This is an excerpt from In Other Words
Why do I write? To investigate the mystery of existence. To tolerate myself. To get closer to everything that is outside of me.
If I want to understand what moves me, what confuses me, what pains me–everything that makes me react, in short–I have to put it into words. Writing is my only way of absorbing and organizing life. Otherwise it would terrify me, it would upset me too much.
What passes without being put into words, without being transformed and, in a certain sense, purified by the crucible of writing, has no meaning for me. Only words that endure seem real. They have a power, a value superior to us.
Given that I try to decipher everything through writing, maybe writing in Italian is simply my way of learning the language in a more profound, more stimulating way.
Ever since I was a child, I’ve belonged only to my words. I don’t have a country, a specific culture. If I didn’t write, if I didn’t work with words, I wouldn’t feel that I’m present on the earth.
What does a word mean? And a life? In the end, it seems to me, the same thing. Just as a word can have many dimensions, many nuances, great complexity, so, too, can a person, a life. Language is the mirror, the principal metaphor. Because ultimately the meaning of a word, like that of a person, is boundless, ineffable.
I like her words…perhaps because I love writing. I actually wished I took the time to do more…thanks for sharing this Naomi…
I wish I did more as well. Thank goodness for blogging!
I would like to know how YOU relate to this excerpt. If something isn’t real until words are formed to describe it, is that not perception?
I guess it’s the effort to put feelings into words that helps. Otherwise, I don’t notice.