Christmas. What of it? What does it have to do with writing? Why bring it up now, in the last week of December? Why write at all now, when everybody is taking a break from all work?
Let’s start
from the straightforward. Christmas is classed as a holiday: Christ’s Mass, Yuletide, Koliada,
Dies Natalis
Solis Invicti, the commemoration of the birth of Jesus Christ, and so on.
No matter what names we give it, it’s the holidayness of Christmas that stands
out again and again. Well, it's precisely holiday that I am interested in: the holiness
of things that are said to be holy.
Holy break
It's not the
religious side that causes me to write about writing in relation to holiness. I
am not a religious person. I don't, as such, go to church, I don't participate
in rituals, I don't brandish a denomination. But the importance of all things
holy rests, insofar as I am concerned, on their celebratory potential.
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Holidays, as
all dictionaries will indicate, are periods of religious festival, but more
importantly, they are days of recreation. And by recreation I understand
primarily respite, pause, hiatus. A holiday marks an interruption. It tells the
observant to stop whatever he or she was doing and engage in something
different: something religiously significant, as the celebration of a Divinity.
On a holy day, we stop.
“Holy,” a
word of Germanic origins with wide-spread presence in all Nordic settings,
suggests precisely this notion of stopping, of causing an interruption. The OED
definition of the adjective:
"Kept or regarded as inviolate from ordinary use, and appropriated or set apart for religious use or observance."
Inviolate
from ordinary use. With holy things, the mundane is given a break. Forget, for
this while, that your life is tied to earthly significances. Think, for the
same while, that you are not what you do every day; that you are not your
quotidian self; that your life requires a forgetting of life and an engagement
in things of non-quotidian nature.
A holy
period is, therefore, a period of exceptions. That's why we eat and drink and
make merry during holidays, whether we're religiously-minded or not. This is
why we're doing all of the above in excess. And as with exceptions, the
interruption marked by the holy defines a space where the different, the
out-of-ordinary, the exceptional, can occur. The holy is, therefore, the space
of an occurrence. It is where events can be (and are) generated; it is where
there's an enclosure for the setting-apart of the exceptional to be made
manifest.
A matter of life and death
Writing too,
like all practices that produce artifacts, is a thing of exceptionality. In
order to write, one needs to set aside everything that's habitual, mundane,
familiar, commonplace. One needs to set aside even eating and drinking. In some
extreme situations (see the case of Knut Hamsun's Hunger), one is forced to
remember that eating and drinking are a real, painful, even unwanted reality:
the reality of the biological. Writing and biology are (must be) antagonistic
towards each other if the production of artifacts were to be considered for its
pause-value. Writing intervenes (and this is a shattering statement) where life ceases to be. Where the body
is no longer engaged in its quotidian flows and continuities, that’s where
writing becomes possible. This is because life per se is continuity without consciousness. Our engagement with the
things of life is so complete (we are so programmed to eat and drink, to walk
and breathe, to sleep and laugh) that we do all these things without awareness.
And so, it is only in the interruption of these things that we become aware
again. When I've been writing for hours and hours and suddenly I feel hungry or
thirsty or tired, it is then that I am reminded of the ordinariness of food,
water, and sleep in my life. It is now that I become aware of the ordinariness
of my life. But at the same time, I become aware of how disruptive of my life
writing is. Of course, the same realization is likely to come about if I were a
shoemaker. Hence the need for lunch breaks. Hence the need to hang the
"Back in 15" sign from the front door.
Writing is
what happens in the '15-minute' breaks from life.
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Now, let us
not be fooled by someone who might bring up the issue of writing as a
profession. In order to correct the possible mistake that may arise here, I
should, perhaps, say that there's an obvious and fundamental difference
between, for instance, shoe-making and shoe-mending. A shoe-maker serves an
almost biological need: that of covering the feet of humans, which are no
longer good enough to go about unprotected. Shoe-menders, on the other hand,
generate a different type of thinking about shoes. With them, shoes become
things of cultural circulation. Shoes are mended because they are dear to their
owner (and there are reasons for this, which one could enumerate to one's
heart's content); because they are dear in the financial sense (i.e. they are
inscribed in an economic cycle where what's really important is distinction);
because there's a desire for them to be renewed (i.e. they are understood in terms
of a logic of cycles – again, a cultural amendment).
The
distinction I want to draw here is one between necessity and excess, which can
also be seen as a distinction between biology and culture. In this separation
of the waters, writing stands on the side of excess. Nobody dies of
not-writing. Not in the biological sense of the word death. And so, writing
doesn't have life significance. Writing makes life stop.
This is not
to dismiss or overlook the other forms of death, the self-inflicted ones in
particular. Suicides are cultural deaths; deaths from natural causes are, well,
as their very name indicates, natural, biological, not caused by human will. At
close examination, accidental deaths too will appear to be framed within the
empire of artifacts: caused by humans, inflicted (even when without intention)
upon other humans.
Interruptions
I am not
going to elaborate on death and dying here. But this parenthesis enables me to
return to the point made in the beginning: that all arts and crafts in general,
and writing in particular, are instances of interruption; that they are
terminations of life's flows.
Writing,
which occurs as an imposition of a textual rhythm upon an unconscious series of
unnoticed occurrences, takes place within life. But when it does take place, it
makes apparent this disjunction, this death.
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In his Diary,
Kafka, the neurotic, excessive, sickly writer, had a multitude of occasions to
reflect on this burning issue of writing-as-interruption. In his texts,
reflections on writing turn out to be reflections on death itself. Take this
example. June 6, 1912. Early in the day, he read the following in a letter by
Flaubert (another obsessive writer, like himself):
"My novel is the cliff on which I am hanging, and I know nothing of what is going on in the world."
Kafka too
(as he points out in the same entry) had written something similar a month
earlier, on the 9th of May:
"Yesterday evening in the coffee-house with Pick. How I hold fast to my novel against all restlessness, like a figure on a monument that looks into the distance and holds fast to its pedestal."
Things of
separation from the world, in both Flaubert and Kafka. Writing, producing the
novel, is an act whereby connections are severed. While writing, the writer is
no longer of-the-world. He lives in the act of writing, not in life itself.
Life has been interrupted, and writing is that mighty interruption. And to confirm
this, later in the day of June 6, Kafka returns to the thought, this time with
a self-directed observation:
"Without weight, without bones, without body, walked through the streets for two hours considering what I overcame this afternoon while writing."
What Kafka
had overcome while writing is obvious, from this quote as well as from other
entries in his Diary: life itself,
that barrier to writing, that succession of happenings which makes reflection
impossible, that thing which writing is a pause of. Weightless, boneless, bodiless,
the writer parts with his biology in order to operate within the metabiological
territory of his own writing. And thus the gap is opened, room is made, the
cessation of life is made apparent. In order to write, the writer must die. Self-inflicted
death, no doubt – an artifact pure and simple.
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