Authors: David Grossman
Be My Knife (24 page)
Second (should be printed in the
Hedha-Khinhukh Teacher’s Magazine
): Look, Miriam, of course I understand,
lo
-
gi-cal-ly
, what you were getting at in your excited little speech full of good intentions.
And I wish I could reconcile with myself and look at myself with a favorable eye.
Really, why not?
Why, I too have at least “one person on the outside” who looks upon me with loving eyes, just like you, she even looks at me through rose-tinted glasses.
She has been trying for years, with all her strength, and with all the love in her eyes, and still can’t do it.
It’s a fact: she cannot make me shut those damning eyes in myself and convince me to see what she (probably) sees in me.
Hedha-Khinhukh Teacher’s Magazine
): Look, Miriam, of course I understand,
lo
-
gi-cal-ly
, what you were getting at in your excited little speech full of good intentions.
And I wish I could reconcile with myself and look at myself with a favorable eye.
Really, why not?
Why, I too have at least “one person on the outside” who looks upon me with loving eyes, just like you, she even looks at me through rose-tinted glasses.
She has been trying for years, with all her strength, and with all the love in her eyes, and still can’t do it.
It’s a fact: she cannot make me shut those damning eyes in myself and convince me to see what she (probably) sees in me.
Third (just for you): You do understand, don’t you?
Because you were the child and the teenager who used to “switch uglinesses” in herself, moving them from the tip of her nose all the way down to her thighs …
and you also wrote about the kind of physical discomfort that almost “seeps out of you,” so that you think everyone can see it.
I’m familiar with that, too.
And the feeling that some
stain
is hiding inside you, right?
That’s my private name for it; and it has a full range of motion, this little stain, which is mine and not mine—it was implanted in me, but my body took to it admirably well.
Where it chooses to be in any particular moment is exactly the same location as the encounter I once wrote to you about—when my body and soul meet in an internal whisper of a password …
Because you were the child and the teenager who used to “switch uglinesses” in herself, moving them from the tip of her nose all the way down to her thighs …
and you also wrote about the kind of physical discomfort that almost “seeps out of you,” so that you think everyone can see it.
I’m familiar with that, too.
And the feeling that some
stain
is hiding inside you, right?
That’s my private name for it; and it has a full range of motion, this little stain, which is mine and not mine—it was implanted in me, but my body took to it admirably well.
Where it chooses to be in any particular moment is exactly the same location as the encounter I once wrote to you about—when my body and soul meet in an internal whisper of a password …
And isn’t it true that, in that particular moment, the entire rest of your body ceases to exist?
All your nerves are stretching to that place of encounter, all your blood rushes to that location (what you described, how, as a girl, you felt so tall that every time you walked into a room full of people, you immediately tried to fall)?
All your nerves are stretching to that place of encounter, all your blood rushes to that location (what you described, how, as a girl, you felt so tall that every time you walked into a room full of people, you immediately tried to fall)?
So, this is another answer to your question (asked in a slightly disagreeable nasal tone) “Why the beard all of a sudden?”
Y.
September 1
Do you realize yet what you’ve done!
Has she called you yet?
But how could such a thing happen to you?
Is it the pressure of the beginning of the school year, or what?
Is it the pressure of the beginning of the school year, or what?
I’m scared just to ask you what was written in the letter that was meant for me (has she received it yet … ?).
On the one hand, you know, it’s all my worst fears coming true.
On the other hand, it is almost amusing, the thought that if you are going to travel back a hundred years and have a love affair in letters, you have to expect a nineteenth-century mistake like this to happen.
On the other hand, it is almost amusing, the thought that if you are going to travel back a hundred years and have a love affair in letters, you have to expect a nineteenth-century mistake like this to happen.
And from another way of looking at it, yes, from a third side … it brings me pleasure, for some reason—as if we now exist in an “objective” place.
There is one witness from the outside—a living witness, existing, complete.
Real.
For what we are.
There is one witness from the outside—a living witness, existing, complete.
Real.
For what we are.
I’m dying to know what she said—how did she react?
She can keep a secret, can’t she?
I know, I know—you can trust Anna, I know.
She can keep a secret, can’t she?
I know, I know—you can trust Anna, I know.
But why didn’t you tell me she had gone away?
Only the other day you quoted an entire conversation you had with Anna about the crazy
love affair of those two (Vita Sackville-West and Violet?), and you said you had read her complete passages from the book.
And I even remember what Anna said, that she has been looking for the power of such a crazy love all her life—and she spoke about the courage of being honest about the pain of matters involving emotion.
Only the other day you quoted an entire conversation you had with Anna about the crazy
love affair of those two (Vita Sackville-West and Violet?), and you said you had read her complete passages from the book.
And I even remember what Anna said, that she has been looking for the power of such a crazy love all her life—and she spoke about the courage of being honest about the pain of matters involving emotion.
But you didn’t even hint during the letter that the whole discussion was happening over a transatlantic connection—and it sounded so close, as if you were in the same room and could touch!
Where exactly is she flying to in the world, and for how long?
The way you miss her—you would think she’s been gone for years, just like that; does a woman go alone on a long journey across the world—and with a small child?
Where exactly is she flying to in the world, and for how long?
The way you miss her—you would think she’s been gone for years, just like that; does a woman go alone on a long journey across the world—and with a small child?
The shock of the first moment—that suddenly you address me as a woman, inquiring as to how I’ve been feeling and if I’m terribly lonely, and if I miss you as much as you miss me …
I felt such a strange shiver when you spoke to me this way—as if you had found a forbidden, hidden string and plucked it.
I was, of course, smiling to myself over the differences between what you tell me (about Yokhai, for instance) and what you tell her.
For example, you would never write to me about how much he weighs, and his height, and how many pairs of shoes you bought him for the winter.
For example, you would never write to me about how much he weighs, and his height, and how many pairs of shoes you bought him for the winter.
And you have never sent me a photo of him (may I keep it?).
I understand Anna is very close to Amos as well.
Apparently they are soul mates.
From your letter, one would think that for a moment both of you know him with the exact same closeness and intimacy—I see the two of you almost clinging to him at the same time.
(Did you notice?) Read the draft—I think you’ll find it interesting.
Apparently they are soul mates.
From your letter, one would think that for a moment both of you know him with the exact same closeness and intimacy—I see the two of you almost clinging to him at the same time.
(Did you notice?) Read the draft—I think you’ll find it interesting.
It’s strange to legitimately peek this way into your other intimacies, formerly unreal to me.
It is also a pleasure to eavesdrop on the private humor the two of you share.
I only knew it as your humor before—thin and a bit sad—and it suddenly made sense—you have a partner.
You can feel how it began to spring up between you from childhood, and grow, and become more and more intricate.
Big Miriam and tiny Anna … And in general, you two are a huge sound box together (you’re probably not conscious of it).
For example, you visited her parents this week, and her father was playing the piano, and Yokhai suddenly burst out crying—and I remembered how you cried at the Bronfman concert years ago, sitting next to Anna—and I suddenly read that when Anna gave birth to her son, Amos played her that Rachmaninoff concerto over earphones, and
then everybody there cried—I couldn’t understand why—the doctors and the midwife and the baby, and you and Amos as well, all that crying and laughter and music flowing for all of you together.
It is also a pleasure to eavesdrop on the private humor the two of you share.
I only knew it as your humor before—thin and a bit sad—and it suddenly made sense—you have a partner.
You can feel how it began to spring up between you from childhood, and grow, and become more and more intricate.
Big Miriam and tiny Anna … And in general, you two are a huge sound box together (you’re probably not conscious of it).
For example, you visited her parents this week, and her father was playing the piano, and Yokhai suddenly burst out crying—and I remembered how you cried at the Bronfman concert years ago, sitting next to Anna—and I suddenly read that when Anna gave birth to her son, Amos played her that Rachmaninoff concerto over earphones, and
then everybody there cried—I couldn’t understand why—the doctors and the midwife and the baby, and you and Amos as well, all that crying and laughter and music flowing for all of you together.
Tell me, am I jealous?
(Because it occurred to me that this is actually the first love letter I have ever received from you.)
Yair
September 3
About Emma Kirkby and your description of what her voice evokes in you, a “braiding together” of the most profound sadness and joy, a rising fullness, that “reassuring heartbreak” you mentioned.
When I heard how you speak to Anna—I mean, when I could isolate that thing in your written voice, I thought—
Sometimes, when I hear your voice, in words, I feel a kind of whimper rising up in me, making its way through me—an internal voice heretofore unfamiliar to me: until you, I didn’t know it.
Reassuring heartbreak?
I don’t know.
In my opinion, the voice takes me apart.
It’s an unhappy voice, like slightly hysterical sobbing, like the whimper of a dog that hears a flute and goes mad.
It stretches out from within me, against my will (the way the eye is drawn to a disaster); it nags and burdens me until sometimes I rage at you.
When you wrote to the boy I was, for instance.
I don’t know.
In my opinion, the voice takes me apart.
It’s an unhappy voice, like slightly hysterical sobbing, like the whimper of a dog that hears a flute and goes mad.
It stretches out from within me, against my will (the way the eye is drawn to a disaster); it nags and burdens me until sometimes I rage at you.
When you wrote to the boy I was, for instance.
Add this, too, to the “tuning of the instruments.”
September 8
No, I don’t know how I feel right now.
And I’m irritated by the pitying, concerned (self-righteous) tone you assumed after dealing such a blow.
A similar feeling to the one I experienced after you took your house away—and with one wave erased everything you had ever given to me with it as well.
But of course, there is no comparison.
And I’m irritated by the pitying, concerned (self-righteous) tone you assumed after dealing such a blow.
A similar feeling to the one I experienced after you took your house away—and with one wave erased everything you had ever given to me with it as well.
But of course, there is no comparison.
It’s hard for me even to write to you right now.
I don’t understand you, Miriam, and at this moment I don’t even want to understand you.
Tell me how you can, without warning, punch me in the stomach this way?
I don’t understand you, Miriam, and at this moment I don’t even want to understand you.
Tell me how you can, without warning, punch me in the stomach this way?
It’s the first time since we’ve started this correspondence that I’m almost appalled by you.
Not from what you told me—what you told me
seems like a bad dream to me.
I might not write to you for a few days.
I need some time.
Not from what you told me—what you told me
seems like a bad dream to me.
I might not write to you for a few days.
I need some time.
Please don’t write to me either.
September 9
I can’t be with it by myself.
Once, in the army, during a guard shift—I was sneaking a read, all the while terrified that I would be caught with
To the Lighthouse
—and I remember how, contrary to all my rules of caution, I yelled as if I had just been burned.
From the pain, of course, but mainly—I had just started the second part of the book—because of my rage at Virginia Woolf for, with a snap of her fingers, and in parentheses, letting me know that the wonderful Mrs.
Ramsay, the love of my soul, had “died rather suddenly the night before.”
To the Lighthouse
—and I remember how, contrary to all my rules of caution, I yelled as if I had just been burned.
From the pain, of course, but mainly—I had just started the second part of the book—because of my rage at Virginia Woolf for, with a snap of her fingers, and in parentheses, letting me know that the wonderful Mrs.
Ramsay, the love of my soul, had “died rather suddenly the night before.”
That was nothing compared to what I felt with your letter in my hand.
I was lucky to be alone in my car, in a parking lot, when I read it.
I was lucky to be alone in my car, in a parking lot, when I read it.
What do you expect me to say?
That you’ve amazed me again?
That I was furious with you because you just don’t do that in matters such as this?
I don’t know.
Because, on the other hand, as the hours passed, I could also see that you stood by our crazy agreement far more loyally than I did—through all these months you were telling me your dreams and believing in them with all your heart, you were
living
them with passion and dedication and devotion, far beyond what I thought was possible or allowed.
Far more than what I ever dared, in spite of all of my water-sprinkler games.
That you’ve amazed me again?
That I was furious with you because you just don’t do that in matters such as this?
I don’t know.
Because, on the other hand, as the hours passed, I could also see that you stood by our crazy agreement far more loyally than I did—through all these months you were telling me your dreams and believing in them with all your heart, you were
living
them with passion and dedication and devotion, far beyond what I thought was possible or allowed.
Far more than what I ever dared, in spite of all of my water-sprinkler games.
But it hurts.
It hurts like a fist in the stomach.
And it doesn’t stop hurting.
And every time I reread that letter that was supposedly “switched”—
It hurts like a fist in the stomach.
And it doesn’t stop hurting.
And every time I reread that letter that was supposedly “switched”—
What more will you tell me in this way of yours?
September 10
I can’t stop thinking about how you continue to speak to her.
Soul conversations and little daily chats.
You quoted her to me in the first letter you wrote—and you took her on almost every trip of yours.
She has been dead for ten years, and you still resurrect her, each and every day.
Soul conversations and little daily chats.
You quoted her to me in the first letter you wrote—and you took her on almost every trip of yours.
She has been dead for ten years, and you still resurrect her, each and every day.
How many years did you have together?
I mean, ever since she approached you in Lushka Kindergarten and swore that you two would be friends forever, until her forever ended.
Twenty?
Twenty-five?
I mean, ever since she approached you in Lushka Kindergarten and swore that you two would be friends forever, until her forever ended.
Twenty?
Twenty-five?
And what about the child—was it born?
Did he, at least, come out alive from the birth?
(Is there a father in the story?)
Did he, at least, come out alive from the birth?
(Is there a father in the story?)
I don’t even quite understand my reaction, the depth of my shock—because I never knew her in life, only in your stories.
A certain sequence of words.
A tiny woman, witty and funny, and brave, who wore her heart on her sleeve (and a huge straw hat, and had a harelip, and was all bright flames of fire).
A certain sequence of words.
A tiny woman, witty and funny, and brave, who wore her heart on her sleeve (and a huge straw hat, and had a harelip, and was all bright flames of fire).
You pictured her as a bird almost every time you wrote of her.
I can now grasp how lonely you are.
Yes, even with all those friends of yours, and the group of men you keep around you, and your girlfriends from the village and from work.
And Amos.
But the kind of friendship you had with Anna, this twinness, is something you receive perhaps once in a lifetime.
Yes, even with all those friends of yours, and the group of men you keep around you, and your girlfriends from the village and from work.
And Amos.
But the kind of friendship you had with Anna, this twinness, is something you receive perhaps once in a lifetime.
It would be stupid to comfort you now; frankly, I feel as if I am the one in need of comforting, because I found out about it only yesterday.
I haven’t felt this way in years—as if a very close friend of mine had died.
I’m holding you tightly to me.
I haven’t felt this way in years—as if a very close friend of mine had died.
I’m holding you tightly to me.
Yair
September 10-11
Maybe I don’t understand you at all.
Maybe you’re completely different than I thought.
Because I am, after all, only peeking at you through cracks.
Composing stories that could be complete fantasies.
(What isn’t imaginary?
What my body is telling you right now.)
Maybe you’re completely different than I thought.
Because I am, after all, only peeking at you through cracks.
Composing stories that could be complete fantasies.
(What isn’t imaginary?
What my body is telling you right now.)
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