I owe all of you an apology: I haven’t written any radio talks in well over a month. Here is a partial explanation.
Writers should never marry; writers should live alone, exist alone. It is absolutely insane to sit and talk to people who are not there. It is absolutely insane to sit alone and slave over words, try to articulate existence to an unseen audience. Only crazy, solitary people talk to people who are not there. Married people talk to each other. Married people go out and interact socially.
It is impossible to fully explain the life of a writer -- nor are most of you interested in the life of a writer -- but basically it is a mad and lonely existence. For twenty five years I lived alone. I got home from work and read books and wrote, I wrote radio columns, newspaper columns, I wrote idiocies into countless notebooks. I had no one to talk to so I talked to myself & to the world at large; I had no one to interact with, so I buried my nose in books & notebooks.
In its way, it was a wonderful life. I loved reading. I loved writing. Those two comprised the whole of my life -- and it was a glorious life. Yes, it was insular. Yes, it was solitary -- but the rewards were immense. So many people told me they heard my talks or read my columns. I was flattered -- and I knew that I was in social contact with a vast number of people. Now that I’m married & social, I’ve thought about not writing anything anymore -- and every time I’ve half decided not to, someone tells me how much they like my talks, how often they tune in to this station to hear what outrageous thing I choose to say this time.
Every writer knows that a solitary existence is best for a writer. Just the other day I read a long piece about Edna O’Brian, an Irish writer. She, too, stressed the writer’s need for a solitary existence. She, too, spoke of the madness of sitting alone and writing words on to a piece of paper. It is crazy, lovely, lonely -- and can only be done when others are not around.
Part of what I am saying should be known to all of you. Any human being who is very good at what he or she does is a lousy companion for others. Great musicians, great tennis players, great business people are lousy companions. They are obsessed with what they do—which is why they are good at what they do. They are, in their way, idiot savants: people who are geniuses in one way, idiots in other ways. One person once said to a world class musician, “I would give my life to play as well as you do.” His answer was “ I did, ma’m.” Like a bee, our life is in our sting.
Once again, I apologize for not writing. Or, I’ve decided to live life rather than pour my life into my writing.
Copyright © 2004 Henry Morgenstein