“(Her poetry) depicts hardly a moment of honor… not a sentence, but a breath."
—J. Galassi, extracted from the welcome speech
On a gloomy Sunday afternoon, accompanied by the gentle strokes of the falling rain, I rushed into the majestic church located on Montague Street. With the rusted smell of the subway lingering in my nose and a hint of shame for having no formal outfit, I hid between the marble pillars and the last row, adjusting my shallow breath. Basking in the yellow light, the old gentleman Jonathan Galassi gave all participants a warm but solemn welcome speech. His words, wrapped in a mesmerizing voice and soaked with emotion, were hard to grasp, but the heartfelt pity of losing such a prominent soul in the world still resonated deeply in everyone’s heart.
Continuously, the readers began to show up. After a few minutes gliding by, Elisa Gonzalez, the poet’s former student & friend, brought a whole new aspect of sincerity and solemnity into her words. The charming lady in a white suit stood on the altar, voice slightly trembling, immersed with emotions. Through burning passion, she talked about “the beauty of objects, among other things”, the unforgettable encounter she had with the poet as her professor in college, and the unique yet highly challenging exercise of writing about the day you were born. Sounds simple, she said, but once you start to write, the echoing connection of your personal experiences with the world shall guide your fingers—in a profound way where all the poets wish to be. The room fell silent as she started reciting A Work of Fiction. Casting my mind back on all the profound influences from various professors in my life, it has dawned on me a relatively naive soul too young to understand the grave truth: mortality, though invisible, is omnipresent within everyone’s breath.
“Where had they all gone, these people who had seemed so real?”
“Brief, brief, but inside me now, / which the stars could never be.”
Dana Levin, a sweet old lady clouded with a marshmallowy atmosphere, went on afterward and continued our conversation. Instead of the previous reader, there were fewer moments of emotional impact in person, but the work, October, struck me deeply.
“What others found in art, / I found in nature. What others found / in human love, I found in nature. / Very simple. But there was no voice there.”
The stanza explained my ambiguous feeling toward beauty so sharp and clear, like breathing in a thread of crisp air in the early morning. It has rarely occurred to me how the wonders of nature are without a lurking intention, without The Other’s intention of placing the emphasis and omitting certain aspects. In nature, my conversations are reserved solely for myself. Simple conversations, perhaps, but such moments feel highly therapeutic after countless hours of forced information in a concrete world.
“Surely it is a privilege to approach the end / still believing in something.”
How hard can it be for a tender spirit to endure new encounters after countless disenchantments? We can only imagine the likeness of building a sand castle on top of swirling water. For anyone lucky or persistent enough to hold onto their belief–religious or not–does it matter when the final moment comes? Will their guiding path to the afterworld, heaven or oblivion alter them eventually? All questions are without answers since our philosopher already departed for her journey. What was left was only silence.
“death cannot harm me / more than you have harmed me / my beloved life.”
After seven readers came Peter Streckfus, a pastor-looking man with a deep voice and carefully brewed wisdom. He brought us The Empty Room, which was said to be Louise Glück’s last work, finished but unpublished, only to be discovered after she left—a truly Kafkaesque experience.
“Outside, snow is falling. I suppose the story has ended.”
“That would count / for silence.”
The whole room fell breathless for the heaviness of a single snowflake.
Toward the end, all books were closed, the light was still dim, and everyone’s murmured conversations were cut short as the soft buzzing of a recorder began. Played on the empty altar, her voice in the recording felt hoarse and weary: a typical quality of tender souls in the harsh world. She talked about her journey through the world of literature, her suggestions to anyone interested in this aspect, about her view of nature, love, and family. She talked and talked even after the conference. The gentle humming followed me through the burning beauty of a sunset. Her wisdom plucked the light once in a while as I see, gather, pick, and create. She talked and talked when I flipped through her book. Her voice tickles my ambition and soothes my irritation. Every time the silence broke, I turned to myself and listened as she talked.
And she talked. And I listen.
Ebba Zhang is currently in her sophomore year majoring in Illustration. Her works are currently focused on books and narrative illustrations, mainly inspired by the literature she consumed. Her favorite book of the year is Blindness by José Saramago.