For the past several days, I have been talking about various sounds or types of silence.
Some silences are poetic and meditative places for reflection within one’s work. Here
Some silences are due to insensitivity and cruelty. Here.
Tillie Olsen wrote the seminal book which describes the silences that are often imposed upon artists–the silences that bind them and render them incapable of expressing. In my case, the silences that Olsen describes are normally caused by depression. Here is an excerpt from Olsen’s book Silences:
“Literary history and the present are dark with silences: some the silences for years by our acknowledged great; some silences hidden; some the ceasing to publish after one work appears; some the never coming to book form at all. What is it that happens with the creator, to the creative process, in that time? What are creation’s needs for full functioning? Without intention of or pretension to literary scholarship, I have had special need to learn all I could of this over the years, myself so nearly remaining mute and having to let writing die over and over again in me. These are not natural silences–what Keats called agonie ennuyeuse (the tedious agony)–that necessary time for renewal, lying fallow, gestation, in the natural cycle of creation. The silences I speak of here are unnatural: the unnatural thwarting of what struggles to come into being, but cannot. In the old, the obvious parallels: when the seed strikes stone; the soil will not sustain; the spring is false; the time is drought or blight or infestation; the frost comes premature. The great in achievement have known such silences–Thomas Hardy, Melville, Rimbaud, Gerard Manley Hopkins. They tell us little as to why or how the creative working atrophied and died in them–if ever it did. Kin to these years-long silences are the hidden silences; work aborted, deferred, denied–hidden by the work which does come to fruition. Hopkins rightfully belongs here; almost certainly William Blake; Jane Austen, Olive Schreiner, Theodore Dreiser, Willa Cather, Franz Kafka, Katherine Anne Porter, many other contemporary writers. Censorship silences. Deletions, omissions, abandonment of the medium (as with Hardy); paralyzing of capacity (as Dreiser’s ten-year stasis on Jennie Gerhardt after the storm against Sister Carrie). Publishers’ censorship, refusing subject matter or treatment as “not suitable” or “no market for.” Self-censorship. Religious, political censorship–sometimes spurring inventiveness–most often (read Dostoyevsky’s letters) a wearing attrition. The extreme of this: those writers physically silenced by governments. Isaac Babel, the years of imprisonment, what took place in him with what wanted to be written? Or in Oscar Wilde, who was not permitted even a pencil until the last months of his imprisonment? Other silences. The truly memorable poem, story, or book, then the writer ceasing to be published (As Jean Toomer, Cane; Henry Roth, Call It Sleep; Edith Summers Kelley, Weeds). Was one work all the writers had in them (life too thin for pressure of material, renewal) and the respect for literature too great to repeat themselves? Was it “the knife of the perfectionist attitude in art and life” at their throat? Were the conditions not present for establishing the habits of creativity (a young Colette who lacked a Willy to lock her in her room each day)? Or–as instanced over and over–other claims, other responsibilities so writing could not be first? (The writer of a class, sex, color still marginal in literature, and whose coming to written voice at all against complex odds is exhausting achievement.) It is an eloquent commentary that this one-book silence has been true of most black writers, only eleven in the hundred years since 1850 have published novels more than twice. There is a prevalent silence I pass by quickly, the absence of creativity where it once had been; the ceasing to create literature, though the books may keep coming out year after year. That suicide of the creative process Hemingway describes so accurately in “The Snows of Kilimanjaro.” He had destroyed his talent himself–by not using it, by betrayals of himself and what he believed in, by drinking so much that he blunted the edge of his perceptions, by laziness, by sloth, by snobbery, by hook and by crook, selling vitality, trading it for security, for comfort. Almost unnoted are the foreground silences, before the achievement. George Eliot, Joseph Conrad, Isak Dinesen, Sherwood Anderson, Dorothy Richardson, Elizabeth Madox Roberts, A. E. Coppard, Angus Wilson, Joyce Cary—all close to, or in their forties before they came published writers; Lampedusa, Maria Dermout (The Ten Thousand Things). Laura Ingalls Wilder, the “children’s writer,” in their sixties. Very close to this last grouping are the silences where the lives never came to writing. Among these, the mute inglorious Miltons: those whose waking hours are all struggle for existence; the barely educated; the illiterate; women. Their silence the silence of centuries as to how life was, is, for most of humanity”. – Tillie Olsen, Silences, 1962
At times, my own silences are excruciating. More often, those silences are an overall numbing. I have often described myself in its state as a Rip Van Winkle. While existing in a silent catatonia, months–even years pass. Invariably, I feel that each silence has become my last silence–the one from which I would not awaken. Obviously, I am writing this piece now, and a silence has been broken.
When I emerge from a period of artistic numbness, I am normally rewarded by a creative spurt–a time when all that was stored and damned within me bursts out. I am experiencing one of those outbursts now.
Winter is a debilitating time for me. By mid-winter, I succumb to the weather, to the grayness, and the cold. Like a bear, I crawl into a type of sleep state, when I do little more than exist. When spring arrives, I have to force myself back to work in my garden, which becomes a healer for me.
This past spring and summer, I worked in my garden 6 to 10 hours every day. During the entire time, I repeatedly swore that as soon as the cool weather began to return, I would immerse myself in writing, and this year, I would get ahead of the frozenness of winter. I am hoping that if I charge myself enough, this year, I’ll chug on through to spring.