Wisdom Literature
is a genre I've precious little appetite for. I've read the stuff in
the Bible, committed some of it to memory — usually to be recited
in an ironic context. I don't voluntarily return to it, though.
Some
— maybe even most — people seem to find it super-important.
Recognizing that, I've taken a stab at reading varieties of Wisdom
Lit: the Tibetan Book of the Dead, the Koran, Marcus Aurelius,
Confucius, Rumi, Rilke's Letters
To A Young Poet.
Couldn't finish any of 'em.
Back
when I worked the bookstore Khalil
Gibran's The Prophet
also caught my eye. Try as we might, we could not keep enough copies
of that homely-looking book in stock. At some point we finally caught
up on our back-orders and I took a copy home to see what all the fuss
was about. I could have read it in an evening, but didn't. Sleep
overtook me, and the book was back on the store's shelf the next
morning.
Gibran retains his popular appeal, though, so he's an inviting
subject for critic-journalists keen for a peek-behind-the-curtain,
like John Dodge, who riffs off Joan Accocella's in turn. Reading those pieces this week
put me in a funk, for reasons I've had trouble identifying. I have no
investment in Gibran's strain of wisdom, so a writer might reasonably
expect a reader like me to indulge in a little schadenfreude. But I
find the death of an alcoholic just plain sad, and Gibran's is no
exception.
My
responsive glumness is also the residual effect of reading Listening
For Madeleine: A Portrait of Madeleine L'Engle In Many Voices (A).
Leonard S. Marcus
does
a fine job of pulling together recollections of the woman from
friends, writers and book-biz types, and others who naturally had
dealings with L'Engle. What emerges is pretty much the expected
picture: L'Engle as grand dame who, while fully in touch with her
formidable charisma, very pointedly cultivated an air of
approachability.
Marcus'
conversations contain few surprises, and those are rather gentle.
This is chiefly because it is Cynthia
Zarin who
first encountered and, in this NewYorker piece,
exposed all the astonishments. Many of Marcus' interviews feel
compelled to comment on Zarin — not on the revelations per
se,
of course, but on the spirit in which they were presented. Marcus, in
turn, concludes by interviewing Zarin, commendably giving her the
last word on the matter.
From my first reading to the present, Zarin's piece never struck me
as sensationalist or exploitative or vituperative (in fact, I wish it
was included in Marcus' book). Nor were her revelations a source of
disappointment — sadness on behalf of someone encountered in the
printed word, but not disappointment. L'Engle wrote frequently and
forcefully on the subject of, for instance, marital fidelity, but
there were also frequent (occasionally cloaked) asides that suggested
these utterances had some unspoken history behind them. Her marriage
to an actor from a popular soap came of age during the 60s and 70s.
The marriage ideal might well be a two-part invention, but
presuming strict fidelity on the part of two public “superstars”
in the environment of that era requires a third party: the reader's
willing suspension of disbelief.
Readers gave it, though — and still do. That's some sweet-tasting
punch to be had, and no-one appreciates the suggestion it has been in
any way tainted. So it is also no surprise if friends and colleagues subtly (or not so) cast aspersions on Zarin's character. Thomas Cahill,
however, surprises me when he says,
The
profile of Madeleine that appeared in The
New Yorker really
shocked me. What shocked me was not whether this or that detail was
true. What was said about Bion,1 for example, sounded more or less
accurate. It
would have been fine to say those things once she was gone. What
shocked me was that Madeleine's family had talked about her in that
way while Madeleine was still reading.
Emphasis is mine. Cahill seems to imply he'd be okay with reading
this stuff after she'd died, and not a moment before.
I have to say I have considerably greater sympathy for L'Engle's
children. The maintenance of a publicly revered parent is also a
three-part invention, requiring the often reluctant participation of
the children. Consider how, as L'Engle's physical and mental state
was deteriorating, her public persona grew increasingly saintly. As
the family casualties mounted, and the matriarch required ever more
intimate care, receiving adulatory mail from strangers who presumed a
deep connection with this person (“Madeleine was the mother I wish
I had” is a common sentiment) must have become a staggering burden,
especially if it appears that hagiography is nearly inevitable.
Before Crosswicks becomes a tourist destination, and busloads of
earnest believers spill out to tell you, ad nauseum, what a truly
wonderful person your mother was, you might want to preemptively let
a little air out of the tires.
You might also, consciously or no, want to prep her for deathbed
conversation. It's debatable just how necessary it is to actually
have these conversations, but one way or another, before or after
death, a kid has to “say” “You fucked up. Not only that,
you fucked me up.2 But I forgive you. I love you. And I will
miss you so much more than I can say.”
Our parents, with all their flaws, try to pass on what wisdom they
glean during their own lives. Beyond that, any Wisdom Literature we
adopt we then endow with parental authority. It only stands to reason
that this, then, is a conversation we readers ought to “have”
with the writers of our Wisdom Literature.
Writing Wisdom Literature was a gig Madeleine took to, with obvious
pleasure. In fact you could argue, as she elliptically did, that it
is every writer's gig, whether they acknowledge it or not.
Speaking with some personal experience, forgiving an author for his
or her personal shortcomings can have a surprisingly freeing effect
on the words they wrote. It may be that the only truly Sacred
Literature we get in this life is written by people we have learned
to forgive.
1
If you haven't yet read Zarin's piece, Bion is presented as the
golden-haired child who drank himself into an early grave. Sensing a
theme, yet?↩
No comments:
Post a Comment