On friendship, suicide and Sigrid Nuñez

Several years ago, my friend X killed herself, taking care to make her death appear natural. She ordered the expensive poison online, waited for it in vain, twice. The third time, she was lucky. 

She did not care to live for another 30 years, immobilised in bed, a possible future, according to the Parkinson's specialist. She didn't want to be a burden to her children, she didn't want money spent on her. Nor did she trust whichever system might end up caring for her to do so well. She'd always taken responsibility for herself, and she had decided to put a stop to the pain and the sorry deterioration. The law did not permit a suicide in her case, though her doctor, a general practitioner, was sympathetic. The specialist had waved her away; she thought he was a prick.

She inconvenienced no one - no suspicion arose though she died at home alone. We'd said goodbye on the phone just before she took the final drug. On my own at home, I sat still for a long time, wishing her with all my heart the courage she needed and an easy exit.

When she was found, the police were called; they came, they went. They may have suspected the truth but if so, they wisely let it be. Celebrating her generous life, we didn't mention how she'd ended it. To be on the safe side.

I miss her a lot. During the last ten years, we lived in different countries. We'd phone, maybe once a month... Long conversations: what hurt us, what kept us awake at night. It made a huge difference, for I the lack is now acute. She encouraged and supported me. She valued me more than anyone else, even my husband who loves me, though she would sometimes criticise me gently. (She was always gentle). She told me things I treasure, which glow in the dark.

We had met one afternoon, at a seminar. During discussions we'd each observed the other across the table, strangers in a strange land, the similarity of our background evident to us both. The session ending, we left together, shoulder to shoulder for the first time, beginning an intimate conversation which was to last some thirty years. Standing in the car park, clutching our keys, we plunged into acquaintance, the words pouring out, the listening intense, until her eyes, the features of her face became hard to see, shrouded... 

It turned out that the day had disappeared, with it the light, and darkness was enveloping us, hiding us from each other. We checked the time on our watches: hours had passed... Surely not? We'd only just met, only begun... Was it this late? Really? We were bewildered.The clock face told us: "Go home."

A man I knew drove by; I caught his withering glance. He must have seen us earlier - Still at it! Unbelievable! Women!

* * * *

I read a wonderful book by Sigrid Nuñez, The friend (Hachette, 2018) which won the National Book Award that year. There's a suicide in it, less central to the plot than in her following book, What are you going through (Hachette, 2020). According to my cousin who is a serious writer - more serious than I am - Sigrid Nuñez is the best writer in the USA today. Years after reading The friend, I'm still under the influence, delighted by it, though it read almost, but not quite, like something fluffy, a romance, fluid, light, funny in places. The suicide remains mysterious. 

I shall have to buy my own copy. I want to see how she achieves that lightness. I suspect she does what Hemingway recommends, cutting and cutting away as much as possible.

October 7, a year later

 At this time last year we were not living in our house. We'd abandoned it to the plumbers, renting a  3-bedroom house in Petone for 2 or 3 weeks, until new toilets had been installed and better still, the new shower. I read about the murders in Israel on my phone. I went to the bedroom, closed the door, and stayed there for the rest of the day. I didn't want my grandson to see me upset, to have to explain. At eight he was still too young. No one checked on me. It would have been nice if they had. 

That evening, instead of a weekly conversation on zoom, one hemisphere talking to the other, my son and my sister had a row, a shouting match. She was beside herself and he couldn't bear it. They haven't talked since. She always acted as if Israel didn't matter to her. But maybe it's not Israel's fate which has upset her, but the fact of the pogrom, a growing risk worldwide.

I can't bring myself to do anything much today (which is why I'm writing). I spent an hour on the news, particularly from Israel. I've weeded a patch of the patio, on my knees, on a contraption my daughter gave me, surprisingly comfortable. Then I gave up. No chance of working in the garden itself, it rained and everything is muddy now. I have to get through this day on my own, except for an Israeli event tonight, which will be upsetting, but maybe also a relief. The embassy have not yet announced where it will be held.

I finished Daniel Finkelstein's Hitler, Stalin, Mum & Dad (2023). He sometimes surprised me, developing a thought beyond my expectation, pursuing it in a paragraph's final sentence, into  new territory. Only later did I realise who he is - Lord Finkelstein, a former executive editor of The Times. The reading is easy, the language clear, fluent, always interesting. In the Introduction he mentions growing up in Hendon. My own Granny and Grandpa, also refugees, lived in Wessex Gardens, a stone's throw from Hendon.

Reading Swim by Avi Duckor-Jones

Avi's book came out five years ago in 2018 - with brioBooks in Australia. Immersed in the writing of my own book at the time, I was not aware of his work. I ran into him a few months' ago .

I borrowed the book from the library and read it quickly. I asked his mother whether he himself swam like the main character in the book (what is his name?) in the sea, for long distances. He occasionally allows himself to sink into the depths, his knees "tucked" to his chest, "holding [himself] there, suspended, and weightless". My book group will discuss the book in February and I am re-reading it in preparation. 

I ordered my own copy: it arrived with an upside down cover. I've complained to the publisher and hope they'll send me another one, to be lent to other members of the book group.

As a reader I have a weakness for the story: I need to know what happens before I can pay proper attention to the writing itself. (Should the writing be very bad, I'd quit). Otherwise I zip along and decide later whether to read it again for a better appreciation of the book's structure and style.

Having re-read the first four chapters of Swim, I'm looking forward to the rest. Avi has a light touch and lets the reader do some of the work, which I enjoy.

For instance, at the end of the very first paragraph; "Of course, after the letter arrived, none of that mattered anymore." 

Because of this letter, a young man living in California abandons a major project to return home to NZ. His mother is sick. 

In the second chapter, he's at home. Seen through his eyes, his mother is manipulative, fake. She was always that way. There's not much love. Nevertheless, he abandoned his previous plan. Why did it 'no longer matter', I wonder.

Childhood photos of him cover the interior of a closet in his room, a room within a room, every inch covered by photos. On every photo, the boy holds a wounded bird, occasionally a different animal, a mouse, or a ferret. He cares for the sick. This is hidden, though not from the mother.

We learn that his father committed suicide. I should not write any more.

An ordinary day

The painters have been here for four days, and there's more to come. They're in the lounge, in the hall, on the stairs, removing the old paper and plastering. Yesterday, a miracle happened: Peter and I agreed on new wallpaper, easily. It was not our first attempt. The paper may take a month or so to arrive, a breather from the tradies.

Since returning to my study, I have yet to clear my desk. Piles of papers. I don't know what they are. Somewhere among them is a request from the pension fund to attend to some admin. I am several months behind with this. I need to throw at least 50% away, clear space so that the children will not have to do it. I have a box of books for a 2nd hand bookshop, too heavy for me.

Two days ago I attended Renee's memorial. After mentioning Nicola Easthope because she couldn't make it, I read out the text Renee sent me when I was struggling with the book, telling me off for not working hard enough. It went down a treat, gales of laughter. Adrienne Jensen told me about the Landfall Press she and others have started. They are doing very well!

I have booked myself in to have my eyebrows and eyelashes dyed ('tinted')  - no makeup at sesshin. Left to their own devices, they are invisible and I look washed out, androgynous. Seshin starts on Monday, at Lake Rotoiti, by St. Arnaud.

I decided to keep a diary, to write like this every day as often as possible. I have now read two of Ian McEwan's books. He introduces evil into his stories, realistic and creepy. Not what I want, though I believe people tend to underestimate both its presence in our lives and its power. Then read Maggie O'Farrell's book I am, I am, I am. Seventeen brushes with death (Tinder press, 2017). Well written, but doesn't contribute anything, doesn't enlighten or surprise me: I had been writing up my own. Only five that I can remember. A little miffed she got there first - and much better! Her early years, before she became ill, resemble mine, desiring to be free, to follow whatever impulse arises, a need for stimulation, for excitement. 

Many criminals have the same urge; one theory claims it lies behind the impetus to offend. In one of McEwan's books, the criminal character displays it, in his case due to Huntington's.

Harold Pinter's poems on death (p. 263 and 221)

Meeting

It is the dead of night,

The long dead look out towards

The new dead

Walking towards them

There is a soft heartbeat 

As the dead embrace 

Those who are long dead

And those of the new dead 

Walking towards them

They cry and they kiss

As they meet again

For the first and last time

(No full stop at the end...)

  

Death

(Births and Deaths Registration Act 1953)

Where was the dead body found?

Who found the dead body?

Was the dead body dead when found?

How was the dead body found?

Who was the dead body?

Who was the father or daughter or brother

Or uncle or sister or mother or son

Of the dead and abandoned body?

 

Was the body dead when abandoned?

Was the body abandoned?

By whom had it been abandoned?

 

Was the dead body naked or dressed for a journey?

What made you declare the dead body dead?

How well did you know the dead body?

How did you know the dead body was dead?

Did you wash the dead body

Did you close both its eyes

Did you bury the body

 Did you leave it abandoned

 Did you kiss the dead body

I was careful about the punctuation. Neither poem ends with a full stop.

Harold Pinter's Old Times

 

I'm surprised. It was established today - via competitions - that I'm the worst player at the table tennis club. I thought I was progressing. Peter had warned me. He was right.

I picked up a book by Lady Antonia Fraser about her marriage to Harold Pinter Must you go? (2010, Weidenfeld & Nicolson). This copy has been withdrawn from New Plymouth library and there's no indication of its home. I don't know where I got it. I enjoyed much of it – how they met and their powerful rapport, the difficulties of managing a transition from their previous marriages to this one. The book is based on her diary, and some of it is tedious because this happened almost 50 years ago, many people are named who are no longer famous or well-known. I enjoyed the end of the book, where there's more detail about events. Also loved the poetry. The poem about death, which her son or her nephew (not his) read to the registrar for births and deaths. His own son was a tragedy.

Their meeting was serendipitous, in their 40s, both successful writers, though in different fields. Their backgrounds were also different. From what she wrote and from the photos in the book, they seem very close. They remind me of my own marriage, though Peter and I are not geniuses! We met at a party given by two people who lived in adjacent apartments which were open to everyone. He was invited by one and I by the other. On our first date, we experienced a strong connection and moved to live together soon after.  No other marriages needed dissolving, fortunately. We were also around 40 years old.

I find gifted people a mystery. Antonia Fraser writes that Pinter is a genius. So is she - many of her books best-sellers, on meaty historical subjects which others had written about already, less successfully.

The many authors and playwrights mentioned triggered a bout of book reservations from our public library: as I write this, I'm tempted to dip into one of Ian McEwan's books which I picked up yesterday. Wellington Library is an extraordinary resource. They always seem to have whatever book I read or hear about. I have four books on the go, and am about to pick up a fifth. My walk for the day.

I've now started reading Pinter’s plays. She mentions them often, from the sometimes inconvenient moment of inspiration, when they both hunt urgently for paper upon which to write the initial thought, until the play is performed. I've not read or seen them, but I've seen some of the films he wrote for.

The first play in the book of Pinter's plays is Old Times (1970, before he met Antonia). It's full of jolts and unexpected turns of phrase, in what seems on the surface an ordinary conversation between three people, a couple and the wife's best friend. I read it again, and then again. The commentary on the Wikipedia page contains factual errors, and anyway I don't agree with their analysis. 

Pinter was concerned with the unreliability of memory. In the play one person talks to another about the time they killed them, “and then you opened your eyes…” Was there a murder or not? Were there two murders? The wife is described as beautiful. She appears empty, hardly knowing how to express herself. Her language is bland, inexact.She says she prefers things damp, that water blurs things, like raindrops on eyelashes. Rather than the sharp edges of city life, she likes a reality with vague boundaries, the beach and the sea.

The husband is often away. He travels the globe, a word he prefers to the word ‘world’. The word ‘globe’ is also used to describe women’s buttocks. In a separate conversation, the husband and the visitor deplore the fact that the wife does not dry herself well after a bath (but we know she likes dampness, and wonder what business it is of theirs anyway) – particularly her buttocks. They agree easily, seeming well suited as a couple though they are not a couple. They sing phrases of the familiar old songs, which the wife says she's forgotten. 

I don't know why he cries. Twice. He sits 'crumpled' in a chair, which reminds me of a tissue, which absorbs damp...

There's also a game with the word 'proposing'. I must re read the play. Wikipedia reports that Anthony Hopkins, playing the husband, asked about the meaning of the ending. Pinter said, "Just do it."