A Mere 18 Pages
Many years ago a friend told me that I needed to read Conversations with God by Neale Donald Walsch. She assured me it would be life changing. Ever the dutiful and well-intentioned friend, I went out and bought the book, all three volumes in one in fact. And then it sat on my shelf for a really, really long time. Like probably years. My friend said it was ok. Every time she asked, I had to admit that I hadn't so much as opened the book. She always insisted that I would read it when the time was right. A book like Conversations with God couldn't be rushed; it had to happen in its own time. And it did. One day I dusted it off and began reading. Just as my friend promised, it was life changing. Of course a few years later I became an atheist, but don't let that diminish the impact the book had on me at the time. I have no doubt that the moment I decided to read it was the exact moment I needed to read it.
Fast forward about a decade... A few weekends ago, as I waited for friends to show up for a dinner date, I perused the stacks at Half Price Book on South Lamar. I always seem to gravitate to certain sections - WWI history, travelogues, and the W's of general fiction. I don't know why I go to the W's. I check Waters (I own a copy of all her books but I guess I just like to see them in a book store and not in the LGBTQ section), Winspear (I also own a copy of all her books...), and Winterson. I always think I want a new Winterson even though her writing can be a bit too poetic and cryptic for standard fiction. Two of her books rank in my all time top ten with one, The Daylight Gate, falling easily in the top five. Of all time. All time all time. Like in forty years of reading. However, unlike Sarah Waters, Jacqueline Winspear, Leon Uris, Dan Brown, and others, I have no desire to read everything Winterson has ever written. Standard practice, I pick one up, read a few lines, roll my eyes, and put it back on the shelf. I love her but she doesn't write my kind of books. Unless it's The Daylight Gate or The Passion, both of which are tangentially about an illicit love affair gone wrong.
Then that Saturday night happened. As I said, I was waiting for two friends - one married, one recently separated - and, for reference, I have a crush on one of them, the married one (of course). I wandered my way along my usual route at Half Price and ended up kneeling in front of a small selection of Winterson. So small, it was just one book, Written on the Body. I promise you, I've picked up and put down this book a couple times at least in the past couple years. It's premise is a bit odd and I'm not a fan of odd premises. From the back cover (Spoiler alert: I bought the book), "...Jeanette Winterson has written her most beguilingly seductive novel to date. The narrator of Written on the Body has neither name nor gender; the beloved is a married woman..."
Ok, two reasons why I put the book back on the shelf in the past - (1) the narrator has neither name nor gender. Yeah, too poetic, cryptic, and non-normal fiction for me. Under usual circumstances. And (2) the beloved is a married woman. Look, I've had my share of beloved married women but I really thought I'd shed that four and a half years ago when I nearly died trying to get myself disentangled from the last one. Why would I ever want to read a chronicle of an all-consuming affair between a murky narrator and a married woman? Been there, done everything except write the novel.
But it's been four and a half years and time heals all? I'm back crushing on married women (Yes, plural). Maybe I feel safe with these women - they're straight and not planning to stray from their marriages. Moreover, I don't want them to stray from their marriages. I guess I've grown a little bit in that regard. I used to say the decision to cheat was decisively about their morality. I was clean, clear. And, look, I'm not saying people who cheat are bad people - I know many who have made that decision and I don't judge them for it. I'm just saying that I don't want these women who I care about as friends to end up someplace they may regret ending up. Nothing comes without a cost. But still... They are where my thoughts drift when I least expect it. And in all honesty, I can't say, for all my somewhat righteous indignation in the previous couple sentences, that I'd say no if one were to...well...ask...twice.
Several nights back, I began reading the book. I've gotten all of eighteen pages in and I can tell you that I am meant to be reading this book right now. I honestly feel like I could have written it (if I wrote in a cryptic, poetic way that uses way too many words). I've lived it. The entire first eighteen pages. More than once. I can only imagine how the remaining 181 pages will go. Somehow I feel like I'll emerge from the book feeling like Winterson (or her nameless, genderless narrator) and I are the same person.
Let me back track again. I began reading Winterson because of Julian Barnes, the absolute most boring author I have ever had the displeasure of reading. The last book of my last semester at St. Edwards was The Sense of an Ending, Barnes' Man Booker Prize winning novel about a completely unsympathetic, stodgy, middle aged man dealing the aftermath of a long ago divorce while trying to reconcile with his adult daughter. It. Was. Awful. Nonetheless, I came away intrigued. You see, my standard practice has always been to read a short biography (often a Wikipedia article) about the author while I'm reading his or her book. Once upon a time, Julian Barnes was cuckolded by none other than Jeanette Winterson. Julian's wife, Pat Kavanagh, a well respected literary agent, had a well known lesbian affair with Winterson (who was her client at the time). Eventually, Pat returned to Julian and Jeanette went on to other relationships and all was right with the world. Julian wrote some infernally boring books, Pat died, and Jeanette wrote some really deeply stirring lesbian fiction.
So look, Winterson knows what she's talking about in Written on the Body. Granted I'm only eighteen pages in, but so far she's nailing it. She puts into words the complex array of emotions that are inherent in these kinds of relationships. I know. I know. I've been there. A couple flings, a couple "I'm leavings," one you-better-not-say-you-need-me. They all end the same. Well, close to the same. Eventually she returns to him and the other she (me) goes on to other relationships. Sometimes all parties get hurt, sometimes two, sometimes only one. It varies.
That particular Saturday night I mentioned above, one of my friends blew us off and a married woman (that I have a crush on) bought me dinner, not five minutes after I bought a novel that is a veritable cautionary tale about committing adultery. She and I aren't doing anything, aren't going to do anything, close to adultery. We had dinner. We probably will again. We text a bit. We talk a bit. That'll be the end of it. I'm sure. Well, pretty sure.
After the last time I catalyzed adultery, that last horrid time, I said never again, and I meant it. Now apparently anesthetized by the passage of years, I feel myself backsliding, going back to what's familiar, safe. Because for as dangerous as it is, it's safe. Well, safer. It can be. Unless I start believing. That last time, that horribly nearly life-consuming last time, I let myself believe, stupidly yes, until I couldn't believe anymore. Love makes you do stupid things.
I don't know if I can finish the book. It's good - don't get me wrong - and I probably do need a big dose of caution, but... I don't know if I want to re-live it all again, fictionally speaking. I guess that begs the question - Do I want to re-live it all in non-fictionally speaking? All those crushes seem to indicate that I'm at a pretty solid maybe. Maybe I'd re-live it again. Maybe. If that's the case, I need this book. Now. Not next week. Not after I finish the other book I'm reading. Now. As psychically painful as it might end up being, it's necessary. Before I do what I said I'd never do again. Plus I'm marginally curious to find out what, if anything, is actually is written on the body.
"You said, 'I'm going to leave.'
I thought, Yes of course you are, you're going back to the shell. I'm an idiot. I've done it again and I said I'd never do it again." (Written on the Body, p. 18)
~~
I wrote that a week ago, maybe more. I haven't opened the book since. I happily proclaim that I'm not a victim. I'm not. But that doesn't mean I don't have a touch of PTSD. Yes, I know. I know. Adultery is wrong. And yes, I helped someone commit it. However, I'm talking about something different, something only slightly related to that adultery. I'm talking about surviving lies, lies, and more lies. I'm talking about being nearly convinced that I was the crazy one, even though I should have known I wasn't. They say - my friends say - that I was gaslighted. She was (is) a narcissist. I believe that and that belief helped my recovery beyond anything I could have imagined. Today, though, the thought of adultery - being with a married woman - brings it all back, makes it all real again. It's been four and a half years. Almost half a decade. Maybe that's my karma. Maybe that PSTD-like feeling means I'll never do it again.
It also means it's not the right time to read Written on the Body. Turns out it was a cautionary tale, just much a shorter one than I expected.
Fast forward about a decade... A few weekends ago, as I waited for friends to show up for a dinner date, I perused the stacks at Half Price Book on South Lamar. I always seem to gravitate to certain sections - WWI history, travelogues, and the W's of general fiction. I don't know why I go to the W's. I check Waters (I own a copy of all her books but I guess I just like to see them in a book store and not in the LGBTQ section), Winspear (I also own a copy of all her books...), and Winterson. I always think I want a new Winterson even though her writing can be a bit too poetic and cryptic for standard fiction. Two of her books rank in my all time top ten with one, The Daylight Gate, falling easily in the top five. Of all time. All time all time. Like in forty years of reading. However, unlike Sarah Waters, Jacqueline Winspear, Leon Uris, Dan Brown, and others, I have no desire to read everything Winterson has ever written. Standard practice, I pick one up, read a few lines, roll my eyes, and put it back on the shelf. I love her but she doesn't write my kind of books. Unless it's The Daylight Gate or The Passion, both of which are tangentially about an illicit love affair gone wrong.
Then that Saturday night happened. As I said, I was waiting for two friends - one married, one recently separated - and, for reference, I have a crush on one of them, the married one (of course). I wandered my way along my usual route at Half Price and ended up kneeling in front of a small selection of Winterson. So small, it was just one book, Written on the Body. I promise you, I've picked up and put down this book a couple times at least in the past couple years. It's premise is a bit odd and I'm not a fan of odd premises. From the back cover (Spoiler alert: I bought the book), "...Jeanette Winterson has written her most beguilingly seductive novel to date. The narrator of Written on the Body has neither name nor gender; the beloved is a married woman..."
Ok, two reasons why I put the book back on the shelf in the past - (1) the narrator has neither name nor gender. Yeah, too poetic, cryptic, and non-normal fiction for me. Under usual circumstances. And (2) the beloved is a married woman. Look, I've had my share of beloved married women but I really thought I'd shed that four and a half years ago when I nearly died trying to get myself disentangled from the last one. Why would I ever want to read a chronicle of an all-consuming affair between a murky narrator and a married woman? Been there, done everything except write the novel.
But it's been four and a half years and time heals all? I'm back crushing on married women (Yes, plural). Maybe I feel safe with these women - they're straight and not planning to stray from their marriages. Moreover, I don't want them to stray from their marriages. I guess I've grown a little bit in that regard. I used to say the decision to cheat was decisively about their morality. I was clean, clear. And, look, I'm not saying people who cheat are bad people - I know many who have made that decision and I don't judge them for it. I'm just saying that I don't want these women who I care about as friends to end up someplace they may regret ending up. Nothing comes without a cost. But still... They are where my thoughts drift when I least expect it. And in all honesty, I can't say, for all my somewhat righteous indignation in the previous couple sentences, that I'd say no if one were to...well...ask...twice.
Several nights back, I began reading the book. I've gotten all of eighteen pages in and I can tell you that I am meant to be reading this book right now. I honestly feel like I could have written it (if I wrote in a cryptic, poetic way that uses way too many words). I've lived it. The entire first eighteen pages. More than once. I can only imagine how the remaining 181 pages will go. Somehow I feel like I'll emerge from the book feeling like Winterson (or her nameless, genderless narrator) and I are the same person.
Let me back track again. I began reading Winterson because of Julian Barnes, the absolute most boring author I have ever had the displeasure of reading. The last book of my last semester at St. Edwards was The Sense of an Ending, Barnes' Man Booker Prize winning novel about a completely unsympathetic, stodgy, middle aged man dealing the aftermath of a long ago divorce while trying to reconcile with his adult daughter. It. Was. Awful. Nonetheless, I came away intrigued. You see, my standard practice has always been to read a short biography (often a Wikipedia article) about the author while I'm reading his or her book. Once upon a time, Julian Barnes was cuckolded by none other than Jeanette Winterson. Julian's wife, Pat Kavanagh, a well respected literary agent, had a well known lesbian affair with Winterson (who was her client at the time). Eventually, Pat returned to Julian and Jeanette went on to other relationships and all was right with the world. Julian wrote some infernally boring books, Pat died, and Jeanette wrote some really deeply stirring lesbian fiction.
So look, Winterson knows what she's talking about in Written on the Body. Granted I'm only eighteen pages in, but so far she's nailing it. She puts into words the complex array of emotions that are inherent in these kinds of relationships. I know. I know. I've been there. A couple flings, a couple "I'm leavings," one you-better-not-say-you-need-me. They all end the same. Well, close to the same. Eventually she returns to him and the other she (me) goes on to other relationships. Sometimes all parties get hurt, sometimes two, sometimes only one. It varies.
After the last time I catalyzed adultery, that last horrid time, I said never again, and I meant it. Now apparently anesthetized by the passage of years, I feel myself backsliding, going back to what's familiar, safe. Because for as dangerous as it is, it's safe. Well, safer. It can be. Unless I start believing. That last time, that horribly nearly life-consuming last time, I let myself believe, stupidly yes, until I couldn't believe anymore. Love makes you do stupid things.
I don't know if I can finish the book. It's good - don't get me wrong - and I probably do need a big dose of caution, but... I don't know if I want to re-live it all again, fictionally speaking. I guess that begs the question - Do I want to re-live it all in non-fictionally speaking? All those crushes seem to indicate that I'm at a pretty solid maybe. Maybe I'd re-live it again. Maybe. If that's the case, I need this book. Now. Not next week. Not after I finish the other book I'm reading. Now. As psychically painful as it might end up being, it's necessary. Before I do what I said I'd never do again. Plus I'm marginally curious to find out what, if anything, is actually is written on the body.
"You said, 'I'm going to leave.'
I thought, Yes of course you are, you're going back to the shell. I'm an idiot. I've done it again and I said I'd never do it again." (Written on the Body, p. 18)
~~
I wrote that a week ago, maybe more. I haven't opened the book since. I happily proclaim that I'm not a victim. I'm not. But that doesn't mean I don't have a touch of PTSD. Yes, I know. I know. Adultery is wrong. And yes, I helped someone commit it. However, I'm talking about something different, something only slightly related to that adultery. I'm talking about surviving lies, lies, and more lies. I'm talking about being nearly convinced that I was the crazy one, even though I should have known I wasn't. They say - my friends say - that I was gaslighted. She was (is) a narcissist. I believe that and that belief helped my recovery beyond anything I could have imagined. Today, though, the thought of adultery - being with a married woman - brings it all back, makes it all real again. It's been four and a half years. Almost half a decade. Maybe that's my karma. Maybe that PSTD-like feeling means I'll never do it again.
It also means it's not the right time to read Written on the Body. Turns out it was a cautionary tale, just much a shorter one than I expected.
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