesome? (Of course, I say that as someone who keeps journals with the hope that some kid finds them in an attic in 50 years and devours them.)
ReplyDeleteI don't like it. It's . . . uncouth.
ReplyDeleteI say that, putting my entire personal life on the internet at the same time. Hypocrite? Maybe.
Ah, but you put it there. No one stole it and published it without your consent.
ReplyDeleteIsn't it weird, though, that pretty much everyone I know has this desperate need to be heard and understood and yet also wants to keep secrets? I often wonder how many of the ancient texts we unearth were meant by the authors to dissolve into the sands of time (but if this were the case, why didn't they just destroy them?).
The personal stuff archaeologists unearth, though, always seems to surprise people with how human it is/how much they can relate to it. All those things we hide, we write without thought, seem to be what other people love most because they've felt the same way. Isn't that strange?
This has been stream-of-consciousness with Janelle. Please keep your heads, arms, and legs inside the vehicle and your seatbelt fastened until we come to a complete stop. I sincerely hope you've enjoyed the trip.
Oh, you know. Angsty songs are the same no matter who writes them. I have the creeping suspicion that country songs in the future will
ReplyDeleteBe "I lost my wife, I lost my robot butler, I lost my hovercar, I lost my spacedog. . . "
Haha probably. "There is nothing new under the sun" and whatnot.
ReplyDeleteSo how is it that each person's experience is unique (and valuable) when so much of it is common to mankind?
I'm going to assume that it's unique in the same way that stew is unique every time you make it. The mixture of parts and experiences is unique.
ReplyDeleteThat makes sense. :-)
ReplyDeleteIt's like Tolkien's "On Fairy Stories."