writers write from pain
he closed up all wounds, all can
write are these small things
The diaries of Alan Rickman were recently published.
The review I read stated, “Why he kept a diary is unclear. Diarists come in all shapes, and their reasons for recording their lives are similarly diverse.”
My question is, did he know or want them to ever be published.
Historian Edmund Morris wrote that one cannot read the private letters and diary of Theodore Roosevelt with out feeling that TR knew and wanted them to be published to the point that letters were not so much written to any one person as much to posterity.
I cannot say I am much of an Alan Rickman fan and then I think about all the movies I have seen in him and I say my gosh was that Alan Rickman?
Die Hard, Love Actually, one of those Jane Austen period pieces and all those Harry Potter movies that I have never seen made from books that I have never read (there, I said it, I have not read any Harry Potter)
I skimmed through the excerpts of the diaries because of the tag line, “two decades of Rickman’s withering film reviews.“
Few things I enjoy reading more than withering film reviews except maybe the back story behind withering film reviews.
Like Pauline Kael writing that The Sound of Music was “the single most repressive influence on artistic freedom in movies” and getting fired from her job because of writing that.
But this is all digression.
What caught my eye was a comment Mr. Rickman wrote into his diary on December 29, 2000 when he had a four hour conversation with Edna O’Brien.
Josephine Edna O’Brien is an Irish novelist, memoirist, playwright, poet and short-story writer and Philip Roth described her as “the most gifted woman now writing in English”, all according to wikipedia.
Mr. Rickman quoted Ms. O’Brien commenting on Harold Pinter, the play write.
Just to keep this all straight, I am repeating something Alan Rickman wrote down that he claimed Edna O’Brien said about another person, Harold Pinter.
Got it straight now?
He said that she said that “The trouble is writers write from pain and Harold has closed up all his wounds, so all he can write now are these small things.”
Of late I have been bothered by, OF ALL THINGS, the quality of my haiku.
Not that I am any great poet let alone a poet let alone a writer.
I pretty much set at my keyboard and my fingers ran away which you can tell from typos and grammar all too often.
Still, when I read some of my earlier stuff, I think, this isn’t too bad.
The stuff inspired by a bizarre work environment and daily commutes in and out of Atlanta, Georgia and an extended family situation that was less than settled.
Now I pretty much enjoy my job.
My commute, when I have to go in to the office, if across tidal wetlands on palm tree lined roads.
And my kids, for the most part, are slowly getting their act together (though lots of rough edges remain).
Recently a friend commented that I ‘ … have a charmed life.’
I cannot argue.
Maybe I have closed up all the wounds.
Maybe all I can write are these small things.
If I have to complain, what I complain about is mostly that covid fatigue (along with political fatigue – well this soap opera ever end?)
Can I call those wounds?
I live a charmed life.
I should start acting like I know that.