This text was part of an address delivered at the Creative Writing Program of the University of Philadelphia, September 2005.
Fiction and the Dream John Banville
A man wakes in the morning, feeling light-headed, even somewhat dazed. Standing in the curtained gloom in his pyjamas, blinking, he feels that somehow he is not his real, vital, fully conscious self. It is as if that other, alert version of him is still in bed, and that what has got up is a sort of shadow-self, tremulous, two-dimensional. What is the matter? Is he “coming down with something”? He does seem a little feverish. But no, he decides, what is afflicting him is no physical malady. There is, rather, something the matter with his mind. His brain feels heavy, and as if it were a size too large for his skull. Then, suddenly, in a rush, he remembers the dream.
It was one of those dreams that seem to take the entire night to be dreamt. All of him was involved in it, his unconscious, his subconscious, his memory, his imagination; even his physical self seemed thrown into the effort. The details of the dream flood back, uncanny, absurd, terrifying, and all freighted with a mysterious weight—such a weight, it seems, as is carried by only the most profound experiences of life, of waking life, that is. And indeed, all of his life, all of the essentials of his life, were somehow there, in the dream, folded tight, like the petals of a rosebud. Some great truth has been revealed to him, in a code he knows he will not be able to crack. But cracking the code is not important, is not necessary; in fact, as in a work of art, the code itself is the meaning.
He puts on his dressing gown and his slippers and goes downstairs. Everything around him looks strange. Has his wife’s eyes developed overnight that slight imbalance, the right one a fraction lower than the left, or is it something he has never noticed before? The cat in its corner watches him out of an eerie stillness. Sounds enter from the street, familiar and at the same time mysterious. The dream is infecting his waking world.
He begins to tell his wife about the dream, feeling a little bashful, for he knows how silly the dreamed events will sound. His wife listens, nodding distractedly. He tries to give his words something of the weight that there was in the dream. He is coming to the crux of the thing, the moment when his dreaming self woke in the midst of the dark wood, among the murmuring voices. Suddenly his wife opens her mouth wide—is she going to beg him to stop, is she going to cry out that she finds what he is telling her too terrifying?—is she going to scream? No: she yawns, mightily, with little inward gasps, the hinges of her jaws cracking, and finishes with a long, shivery sigh, and asks if he would like to finish what is left of the scrambled egg.
The dreamer droops, dejected. He has offered something precious and it has been spurned. How can she not feel the significance of the things he has been describing to her? How can she not see the bare trees and the darkened air, the memory of which is darkening the very air around them now—how can she not hear the murmurous voices, as he heard them? He trudges back upstairs to get himself ready for another, ordinary, day. The momentous revelations of the night begin to recede. It was just a dream, after all.
But what if, instead of accepting the simple fact that our most chaotic, our most exciting, our most significant dreams are nothing but boring to others, even our significant others—what if he said to his wife, All right, I’ll show you! I’ll sit down and write out the dream in such an intense and compelling formulation that when you read it you, too, will have the dream; you, too, will find yourself wandering in the wild wood at nightfall; you, too, will hear the dream voices telling you your own most secret secrets.
I can think of no better analogy than this for the process of writing a novel. The novelist’s aim is to make the reader have the dream—not just to read about it, but actually to experience it: to have the dream; to write the novel.
Now, these are dangerous assertions. In this post-religious age—and the fundamentalists, Christian, Muslim and other, only attest to the fact that ours is an age after religion—people are looking about in some desperation for a new priesthood. And there is something about the artist in general and the writer in particular which seems priest-like: the unceasing commitment to an etherial faith, the mixture of arrogance and humility, the daily devotions, the confessional readiness to attend the foibles and fears of the laity. The writer goes into a room, the inviolable domestic holy of holies—the study—and remains there alone for hour after hour in eerie silence. With what deities does he commune, in there, what rituals does he enact? Surely he knows something that others, the uninitiates, do not; surely he is privy to a wisdom far beyond theirs.
These are delusions, of course. The artist, the writer, knows no more about the great matters of life and the spirit than anyone else—indeed, he probably knows less. This is the paradox. As Henry James has it, we work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have, the rest is the madness of art. And Kafka, with a sad laugh, adds: The artist is the man who has nothing to say.
The writer is not a priest, not a shaman, not a holy dreamer. Yet his work is dragged up out of that darksome well where the essential self cowers, in fear of the light.
I have no grand psychological theory of creativity. I do not pretend to know how the mind, consciously or otherwise, processes the base metal of quotidian life into the gold of art. Even if I could find out, I would not want to. Certain things should not be investigated.
The dream world is a strange place. Everything there is at once real and unreal. The most trivial or ridiculous things can seem to carry a tremendous significance, a significance which—and here I agree with Freud—the waking mind would never dare to suggest or acknowledge. In dreams the mind speaks its truths through the medium of a fabulous nonsense. So, I think, does the novel.
The writing of fiction is far more than the telling of stories. It is an ancient, an elemental, urge which springs, like the dream, from a desperate imperative to encode and preserve things that are buried in us deep beyond words. This is its significance, its danger and its glory.
end
KITBA FITTIZJA U L-ĦOLMA
Raġel jistenbaħ filgħodu, ma jħossux f’sikktu, saħansitra bi ftit ta’ sturdament fuqu. Bilwieqfa fid-dgħuma ta’ wara l-purtieri liebes il-piġama, iteptep għajnejh, iħossu bla ma jaf għaliex li mhux tassew hu mimli ħajja, konxju għal kollox tiegħu nnifsu. Bħallikieku dik il-verżjoni l-oħra tiegħu fuq għasstu għadha fis-sodda, u dak li qam speċi ta’ dellu, jitriegħed, bidimensjonali. X’inhu jiġri? Tgħid “se jaqbdu xi ħaġa”? Jidher li telagħlu ftit tad-deni. Imma le, qatagħha li dak li qed ikiddu mhux xi għawġ fiżiku. Aktarx xi ħaġa fil-menti li hemm. Iħoss moħħu tqil, u bħal donnu numru wieħed akbar fil-qies mill-iskutella ta’ rasu. Imbagħad, f’salt wieħed, jiftakar fil-ħolma, f’kemm trodd salib.
Kienet ħolma minn dawk li taħsibhom jieħdu lejl sħiħ biex toħlomhom. Hu kien involut fiha kollu kemm hu, bl-inkonxju, bis-subkonxju, bil-memorja, bl-immaġinazzjoni b’kollox; saħansitra fiżikament deher mixħut fl-isforz bil-kbir. Id-dettalji tal-ħolma jiġu lura f’moħħu bi ħġarhom, strambi, assurdi, tal-biża’, u lkoll mgħobbija b’piż misterjuż – milli jidher, it-tip ta’ piż li jinġarr biss f’esperjenzi tal-ħajja mill-aktar profondi, tal-ħajja megħjuxa, jiġifieri. U tabilħaqq, ħajtu kollha, dawk l-affarijiet essenzjali kollha f’ħajtu, hemm kienu b’xi mod, mitnija ppressati fil-ħolma, bħall-petali ta’ xi blanzun ta’ warda. Ġiet rivelata lilu verità kbira, mistura f’kodiċi li hu jaf mhux sa jkun kapaċi jiksru. Iżda tikser il-kodiċi mhux importanti, mhux neċessarju; fil-fatt, bħal f’biċċa xogħol artistika, il-kodiċi nnifsu t-tifsira.
Jilbes il-ġobba u l-papoċċ u jmur isfel. Kollox jidher stramb madwaru. Jaqaw awl il-lejl martu kienet żviluppat żbilanċ f’għajnejha, dik tal-lemin ħarira waħda ibjex minn tax-xellug, jew hi xi ħaġa li hu qatt ma nduna biha qabel? Mill-ħemda tar-rokna tiegħu il-qattus qed jagħtuh ħarsa tal-waħx. Mit-triq deħlin ħsejjes familjari u fl-istess ħin misterjużi. Il-ħolma qed tinfettalu d-dinja megħjuxa tiegħu.
Hu jibda jitkellem ma’ martu dwar il-ħolma, b’xi ftit tal-mistħija fuqu, għax jaf kemm il-ġrajjiet moħluma sa jinstemgħu bla sens. Martu tisimgħu hija u ċċaqlaq rasha aljenata. Hu jipprova jqiegħed fi kliemu xi ħaġa minn dak il-piż li kien fiha l-ħolma. Qed joqrob lejn il-qofol tal-ħaġa, il-waqt li fih il-jien ħalliem tiegħu qam f’nofs il-masġar mudlam, qalb l-ilħna jgemgmu. F’salt wieħed martu tiftaħ ħalqha beraħ – sejra titolbu bil-ħniena biex jiskot, sejra tilmenta li tal-biża’ wisq dak li qed jirrakkontalha? – sejra twerżaq? Le: tittewweb, titwiba daqsiex, hi u tiġbed nifsijiet żgħar ’l ġewwa, għerieqeb xedaqha jċaqċqu, u tispiċċa bi tnehida mriegħda fit-tul, u tistaqsih jekk riedx jispiċċa dak li għad fadal mill-bajda mħabbta.
Il-ħalliem jitgħaxxex, mifni. Hu offra xi ħaġa prezjuża u ġiet mistmerra. Kif jista’ jkun li ma tistax tħoss is-sinifikat tal-affarijiet li kien qed jiddiskrivilha? Kif ma tistax tara s-siġar imneżżgħa u l-arja mdallma, li l-fakra tagħhom qed iddallam l-istess arja ta’ madwarhom issa – kif ma tistax tisma’ l-għadd kbir ta’ ilħna, kif semagħhom hu? Hu jitla’ jkaxkar saqajh lura fuq biex jillesti ruħu għal ġurnata oħra, tas-soltu. Ir-rivelazzjonijiet mill-aktar importanti ta’ matul il-lejl bil-mod il-mod jibdew jintesew. Kulma kienet ħolma, wara kollox.
Imma x’jiġri jekk, minflok ma naċċettaw il-fatt sempliċi li l-ħolm l-aktar kaotiku tagħna, l-aktar eċitanti, l-aktar sinifikanti ma jagħmel xejn għajr ixebba’ ’l-oħrajn, saħansitra dawk l-oħrajn li huma sinifikanti għalina – x’jiġri li kellu jgħid lil martu, Kollox sew, issa nurik! Sa noqgħod bilqiegħda u nikteb il-ħolma, nifformulaha b’tant ħeġġa u tikkonvinċi, li meta taqraha sa toħlomha inti wkoll; inti wkoll sa tistħajlek qed tiġġerra fl-aħrax tal-masġar ma’ dħul il-lejl; inti wkoll sa tisma’ l-ilħna fil-ħolma jgħawdulek l-aktar sigrieti mostura li għandek. Ma nista’ naħseb fl-ebda analoġija aħjar minn din biex infiehem il-proċess fil-kitba ta’ rumanz. Il-għan tar-rumanzier hu dak li jġiegħel lill-qarrej iġarrab il-ħolma – mhux sempliċiment jaqra dwarha, iżda jgħaddi minnha tabilħaqq: li jġarrab il-ħolma; jikteb ir-rumanz.
Issa, dawn stqarrijiet perikolużi. F’din l-epoka post-reliġjuża – u l-integristi, l-Insara, il-Musulmani u oħrajn, ma jagħmlux għajr jagħtu xhieda tal-fatt li din tagħna hi epoka ta’ wara żmien ir-reliġjon – in-nies qed ifittxu, anki jekk qalbhom xi ftit maqtugħa, saċerdozju ġdid. U hemm xi ħaġa fl-artist b’mod ġenerali u fil-kittieb b’mod partikulari li għandha mill-qassis: l-impenn ma jaqta’ xejn tiegħu lejn fidi smewwija, it-taħlita t’arroganza u umiltà, it-talb ta’ kuljum, il-ħerqa tal-penitenzier li jieħu ħsieb id-debbulizzi u l-beżgħat tal-lajċi. Il-kittieb jidħol ġo kamra, is-sancta sanctorum domestiku invjolabbli – l-istudju – u jibqa’ hemm waħdu siegħa wara l-oħra fi skiet misterjuż. Liema huma d-divinitajiet, hemm ġew, li hu joqgħod jikkomunika magħhom, liema ritwali jiżvolġi? Bilfors li jaf xi ħaġa li oħrajn, mhux inizjati, ma jafuhiex; bilfors li mnebbaħ b’għarfien lil hinn minn tagħhom.
Naturalment, dawn delużjonijiet. L-artist, il-kittieb, ma jafx aktar minn ħaddieħor dwar il-materji t’importanza kbira li għandhom x’jaqsmu mal-ħajja u l-ispirtu – fil-fatt, probabbilment huwa jaf anqas. Dan hu l-paradoss. Kif jgħid Henry James, aħna naħdmu fid-dlam, nagħmlu li nistgħu, nagħtu milli għandna, il-bqija ġenn artistiku. U Kafka, b’daħka kiebja, iżid jgħid: L-artist hu l-bniedem li m’għandu xejn x’jgħid.
Il-kittieb mhux qassis, mhux xamân, mhux ħalliem qaddis. Madankollu jaqalgħulu xogħlu ’l barra minn dak il-bir sewdieni fejn jilbet il-jien fundamentali, imwerwer mid-dawl.
M’għandi ebda teorija psikoloġika tal-għaġeb dwar il-kreatività. Ma nippretendix li naf kif il-moħħ, b’mod konxju jew mod ieħor, jibdel il-metall siefel tal-ħajja ta’ kuljum f’arti mdiehba. Anki li kelli niskopri, ma kontx inkun irrid. Ċerti affarijiet m’għandhomx jiġu mistħarrġa.
Id-dinja tal-ħolm hi waħda għariba. Hemm hekk kollox reali u mhux reali fl-istess ħin. L-iżjed affarijiet trivjali jew ridikoli kapaċi jidhru li fihom tifsira tremenda, tifsira li – u hawn jiena naqbel ma’ Freud – il-moħħ megħjux qatt ma kien sa jazzarda jissuġġerixxi jew jaċċetta. Fil-ħolm il-moħħ jgħid il-veritajiet tiegħu permezz ta’ ħmerijiet tal-għaġeb. Hekk, jidhirli jien, jagħmel ir-rumanz.
Il-kitba fittizja hija ħafna aktar milli wieħed jirrakkonta l-istejjer. Hija xenqa elementali, ġejja mill-qedem, li bħal fil-każ tal-ħolma titnissel minn imperattiv serju ħafna sabiex jitqiegħdu f’kodiċi u jiġu ppreservati ħwejjeġ midfunin tant fil-fond ġewwa fina li ma jinstabx kliem għalihom. Dan hu s-sinifikat u l-periklu tagħha, din hi l-glorja tagħha.
Tmiem
John Banville