Ian Jack of the Guardian (UK), appears somewhat disconcerted by some of the revelations in the authorized biography of VS Naipaul by Patrick French.
Describing the “uninhibited disclosure” as “bewildering,” he wonders what would motivate Naipaul to allow such a revelatory biography to be published in his life time. French, the biographer, calls it “at once an act of narcissism and humility” but adds that it might also be motivated by a desire to have his life dissected in the present so that readers curiosity can be sated and they can then “return to the importance of his work.”
At the end of his column, Jack strikes a philosophical note:
“Be grateful, if you must remember his shuddersome life, that so much selfishness has given us such great books.”
Time ago I had a conversation with some people I do life with. I expressed the opinion that is unreasonable to expect someone of my age not to have a skeleton or thirteen in her closet. Really. (If I stand on the tip of my toes and stretch out my hand as far as I possibly can without detaching my arm, I can brush the big 4 0 with the tip of my middle finger.)
The nature of my particular pile of skeletons is not up for discussion. Suffice it sing ‘oh to grace how great a debtor, daily I’m constrained to be.’ Because we’re human, we’re all going around collecting skeletons and shoving them into our closets. You, me, and yes, Mother Teresa.
But that’s not where I was going with this.
I was going to say that I wonder if there might be something else there, for V S Naipaul. I wonder if sometimes he looks at the V S Naipaul that is the figment of other peoples’ imagination and feels that deep, unparalleled loneliness of not being known. I’ve been
down this road before, I know.
I know. It is a subject that preoccupies me, the craving to be known, quirks and all, the desire to be known yet loved.
I think most of us carry around some degree of fear that people only love us and accept us because they don’t know all of who we are and all that there is to be known about us. Doubtless some at the extreme end live with the dread, every waking hour and sometimes in their nightmares, that when their beloved discover some of what they are and all of what they’ve been, they’ll suffer rejection.
And, if you ask me, the fear of rejection is no less painful than rejection itself.
I think this is the fundamental reason why I am a Christian. I struggle with different aspects of my faith in countless ways all the time. Ironically perhaps, now more than ever.
But one thing remains true: when this African woman stands alone before God, she knows herself to be utterly and completely known, and totally and unconditionally loved. It’s impossible to trump that. And, it’s impossible to walk away from that. Known, yet loved is the safest place I know.
I’m incubated right now in a context where I’m rubbing shoulders with an acquaintance regularly, whereas previously, our contact and interaction had been very limited. That is to say, I’m interacting on a regular basis with someone who I previously only knew as a friend of a friend. Recently, she made a very flattering observation about me to our mutual friend.
In the beginning, I was quite flattered. But soon, I started to do that thing that I do so well: fret. What she said wasn’t all of how I saw myself. I could see how she could come to that conclusion, because, certainly, I can be that way. But only half the time. Just as often, I’m almost the exact opposite.
So off I went to navel-gaze before one of the beloved who serve me as a mirror.
So and so said such and such, I said. Is this the way she saw me, I asked. She said yes. Really, I asked. And then I said, but you also know this other side of me, what about that? She said, yes, but you seem to have learned to go away and be the ‘other person’ in the private place, so more and more these days, the person people interact with is this (flattering) side of you.
I said, ‘oh.’ I
got it, I think, although it still niggles an itsy little bit. Because it made me wonder whether those with only this perspective of me really know me. (You can see once again that I can drive myself crazy, but better me than you, right?)
For those of you who are working your active imaginations overtime, I don’t exactly have an illustrious past. But, like I said, I’m skipping along happily toward 40. I’ve lived. I've got baggage. There are things that I would do differently, given the chance to do them all over again. And who I am is as much about all the things I’ve gotten wrong, as about all the times I've gotten it right.
So I can sort of, maybe, perhaps, understand V S Naipaul. And
Mary J Blige. And... you get my drift.It's my window, but I don't own the view.
