A Better Writer

Who knows what it is

Photo by Elisa Calvet B. on Unsplash, rendered black & white by me

When Jude asked the guy from the publishing house what he meant by better writer, the answer he received wasn’t at all satisfactory. In fact, it wasn’t really an answer. Better, the publishing guy had responded, just all around better. Jude couldn’t figure out what better meant for a writer, that’s why he had candidly asked the question -- because perhaps someone smarter, better-educated, and more thoughtful could. And yet he wasn’t surprised that the publishing guy didn’t have an answer. Not because he wasn’t smart, well-educated, and thoughtful, but because Jude knew, deep down, that the idea of better writer made no sense.

The novel Jude had written was about a mailman who knew, without looking inside, the contents of every envelope he was called to deliver, and those containing bad news he would not only refuse to deliver but would burn in his backyard. After years of acting that way, he was caught and suspended, and when interrogated by the police, he said that life was already hard enough as it was and that there was no need to make it harder by delivering bad news, to which the police concluded that his actions were not a crime per se, but rather delusional behavior that required a psychiatric evaluation. He was then secluded in an asylum located on top of a mountain in the Swiss Alps, surrounded by a thick forest, where he met Giangiacomo Di Nullo, an Italian professor of German literature at the University of Naples. Between the two, a genuine friendship developed, and one day, when seated for lunch opposite each other in the white and aseptic refectory of the asylum, the professor revealed to the mailman, in a feeble whisper, after looking around to make sure no one was listening, that Benno von Archimboldi -- the central character in Roberto Bolaño's novel 2666, portrayed as a reclusive and enigmatic German author whose works are highly regarded in the literary world and whose true identity remains elusive for much of the almost one-thousand-page book, and the search for whom, by academics, journalists, and other characters, forms one of the novel’s key plotlines -- was really him. The mailman didn’t understand what the professor was talking about, even though he nodded all along and feigned a certain enthusiasm. However, struck by the solemnity of the revelation and propelled by his innate curiosity, he thought that he should read the novel. Not without a surprisingly large dose of skepticism, the mailman embarked on reading the massive tome, and as he progressed, he became so captivated by the narrative and Bolaño's style that he finished it in a week, without ever leaving his room, undoubtedly aided by having little else to do. He saw the strange parallels between his own life and Archimboldi’s elusive existence. Archimboldi, a man who had spent years obscured from the world, hidden in plain sight, reminded the mailman of the letters he had burned -- messages meant to reach others but forever stifled, as if rejecting the burden of delivering pain. He wondered if Archimboldi’s retreat into obscurity was not so different from his own refusal to deliver bad news. Both had tried to protect the world, or perhaps themselves, from the inevitable hurt that always seemed to follow. And yet he realized that, in a strange way, the act of avoidance had only deepened the suffering -- it was not the delivery of the bad news that caused harm, but the refusal to acknowledge it, to let it exist and be faced. The novel left such a profound mark that he immediately went to look for the professor to continue their conversation about his true identity, only to find that his room had been emptied and tidied up because he was discharged. One of the nurses, seeing the mailman disoriented, explained that the professor knew he was completely absorbed in reading a demanding novel and hadn’t even stopped by to bid him farewell. Instead, she continued, he left this for you, and handed him a white envelope. The mailman, who had the power to know the contents of any envelope -- a power that had ultimately cost him his seclusion in the asylum -- told the nurse she should take it home and burn it in her backyard without opening it. But the nurse, well accustomed to dealing with mentally unstable people, disregarded the mailman’s recommendation and did bring the envelope home with her, but didn’t burn it. Instead, she opened it and found six sheets of handwritten paper signed by a certain Benno, a name that had nothing to do with the professor’s. The letter contained references to parts of a novel and descriptions of complex machinations, and the only thing the nurse could understand was that the professor had chosen to end his life, and that this painful act was necessary to allow his dual personality to survive as one.

The publishing guy was enthusiastic about the manuscript, which, despite its almost five hundred pages, he said he had devoured in just a few hours. He made a number of interesting remarks, such as that Jude’s style reminded him of this or that famous fiction author, and that he liked the story’s quality of openness, of incompleteness, of leaving the reader’s imagination to wander in different directions. All good things, Jude thought. Then he said, however, that it would have to go through a rather intense process of editing before it could be deemed ready. Ready for what, Jude asked. Ready for the market, for the readers, he responded. And it was then that he said that the editing process would also help Jude become a better writer.

The fact that, as it was evident from his answer and unbeknownst to him, not even the publishing guy knew what being a better writer meant, prompted Jude to ask more questions. Who knows, he thought, maybe trying to brainstorm about it will help me -- us, really -- understand what we’re talking about. If I gave you the names of two published authors, would you be able to say who’s the better one?, Jude asked. Like, for example, who’s the better writer between Peter Handke and Philip Roth? And between Olga Tokarczuk and Mircea Cărtărescu? What about between César Aira and Italo Calvino? Haruki Murakami and Thomas Bernhard? I get the point, said the publishing guy. But he didn’t seem to want -- or be able -- to elaborate, except to give preferences based on personal taste. Also, assuming I believed that I could become a better writer over time, Jude continued, how would I judge my betterness? There must be some objective parameters. But what are they? Is it all about complying with a set of rules? You know, one of Lispector’s novels starts with a comma, and Bolaño can go on for pages without a sentence break. Writing is not school homework, or sports.

You know what the tragedy of our civilization is? Jude asked after a moment of silence. The tragedy of our civilization is the invention of comparative degrees and relative superlatives.

As the publishing guy began to show a hint of irritation, the telephone on his desk rang. He answered the call and spoke to someone about something entirely unrelated to his discussion with Jude, and slowly, things returned to a state of monotonous normality.

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