There are three lines from summer reads that have lingered* with me. I’ll include the source, the quote and what I suppose is the reason for its indelibility.
Source: Affliction by Russell Banks
Quote: “As for forgiveness: it must be spoken of, I suppose, but who among us can hope to proffer it? Even I, at this considerable distance from the crimes and the pain, cannot forgive him. It is the nature of forgiveness that when you forgive someone, you no longer have to protect yourself from him.”
Reason: I used to think of myself as an especially forgiving person. What I mistook for an impressive ability to let go of past harms, was actually a startling ability to let go of people the instant I felt they had crossed a line of my own mental drawing. Forgiveness was something that I assumed would come naturally and effortlessly in the afterglow of the thrill of liberation, of skipping town, changing locks, screening calls, blocking numbers, junking letters, burning pictures – all of these things literally or figuratively. Russell Banks appeared to concur that when you had evicted an individual from your tender places could you forgive him or her. But, when I brought this quote up to someone who: A) I love dearly, in a way I’ve never loved anyone else B) has suffered through my reckless rage, has seen me bolt and managed to catch up to me and reign me back and C) has been a consistently safe place for me since, my first real home, and not given me a cause to leave – he became quiet and thoughtful, and then said he disagreed with my interpretation. He believed it meant that until you were able to once again make yourself vulnerable to the one who had hurt you, you hadn’t truly forgiven. I know he’s right. In fact, our relationship is proof – proof whose beauty and pleasure more than reward the demons I wrestle so that I may keep loving and trusting and giving myself. But on the other hand, it isn’t reasonable to keep handing chances to everyone. By this high standard, there is one person in my life who I may only be able to forgive after his death, which makes me sadder than I want to consider and guiltier than I can bear.
Source: Run River by Joan Didion
Quote: “You’re strong enough to make people take care of you.”
Reason: And so, dear reader, our theme emerges! When is independence a denial-muddled mislabel of cowardice? Well, I’ll back up and give context. This sentence is spoken to Lily McClellan by her sister-in-law, Martha. Because I share a name with the main character, I involuntarily measured her against myself to see if there were notable commonalities. Instead I discovered that Martha, to me, was more relatable and sympathetic (although she would only resemble me on my drunkest/cattiest/bitterest/most immature day, and is nothing of which to be proud). So when that utterance came from her, I paid attention. It consisted of two halves I found irreconcilable, but equally provocative. Strength is something a woman should always seek and prize. To make people take care of you is shameful and pathetic. I considered maybe it was more a point of characterization of Martha, made a mental note and kept reading. Well, spoiler alert: Martha drowns herself. At which point, I decided Didion was composing a real message in all those details and I’d better listen up. I now think that as is the case in many of the most brilliant books about women, (think Sense and Sensibility, The Unbearable Lightness of Being) – the two characters are personifications of often conflicting sides that, in real life, share space within every one woman. I read it as a multifaceted indictment that calls out, to name a couple:
1. Those whose solitude is more self-neglect and self-harm and self-pity than self-reliance.
2. Those who victimize themselves into justifying manipulation and selfishness.
So where is the healthy middle ground? Here we go to number three…
Source: Communion: The Female Search for Love by bell hooks
Quote: “Women who learn to love represent the greatest threat to the patriarchal status quo.”
Reason: Contemporary fiction’s strength is in its ugliness, it coughs up a lot of gunk and the questions squirm around in front of you and what the author articulates, he or she never answer. (Ah, our postmodern age.) For answers, if you want answers, (cue too-cool eye roll from postmodernism) you’re best bet is nonfiction. I don’t trust answers, I really don’t trust people who think they have them, and really really really don’t trust people who want to sell them to an audience. I much prefer to try to figure shit out on my own. (And overanalyze everything, which makes for very long diary entries and pretty good English essays.) However, bell hooks is my exception. Her superior bravery, experience, intelligence have totally earned my respect and in a rapidly mobile movement like feminism, it’s rare I encounter something I believe will age with relevance and grace. Her writing picks up where much of the women’s movement drops off: addressing the crucial point that patriarchy is as much a psychological problem as a sociological one and it damages men and women alike. There’s more to go into than I can right here, but overall Communion catalyzed my arrival at this conclusion:
Being healthy and strong is the most radical feminist act – do it for yourself, do it for the world.
Strength is loving, respecting and caring for yourself.
When you achieve this strength, you will naturally expect to be treated with respect and care.
You will only nurture relationships in which that treatment is genuine and is mutual.
I’m trying. I’m growing. I’m getting better. In hooks’ words:
“I was rescued from madness by feminist movement.”
And now, I’m out.
Thomas Mann won’t read himself.
*Is it just me, or does that word ALWAYS make you think of The Cranberries?
