Joyful disregard for Writer’s Block | Daily News


 

Joyful disregard for Writer’s Block

During a recent trip to Stockholm, I came across a new collection of stories and essays by Tove Jansson in a bookstore. Though Jansson is perhaps best known as the creator of the Moomin series, her writing for adults is vast and varied. I have translated two of the essays from that new collection into English for the first time. The first, “The Island,” appeared on this site yesterday. The second, “Once, at a park,” here below, is a beautifully scattered, rhapsodic piece that defies genre conventions. Again, there are torsions in time and tense; again, the syntax can be somewhat shattered—and (again) there is a joyful disregard for the boundaries separating fiction, memoir, and essay. I have tried to retain, for the most part, the slight disquiet and disorientation the original sometimes conveys, because this carefully crumbling prose is directly related to the content of the piece.

Written in 1997, toward the end of Jansson’s life, “Once, at a park,” starts out as a classic piece on writer’s block—by writing about the impossibility of writing. But there is much more going on. Despite its conciseness, the story can be read as a reflection on Jansson’s extensive career. It touches on some of her lifelong obsessions (“I can’t understand why I must drag the ocean into everything I write”). It also addresses multilingualism (she screams at the polyglot French clochard in Finnish but writes the story in Swedish). And, at a crucial point in the narrative, it connects writing and painting (Jansson, of course, was a brilliant visual artist as well). It is true that “Once, at a park” offers a bleak reflection on the craft, but the conjunction of candor and artifice at the heart of the piece reveals, I think, an enduring fidelity to literature.

—Hernan Diaz

I’m sitting comfortably parked on a bench in a little park behind Saint-Sulpice and I’m supposed to find something to write about. It’s very quiet here. Pigeons copulate on a patch of grass, some tourists catch their breath on the benches across from me, an organ plays behind my back, far away.

A clochard comes every now and then and bothers the tourists—he explains, at length, that he also understands Italian. I just keep quiet, and eventually he goes away.

I can’t comprehend why this has to be so hard; one should be able to write just about anything at any time, in a purely professional way.

(I wonder how it is for other people.)

For the time being I have only written the date on the first page of my notepad but that was yesterday.

I try all right, but the more I try, the worse it gets, more and more insurmountable and unimaginable that I will come up with anything.

One could also just quit.

But I’m not there yet.

At times I’ve thought that one could begin with the simplest thing, something as safe as the rain on a cottage roof—a boy goes out to pee in the warm night, and then at some point one brings up the ocean.

I can’t understand why I must drag the ocean into everything I write. Furthermore, it’s so fucking hard to go on with something that was so wonderfully simple and I should know this well.

If one thinks about it in a completely objective way, one needs only two, three words (well, perhaps four, five) to get started and dive in, let go, and get to the safe side sixty pages or so later.

Now they’ve started with the organ again, the clochard is back. A sexton rushes out and tries to chase him away.

But something about love? No way. All the big love stories have already been used, and the lesser ones have no literary use.

What did I tell those kids who wrote and asked how one becomes an author? It was something like write about what you’ve lived, about what you know …

But I’ve done that. I’ve squeezed my middle age dry, and when I got seriously old, I did what I could with that, too, but then I tried to write about really young people, and that didn’t work out so well. And the kids wrote again and asked, And what do we do now, and I said write about your fears, and they did it, at once, and wanted feedback as soon as possible.

And what do I fear above all? To be a sore loser, to be second best. But this is not something one writes about.

One could imagine a terrible story about the constant obligation to choose. I come up with a certain someone and let him, one bright morning, all of a sudden, realize that he is subjected to constant choice, uninterruptedly and inexorably, every moment of his life. He can never be sure he’s made the right choices.

And it’s not just a question about what he did or said. He has to mistrust every tone, gesture, glance that could change the course of events in a completely unnoticeable but definitive shift that could develop, full speed, in any given direction.

He gets very scared. He tries to shut himself in, be inconspicuous, and become a nobody who makes no difference one way or another and, naturally, he understands that this was the most objectionable thing he ever could have come up with.

- Paris Review


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