On Writing

I've always been a huge fan of literature. Even as a child, I would rather stay cooped up inside with my nose buried into a book than roll around on the grass with my siblings. I even remember that when I would be fetched late from preschool class, I'd do reading comprehension lessons -- just because it was fun. :)

My passion for writing then subsequently flourished. Only a few people know this, but I've written at least four kinds of literature: a few novels, some short stories, a yet unfinished play (the manuscript of which is lost somewhere in the depths of my old drawer), and tons of essays. For me, writing is a liberating process. It frees you up from the excess emotions buried deep within your soul. Mind you, only the excess gets transferred to your work (at least that's what I believe in). For me, even the greatest writer in the world will never be able to fully capture the whole plethora of human emotions.

I think the best that any writer (or pseudo-writer like myself) could hope for is to capture as much emotion as possible. If need be, it is the duty of the writer to generate as much excess emotion as needed to better his/her work of art.

One of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda, has really hit close to perfection with his poem Tonight I Can Write. It has the right blend of poignancy and sincerity that makes one's heart go out to the 'I' of the poem. If you haven't read his poem, here it is after the break.



Tonight I Can Write

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

translated by W.S. Merwin

Pablo Neruda