Playing With Words

Writing that story about the Sichuan earthquake has turned out to be harder than I expected. It's extremely difficult to write about something that you actually have no idea about, and when writing about the kind of anguish and loss that are a reality to the people of Sichuan today, it is hard to avoid sounding presumptious. I kept finding myself at a loss for the right words, the words that would properly express my desire to sympathise as opposed with my inability to comprehend, while at the same time avoiding any hint of showiness and self-consciousness. It is that moment of sincere sympathy that I want to capture, that moment that exists before the subsequent psychoanalysing of my own motives. But at every attempt, I feel I am being fraudulent, as Mr. Purvis would have said.

Goes to show that for such things to be expressed, time is of the essence. Capturing the feeling while it's fresh reduces the impact of self-consciousness. That's why I travel with a sketchbook and pencil. That's why I passed my nights in the Army with the same sketchbook and pencil. Of course, subsequent editing is also necessary, but for that, you have the luxury of time. The actual capturing of the content of your writing, however, is far more time-sensitive.

Mmm that being said, I've also had the pleasure of reading some rather good writing lately. Have started on a real novel this week, after completing Peer Gynt all the way back in April. Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day had originally been recommended by Mr. Purvis, and I picked up this particular handsome hard cover copy in a bookshop in Sydney. Have made rather good progress through the book, on the train journeys to and from work. And so far, it has been a rather engaging read. The use of language is remarkable, in that Ishiguro is able to constantly maintain a sort of tension between what is expressed and what is left unsaid. His protagonist goes out of his way to be precise in the way he expresses himself, and yet, what he expresses is rather circular, in that he rambles from one idea to another seemingly at random. You get the impression that he is avoiding something, some idea that is on the brink of occurring to him, but which he is not ready to acknowledge. And so, you have the feeling that there is no doubt to the meaning of what he is saying, but you also have the sneaking suspicion that what really matters is the meaning of what he is not saying.

I guess I should also mention that the story is about a butler that is taking a very rare holiday to visit an old colleague. Here, of course, you have the idea of a professional whose profession precisely demands that he efface himself, to be of unobtrusive but omnipresent service to someone else. His job requires him to be highly sensitive and responsive to the requirements of his employer, but it also demands that he remains perpetually in the employer's shadow. And there is no doubt that this protagonist is skilful and intelligent; which makes the feeling of waste all the more prevalent. You cannot totally evade the feeling that he has wasted his life and effort away serving someone else; indeed, the butler frequently tries to affirm the worth of his efforts, in repeatedly asserting that his faithful service over the years has actually contributed somewhat to the success of the humanitarian efforts of his employer. But also, you see very clearly the very narrow perspective and scope of experience he has; he tries to make a lot of out his life, but his concerns and reasonings seem to me to be distinctly juvenile, like the issues and debates that we used to have in secondary school and JC about self-responsibility, respect and ambition. It is tragic in that way, that out of his own efforts and loyalty, he has stunted his own experiential growth. And it takes this rare road trip, away from the familiar surroundings of his workplace that breeds complacency in him, to get him thinking and second-guessing himself and his own life's work.

Beyond the world of fiction, however, it was also a nice surprise to come across some high-quality writing in the blogs that fill my online routine. On a very basic level, at least people bother to write in proper grammar; but beyond that, some really good ideas have come up in other people's blogs. I won't subject blog entries to literary criticism, though that idea does have a certain attractive eccentricity to it. But it is refreshing to read intelligent and discerning writing, and to wonder what the next blog may hold in store.

And let me also say that I do read my students' blogs, even though I won't leave comments, because it'd probably disconcert their current readers to know that a teacher, even if only a relief teacher, is reading about their exploits. It does strike me, however, how similar some of their thoughts are to my own, six or seven years ago. It does seem that despite the experiential gap between people, growing up does actually take the form of a pattern that is recognisable to older observers. It does go some way to undermine the distinctly teenage notion that one's problems and experiences are unique; it does undermine the overarching theme of teenage life: individuality. But also, it is clear that some of them are having these thoughts at an accelerated rate. I have to say that they are exposed to more things that I was at their age, and consequently they are maturing faster in their thinking and social side. But this is nevertheless not the same as saying that they will grow up faster, because simultaneously, the increasing complexity of the real world means that the figurative bar that divides grown-ups from growing-ups is also moving higher.

Anyway, it will be interesting to see what they will write as time goes by. Discernment, perceptiveness, sensitivity, sympathy; all these and more are enhanced by that potent catalyst, experience. And under this alchemical process, definitely top-notch thought will arise from the fertile intellects of these young people.