Siri Hustvedt is a talented writer and a brilliant mind. She's erudite, someone whom you'd eagerly listen to for hours if you were to meet her in person. Her essays on parenting, misogyny, feminism, art, books, and reading are insightful, thought-provoking, and at times, quite disturbing.
Quotes:
"She loved to walk—in the Minnesota woods, the Norwegian mountains, on beaches everywhere—and she walked hard and long every day until a spate of illnesses slowed her down at the age of ninety. She walked for pleasure. She walked to feel the wind, sun, snow, or rain in her face and to discover marvels along the way—wild flowers, tall grasses, sea glass made round by the surf, stones in surprising colors, fallen bark, and gnarled branches.
There is no acknowledgment that children are a shared responsibility, not only in a family but in a society. There is no acknowledgment either that a woman who desperately needs sleep might not be in the best position to care for a child. Parents who care for children in societies that care about children, that offer paid parental leave, healthcare, childcare, and early education have it much easier than parents in the UK and the United States. Both countries consistently rank at the bottom in UNICEF’s annual Child Well-Being in Rich Countries Report Card.
One has only to remember how many children were born to slave women raped by their masters. The imagination is powerful. Imagine those mothers. I think all experience must be part of our understanding of motherhood. It must be expansive and complex, not narrow and simple.
Many women fall in love with their children, and they do so under highly various circumstances, including terrible hardship. Love takes different forms and families are organized in different ways. Every child is drawn into the vicissitudes of a life with others who must care for her if she is going to live and thrive, and every person attaches herself to important others for better and for worse. If I had not been born from my mother, our intimacy would not have been as profound. If she had not always been there in my life until just last year, it would have been different. Surely ideas about mothers and daughters and families that circulated in our culture—a mixture of Norwegian and American conventions and dos and don’ts—were part of our relationship too. And yet, our love was also forged over time and through our mutual idiosyncratic experience. I knew she wanted for me what I really wanted for myself, even if her desires were not identical to my own. When her own mother died, she said to me, “It is strange to lose a person who only wanted the best for you.” This only-wanting-the-best is empathy. Empathy is not being the other person.It is feeling into the other person. The philosopher Edith Stein called empathy “a foreign experience.” Empathy recognizes difference. I feel the loss of my mother’s empathy. My loss also includes a sense of bewilderment that I have never felt before after someone I love has died. It has been hard to understand how it is possible that my mother is nowhere.
Reading is a form of traveling and the literate are granted an unusual gift. We are allowed to move into rooms and walk down streets and listen to the stories and thoughts of people who died long ago.
And this is where the irony becomes most acute. The political rhetoric of closed borders and impenetrable walls, of “lock her up” and “send her back,” of shutting down and shutting out, of purity and impurity, of us versus them, this language of hubris, isolation, and distrust in the midst of a public health emergency, is killing people.
A poem is made only of words, but the reading of a poem is not made only of words—reading is an embodied act of felt rhythms and sounds and meanings in a person who lives in and is of a culture. That culture, of course, is not outside or inside the person but both at once. Habits and gestures vary from place to place, but they are embodied in cultural actors. And language is an expression of culture and of person in dialects and idiolects, in platitudes and original phrases. There is no private language. The other inhabits every word we think or speak. And language itself is translating experience into words for another, even when that other is one’s self. After seeing Richter’s October paintings, I had to try to translate what happened to me in front of them into a language my English reader could understand in the form of an essay. While translating Cecilie Løveid’s poem, I was also trying to feel an experience embedded in her Norwegian words and convey it in English.
King James translation of the Bible, that translation by a committee—forty-seven scholars, according to those in the know. Many of its decisions, accurate or not, have become rooted in English and marked us who speak the language forever. I have always loved the passage from Exodus, “I have been a stranger in a strange land.” Writers, readers, and translators have all made that trip in one way or another. We have all been strangers in many strange lands.
There is no story when the seas are calm, no story when the marriage goes smoothly, when life moves along day to day.
Besides, all stories are voyeuristic. That’s the pleasure of them, isn’t it? The listener or reader experiences danger, misery, and passion from a safe distance.
“And the king agrees to listen to her. She begins her story, and what she tells is a story about story-telling, a story within which are several stories, each one, in itself, about story-telling—by means of which a man is saved from death.” Who wrote that? A: Paul Auster. The Invention of Solitude.
Reading is a strange business, after all. Whether the text in question is a science paper or a novel, it is, rather like a virus, dead until animated by the body of a host and, although the words of a book or paper are always the same, the bodies, situations, experiences, and biases of its readers vary.
Reading is a form of ordinary possession of one person by another. While it is being read, the story is infused with the traces of another living human being, who is not there physically, but the author’s breath and being are present in the rhythms and meanings of the words on the page, which are literally embodied in the reader—incorporated into his biological being—a mixing of the two. John Dewey had a beautiful expression for this, “organic clicks.” Books register not only as articulate thoughts in the reader but as excitement, shock, sorrow, surprise, pleasure, relief. Not until the reader returns the book to the shelf does it regain its status as a mere thing, and even then the story may live on in him as a memory, recalled not as a long recitation of serial sentences, one after the other, but as images and feelings the work has left behind it. A beloved book remains in the reader as a ghost, with both conscious and unconscious resonances.
Raising children is vital work, but unlike gestation and birth, it is not just women’s work. In her book The Mermaid and the Minotaur, published in 1976, the psychologist Dorothy Dinnerstein proposed that by rearranging child-rearing practices, we could change the story of misogyny. The middle-class model of mother as lone caretaker and the father as breadwinner had distorted familial relations. Dinnerstein was rightly criticized for universalizing this model. Fathering has changed. Holding, rocking, singing, kissing, hugging fathers are far more visible in the United States now than when I was a girl. Sexual equality laws and paternal leave in Nordic countries have had positive effects on family life, but misogyny has not disappeared from that part of the world. In fact, these countries have a higher level of intimate partner violence when compared to other countries in Europe. Some have suggested this is because reporting is higher there, but others insist the numbers are sound. The irony may be that calls for greater equality create greater levels of moral outrage and backlash.
Unconscious imitation begins early before a child speaks. Mothers and infants coordinate heartbeat rates. They are attuned, a unit of reciprocal, mirroring gestures and feelings and sounds and glances."