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In memoriam: succeeding death with words

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For a girl I know March will always be the hardest month of the year to live through. In this same month is her late brother’s birthday, shortly followed by the anniversary of the day he took his own life.

Already the urge to stop writing and recede into reticence envelops me. For to try to fill the limitless silence between the opening paragraph and this, to speak into that burgeoning emptiness, seems almost ridiculous. Impossible. That a single word of mine on a blog like this could be added, that it might in some inconceivable way affect, change, or heal a truth so devastating, so immovable, so irreversible.

In my last post I said that to write poetry, for me, means to wrestle with words. It is the same with letters and messages of condolence. For the most part such messages, I sense, are a rarity. Not because we are lazy nor because our compassion doesn’t encompass someone else’s grief, but because words come awkwardly – or don’t come at all. We fear platitudes.

Yet eulogies and epitaphs are common place. Common place, but mainly unnoticed, and seldom spoken of. We skip over them in newspapers. We pass them by in graveyards – those tablets of stone on which is written one commandment only: live. They are hardly inconspicuous, but their existence is almost clandestine.

We seem to have a peculiar relationship between words and death. There is certainly discomfort, naturally. But I wonder if there is also neglect. Not an active, irreverent neglect, but a neglect of passivity born out of the discomfort we feel. We are coerced into silence. I don’t think it should be like this. I am painfully sensitive to clichés, but I don’t think death has to have the last word. We do. We who are still alive.

Shakespeare hit the nail on the head square on when in his closing rhyming couplet of Sonnet XVIII he wrote,

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

We must continue to succeed death with words. Be it an epitaph or a letter of condolence, we must continue to write. And we must continue to read. When we don’t, we neglect the sorrow and we forget the memory. More than this, we fail to participate in an experience of truth. Because truly, I don’t know what else can begin to heal the pain of death and the loneliness of grief except truth. Lies won’t, and neither will denial.

One of the hard things I know for the girl who lost her brother was the lack of acknowledgment she received after he died. It’s no one’s fault; she doesn’t blame anyone. Words don’t come easy. But in the silence that has been left is a sense in her that his death has been forgotten, or that it is somehow taboo. It is not taboo. It did happen. So just to acknowledge it, just to begin to fill that void of loneliness with words, is something. We must continue to succeed death with words.

Today is the second anniversary of her brother’s death. And so today I am writing to remember this, to acknowledge the sorrow, to remember the memory.

M.C.C. 03.05.1969 – 03.22.2010



In A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Shakespeare famously presented his Elizabethan audience with what at the time was a highly innovative motif: a play within a play.  In 2010, Christopher Nolan’s film, Inception, explored the perplexing possibility of a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream (within a dream?).  Intertextuality follows the same paradigm: it regards the concept of a text within a text.  What exactly defines an intertext is, to a large degree, quite nebulous.  However, an example of what an intertext is not would be if I wrote the following:

Such optimism and hope recall the words of T.S. Eliot, “And all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

This is a quotation, a verbatim reference attributed to the author.  An intertext has similar roots but is somewhat more discreet; somewhat more wily.  Compare the example above to this – an excerpt from an e-mail written to me by someone very dear to my heart, the beauty of which almost knocked the wind out of me:

I remember, suddenly, sweetly, the peace and the sparkling air of your last night the FIRST time we met, sitting there on my porch swing, feeling warm next to you, feeling right next to you.  All shall be well, said the night sky.  And the frost said, All manner of thing shall be well.  And my heart echoed All shall be well and All shall be well.  And the Spirit said, All manner of thing shall be well.

This is an intertext.  And a brilliant one at that, if the reader will excuse my bias.

But why am I writing about intertextuality?  For one, because intertexts, especially when executed well, have a certain enchantment to their subtlety and hiddenness; there is something delightfully surreptitious in their creativity.  Perhaps more importantly, though, an inclusion of an intertext is, by its very nature, a recognition of what has gone before.  It is, in a way, a respectful acknowledgement of the literature from which it has come (although we are not to assume that an intertext is always respectful.  An intertext can also be employed as a form of parody).  This recognition of past literature is, in my view, essential for a full appreciation of both writing and reading.  As Wendell Berry wrote in his essay, The Responsibility of the Poet, “We can only write poetry because poetry has already been written.”  And it is, of course, the same for all forms of literature.  Just as you and I have come to this exact moment in time because of generations upon generations of marriages and births, so also has the literature of today (old or new) reached us only through the millennia of what has preceded it.  Intertextuality, then, affirms literary lineage.

Returning to the point I made in the opening paragraph, the reason why defining an intertext can be so problematic is precisely because of this lineage: in every book can be found traces of another book, if not multiple books.  An intertext, therefore, could be quite accidental.  But this is not problematic to the theory of intertextuality itself; indeed, it is the very premise of intertextuality.  And this is the point I want to make: intertextuality demands we recognize that a book is not a self-contained work, despite its definite beginning and final full stop, despite the fact it is bound, encased, opened, and closed.   It is, if you think about it, quite a striking and profound idea; to suddenly think that a book – so tangible, so set in stone, is in fact, metaphyiscally speaking, fluid.