Reading practice 14
Since he returned from the hospital, he has been unable to reclaim his speaking voice. That is not to say that he can't make sounds, but that he often can't make his thoughts into sounds like words and sentences. Something is polluting the chemistry that distills mental language into vocal output1 His mind lights up with ideas just like mine does, but his ideas cannot escape. His thoughts are dispatched like knights to battle only to find they are unable to cross the moat that surrounds their castle. They are held prisoner in their own home, quarantined in frustrated isolation from the outside world2
"I fear that I will eventually choke on my own thoughts," he worries aloud to me in one of his desperate letters3 "Then expel them all on to the page," I remind him. He is a volcano with no air vents to relieve the pressure of the heat churning in his belly. His insides roil with fire, occasionally bubbling to the surface. His core vibrates with tightly coiled anticipation, the roof of his head eventually shedding off all shingles as a prelude to its propelling explosively into the atmosphere.
I tell him that his speaking voice may be like the oceanic cloud of dust and debris that the volcano spews into the air, but his writing can flow like omni-directional lava, indiscriminately absorbing everything in its path4 Eventually, the continents that form as this lava cools will be fertile grounds for his readers. Each of his letters stands proudly as an island within the sloshing seas of his mind, and his clarity of prose allows us explorers to navigate him.
"There is plenty of solace in writing," he acknowledges, but maintains, "never explain to someone who can't run that at least he can drive"5
He will always hear his thoughts as an echo, either reverberating within his own skull or as a crude imitation when transferred by pen. 6 I concede that the page's shortcoming is a lack of dynamic human ears, but I optimistically point to the fact that written language has the potential to be seen by countless human eyes. It has the potential to be richly revered classical music, not just catchy pop expressions that inspire bystanders to twitch in accordance7 It has the advantage of being methodically composed and purposefully orchestrated. However, it can be spontaneous and stream-of-consciousness as well.
"A verbal speech can be a symphony of thought just as an essay can be an improvisational blunder." He responds. "You are wrongly contrasting two styles of music when the more appropriate comparison is two very different instruments."
His distinction is a valid one, but I continue to stubbornly assert the superiority of literary communication. When we speak to convey meaning, I argue, we can too easily get away with lazy word choice by using context, body language, tone, and other non-verbal devices to supplement our stated words8 In a piece of writing, the words exist in isolation from their author. They belong only to each other, like pirates who share a common destiny but no longer pledge allegiance to any sovereign entity9 Judge them by your own standards if you wish to be confused, but realize that the only telling diagnosis rests in the internal consistency of their ways. Do the various tensions created by the professed actions, ideas, and feelings of the writing allow the reader to vicariously behold the mental state of the author? If so, then the reader has the satisfying experience of being simultaneously in the audience and backstage as well.
He enjoys coming to watch me during my trials. Sometimes I look over at him while I am delivering my closing arguments to a jury, and I see the mix of pride and pain in his eyes as he listens to me express myself more lucidly than he may ever be able to again. If my profession would allow it, I would gladly yield my voice to him and become a mere puppet for his ideas, just so he could again experience the instant gratification of vocal persuasion10 (I frequently wonder if my friendship with him will ultimately venture into the territory of Cyrano de Bergerac, who so wished to woo the heart of a woman that he enlisted the help of a friend to speak his thoughts aloud to her.)
It is not the organization of thought that he treasures in listening to my courtroom orations. It is the expressiveness that a human voice can add to the meaning of words that he deeply misses. He will occasionally have me rehearse my speeches to him and never permits me to begin reciting my words too mechanically. The moment I begin reading and not speaking, he will clap his hands and signal me to return back to the beginning of the idea.
