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Darkness and Light:
Private Writing as Art ~ Reviewed by Stanley Nelson With a few notable exceptions such as Rousseau, Anais Nin and Sylvia Plath, journal writing has been considered as somehow outside the spirit of art, a self-involved enterprise whose parameters are more self-conserving than creative. Olivia Dresher and Victor Munoz, editors of this excellent anthology, beg to differ. “The artistic possibilities of the journal have not been fully explored,” they write in their lively introduction. “Most published anthologies of journal or diary writing have attempted to offer a glimpse of an era or cultural milieu, or approached the journal as a vehicle for personal awareness and growth, or delved into the ‘intimate’ lives of the famous. To these three ways of seeing private writing—historical, therapeutic and voyeuristic—we would like to add a fourth: aesthetic.” In pursuing this goal, Dresher and Munoz eschewed a compilation of dribs and drabs—short selections from a multitude of journal writers—in favor of sizable groupings from 14 talented individuals. Each writer is sui generis, unlike writers in other anthologies, and totally original in scope and approach. Guy Gauthier is typical of the originality found in this volume. His journal was written in the early seventies, when he left his native Canada to become an avant-garde playwright in New York’s thriving Off-Off Broadway theatre scene. Gauthier works to capture the quintessential moment, no matter how mundane: It’s this, this seeing, this feeling, that…will be gone, my hands, I see my hands, they’re moving, and when they’re not moving anymore, it’s this, this seeing, this…feeling, this sight of…the white wall at 7 A.M. that will be gone, I won’t see, I won’t hear, it’s no great loss, if it’s only this… And later from the same passage: …I haven’t made another me, another moment like this, a 7 A.M. moment with the water running through the pipes, God, my God je t’aime, mon Dieu, Dieu de mon enfance, Dieu de mon pere, Dieu! …it’s this, this is what…will be…gone, me and my little existenz, I want someone, anyone to be reading this 100 years from now! But I’m learning, I’m learning to live in the present, to taste, touch NOW, to taste myself, for as long as it lasts. Kathleen Hunt Dolan has a natural lyric gift which often breaks out into strange juxtapositions, as in this passage where she’s riding a bus: Approaching the east side of the Hill. Head-revolver exits, ambles west on Mercer, gesturing to motorists with upraised forefinger. Now up the Hill. Groan and whine and wheeze of buses. Despair of buses. Slowness of buses, especially up hills. Three passengers left by the time we reach Queen Anne Avenue and Boston. Then only me. The human voice, its cries, its songs and its prophecies: a fountain. And statues, human figures without breath or movement, grave simulacra exalted by a mineral poise. In statues the dead have returned to the silence of the mineral kingdom, yet magically they stand, aloof, upright, almost defiant. Here I am, still! Destitute, and still faintly musical, in rain and snow and poisoned city fog and the slow slow rot of condescension and abandonment. Mute fountain. Kate Gale is the epitome of irreverence. She is continually juggling her writing, teaching, husband, pets, etc. She has a light, deft touch, as in this passage: A very bad day, especially considering my high hopes for it. It’s 7:30 P.M., and I have just gotten to the computer. The problem is that I think I can…I don’t know what to do now, what goals to make. What have I done today? You ask. You know, first it was making his breakfast, then phone calls, then the mother-in-law comes by, then I do homework to prep for my classes. Okay, I got it, this is the goal for Kathy’s life. I don’t seem to be so good at disciplining myself, so here’s what. Every day, seven days a week, you get out of bed and go immediately to the computer, take your coffee and go. Write 1–3 hours. Three hours is the maximum, one is the minimum. Then go about the rest of your day, and don’t worry about writing again. I think, if you can do that one thing, you will feel good about yourself, and you’ll stop eating so much. You’ll also have plenty of time later in the day for loafing, making phone calls, and running to book stores. Tomorrow is a new day. I will recreate myself. When Gale concludes her journal entry with a depiction of making love on the floor with her husband during halftime of a football game, you know this is no ordinary person! Olivia Dresher takes a wholly different approach, titling her journal entry “Fragments and Aphorisms.” Here’s a sampling: The difference between men and women is the difference between life and death, and why it’s so threatening. To fall in love is to profoundly experience this gulf. When the attempt at building a bridge fails, one falls into that gulf. * * * I’m just not dead enough * * * What’s free? * * * Looking back, I can’t remember ever seeing A. except when it rained. His letters to me were long suicide notes, without mentioning suicide. The words that his pen screamed out left impressions (almost holes) on the page, like Braille. * * * To lose everything is to become the universe; Dresher has an uncanny ability to compress subtle thoughts and feelings without losing any of their complexity. Space precludes quoting from the remaining 10 writers, except to say that they are every bit as individualistic and arresting. They are: Sandi Sonnenfeld, Noelle Sickels, Audrey Borenstein, Kimble James Greenwood, Sean Bentley, Ja Luoma, S. Afzal Haider, C. F. Asmusson, Marie E. LaConte, and Bianco Luno. In Darkness and Light, Olivia Dresher and Victor Munoz fulfill their thesis that journal writing can be artistic and aesthetic. We thank them for this adventuresome accomplishment. —Stanley Nelson, author of ten books of poetry and recipient of the Thomas Wolfe Poetry Award
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2000–2015 by Olivia Dresher and Victor Muñoz
Review Copyright © 2003 by Stanley Nelson |