Armchair and the Word
And how have I used rivers, how have I used wars,
to escape writing of the worst thing of all –
not the crimes of others, not even our own death,
but the failure to want our freedom passionately enough
so that blighted elms, sick rivers, massacres would seem
mere emblems of that desecration of ourselves?
- Adrienne Rich, #VII of “Twenty-One Love Poems,”
The Dream of a Common Language
For several days I have worked on different pieces of writing that have stalled. I think I know why. So much of the world is in turmoil -- I mean, even beyond the usual turmoil that keeps swelling and seems always with us. Ordinary people in a foreign land are fleeing their homes, fleeing their country as it is being bombed, fleeing with only what they can carry and holding the hands of small children. How can I sit in my favorite armchair surrounded by books, a cup of hot coffee, a notebook, and write about such a thing or (even more of a head-shaker) the life of the mind?
But of course I’m lying. Not to you, or not intentionally to you. To myself. The war in Ukraine is not what stalls my writing. The problem in part is inertia, born of an all too common addiction to comfort bulwarked by the ease of giving up, of keeping a safe distance, of not taking a risk. The problem in part is a sense of helplessness. What can I do in the face of the enormous pain and struggle in the world? Maybe most of all, the problem is not desiring or believing passionately enough in possibility. Perhaps it is a failure of imagination. The question should not be “What’s the point?” or “How can I, from my perch of privilege, possibly say anything worthwhile?” but rather “How is it possible that I NOT say something, not at least try?”
Privilege brings opportunity. And words are power. The old saw about words being cheap is wrong. Bad or easy words are cheap. But good words, words that come from the best part of us, have immense power. President Zelensky of Ukraine has bravely stood for his country and his people in this crisis, and he has mobilized, shamed much of Europe and the United States into action. He has done this with his example but also with his words, especially one simple response when offered evacuation out of his beleaguered country into safety: “The fight is here; I need ammunition, not a ride.”
The Ukrainian soldier on Snake Island who responded to a Russian warship is even more impressive, for he spoke, I imagine, thinking that his words would be among his last. The Russian ship sent an audio message commanding the soldiers guarding Snake Island to surrender. “Otherwise, you will be bombed.” The Ukrainian soldier on the island replied, “Russian warship, go fuck yourself.” Radio silence ensued, and it was thought that he and all the soldiers there were killed; now it seems that they are alive but captured. In any case, that soldier’s defiant sentence echoed around the world and has inspired resistance.
Where do such bravery and will to speak come from? Desperation, I suppose, but surely something more. Faith, anger, love, passion for life? Whatever the source, such speech takes nothing for granted. It does not sit back.
Whether written, broadcast, or spoken across a kitchen table, honest words conveyed honestly matter, sometimes more than we know at the time. Margaret Atwood said it well in her book of essays, Second Words: “Many are denied their voices; we are not. A voice is a human gift; it should be cherished and used, to utter fully human speech as possible. Powerlessness and silence go together.”
Mind and Matter, typewriter image by Sharon Webster