Sounds of Silence

So I'm actually not reporting from Rome this time, but Berlin, where keyboards reverse the y's and z's, so I have to keep remembering not to hit the wrong key as I tzpe this, or rather, as I type this.

Besides keyboards, one of the things I notice most about the difference between Berlin and Rome is the silence. This is partially due to the frigid weather, which means fewer people out on the street, but even the ones who are out walk
fairly silently and avoid each other's eyes. You notice it on the subway too. On my way to this internet cafe, I was in a crowded car during rush hour, and all the passengers were either completely silent or talking in hushed tones.

The other major difference I've noticed is that the food tastes blander, even if you're in an Italian or Asian or Turkish restaurant. Even the produce has a milder taste. Which is not to say that the food is bad, because I've had some very good meals here, but you don't get the extremes or the richness of Italian cuisine.

What am I doing here? I'm trying to put an end to my novel before it puts an end to me, and absorbing details of atmosphere and culture that can only be gleaned, at least in my case, from lived experience. It's a great city, rich with history and culture, but also a sense of flux that comes from how diverse it is. Not only do you have the collapsing of East and West, which has produced a rich variety of cultural venues, but also there are immigrants from all over the world. Walking down the street, you're sure to see various skin tones and facial structures, and many many women with head-scarves.

So far what's been most helpful is the silence. The studio apartment where I'm staying, and indeed the city as a whole, is so quiet that it's allowed me to focus and retreat into my own head so deeply I sometimes feel as if I'm in a trance. As a permanent state of affairs, this might not be healthy, but for now, it works well, and I'm feeling quite rosy about this new book. I think it may not only be the finest thing I have written, but also the deepest and most honest. And if I stay disciplined enough, this book will help me realize my dream of writing a short, dense 200 page novel like The End of the Affair or On the Black Hill, small books that you can never forget.

For inspiration, I've turned to two different sources. The first is Disgrace by J. M. Coetzee, which I loved when I first read it. Now that I'm rereading it closely, I'm astonished by it. I simply cannot understand how it's possible not to be bowled over by this book, which I still don't entirely comprehend, and for me, that's the point. The other book is Owls Do Cry by Janet Frame, whose life and work have been a longtime obssession of mine. Though the book is only about 160 pages, it's taken me a month to wade through its currents. The richness of Frame's language and her range of expressive tools reminds me more of poetry than prose. I also admire her dead-on feel for the meaningless rituals we give value to as children, adolescents, and then as adults. As with Coetzee, I have a hard time figuring out how her work hangs together as a coherent whole, but I don't mind either, when there are such rich rewards of langauge or insight on every page.

So that's what I'm hearing these days. And a little Joni Mitchell too. Not a bad life for now. I feel lucky to be able to have it while I can.