Beginning with an “I”
I read a book recently, The Emperors Children; in it there was a notion that you shouldn’t begin a letter with an I, because it is too self-indulgent, too self-involved, and too selfish. But the more I think about it, the more I disagree with the notion. I see the world through my eyes, live life through my existence, and interact with people mostly being myself (okay not mostly, but refreshingly – occasionally). Even a prodigious work of art, a colossal book, a great movie, all portrayals from thinkers, visionaries, are eventually translated through the “I” of my existence.
So if I avoid a beginning with an “I”, then I am being dishonest in some way. Trying to mimic something I can never really fathom, for I am (for this life at least) bound by my existence. Shallow and paltry it maybe, it is the greatest book, movie, and piece of art put together in my little boat.
Mona Lisa’s smile would never mean to me what it meant to Da Vinci, or even to the lady with the smile (smirk maybe), it would always be a reflection of my current thought and desires at that particular moment. Extracted from that moment, it may reflect boundless melancholy or uninhibited elation.
It’s like seeing a great landscape, with that externalized sunset over an expanding ocean. The sunset itself isn’t sad or serene, it doesn’t feel. The ocean doesn’t really speak to you, it is just what it does. It’s just the reflection of the cycle of existence, the periodic time-table we live by or try to elude. It is us, this miserable branch of existence, caught in our own selfish pity that give feeling, even meaning to what is otherwise just an everyday thing. In the bigger picture, just as mundane as that guy chewing on his finger-nails, or Ahmed, that falafel cart owner on the 42nd. The sunset, the nail chewer, and Ahmed. It’s just that the overall consciousness chose to romanticize the first, shun the second, and completely ignore the third.
Ironic that even our heroes, the leader, the visionary, the single mom of two who lives in the apartment opposite mine, our definitions of selflessness, of belief – they were and are, all of them, just as caught up in themselves. The leader leads as he cannot follow, the visionary envisions as he can’t get off his ass and fry himself an egg. And the single mother…
Aah the single mother, the biggest miracle of them all, juggling two jobs, the perverted boss, the thankless teenager, the trusting toddler, and a partially senile mother. She does what she does because she doesn’t have time to think, to breathe, to really see what happened. It has just become a challenge for her. God spited her, and now she’s spiting back! The teenager screams, the boss grabs her ass, the car won’t start, and her mom is out for a walk in the rain at 3 in the morning, but she just goes on. Shouts back at the teenager, ignores the boss, catches the bus, shuttles her mom back. Her anger feeds her, and her mistrust eggs her on.
All caught in their own worlds, go on in this unsynchronized symphony. Above all that, and most importantly, they are all interpreted, evaluated, misunderstood, lost, all in my I…so how can I, then begin my sentences, my letters, my thoughts with anything but an I?
What a treat! I am very vocally self-involved! I don’t think there is anything wrong with it. I think it is absolutely necessary for a person of the “arts,” as I like to call what we do here, whether it’s writing or talking or painting – being creative, basically – to be self-indulgent. We need it, or we would never be able to have a unique creative voice/expression.
Noor
Vocally self-involved, I love that!
Hello Fraz! Nice to see you here after so long. As always, it’s been a pleasure reading your work especially because I’ve studied this debate alot this semester. How much of an “I” does an author *I’ve been studying it for literature only) put in?
It’s funny how the author makes an effort to stay apart from the narrative and make it look ‘real’ We read this short story by J.M. Coetzee “What is Realism?” which expounded on how writing “realism” was only tricking the reader into believing that the author was not present, even though EVERYTHING coming across is filtered through the author’s perception. So when I wrote a paper on it, I concluded that “realism” was only an illusion.
But then there are authours like Kundera and Woolf who take advantage of the author’s presence and step into their narrative (as authors) very often.
So, the “I” is very important and I guess we should really move past the illusion of extracting it from our work and instead come up with new ways to use the “I” to our advantage. The “I” is to stay, we can’t not be self involved
Thanks, Sidra, and it’s great to be back, but somehow it feels that a lot of people went AWOL…which is always sad. And now I have additions to make to my reading lists!