Wednesday, February 13, 2013

He and I


Maybe to cheat in the exercise of discovering what womanhood is be to read writers, woman writers, that are/were consumed with the same question.  The fact is that getting old is firstly signaled by the body. Paradoxically, we are taken by surprise, as it would not be a set of natural small changes, but overnight transformation. Somebody told me not to worry about it, in a cheerful voice, because my body is only indicating that "I am becoming a woman." Physically, it's obvious. The other areas are confusing. A great tragedy is to become aware of this transformation only after looking in the mirror, because nothing else have changed, and felling pressure precisely because nothing else have changed, which comes with the fear that you have psychologically stagnated while your body ran thousand miles per hour. I also don't know why he was so happy about it (it might have been a trick to calm me down), as if it is one of the stages that needs to be celebrated like becoming 18 and finally being able to legally drink. My only concern is that I don't know what to do with this gift (let's be positive about it) and not even if I am ready for it. I still have a coffee life.  "You are a woman now. You..." What?! I am a woman and what? I hope we are not talking exclusively about new set of social pressures...

A set of essays that every girl/woman has to read.

1. He and I

Like Virgina Wolf, Natalia Ginzburg is not a writer on the spectacular of life. Nothing happens...but a life. But boredom can be a valuable tool in talented hands. In any other case, writing about boredom results in, well, a boring piece. Long parentheses: I often ask myself how one can start a text with "I have nothing to say/write about today." That should be enough - even though is uncalled-for. The rest are unnecessary words underlining the big announcement, and it is as painful for the reader to go through the text as it is for the writer to produce it. Sometimes curiosity pushed me to read an entire page of "nothing to say". I know now that it would have been smarter to stop after the first sentence, to trust the author, understanding that there is nothing wrong with not having anything to say. Sometimes, we are better off doing something else.

She lays a set of personal facts like bullet points starting with "He always feels hot, I always feel cold." And continues. One either hates or loves this type of books/essays. Rhythm becomes theme. We like tumultuous writings like we like dissonant sounds; but we can, nonetheless, appreciate slower pieces, the mundane events unspoiled by crankiness and unrest, plots and lies, around all big climaxes. (We can or we should.)

Read He and I