Hey everyone,
One of the main reasons I began to write is because I would read pieces of writing that would evoke an abundance of emotions in me that I related to or felt comforted by, and I wanted to create something that would give rise to similar emotions in other people. A specific recollection of such a moment is when I read a short piece called “The Opposite of Loneliness” by Marina Keegan and felt extremely comfortable during a rough time. I was curious to hear about other people’s experiences reading specific works that became special to them, and if possible what made them special.
Best,
Agastya Ahluwalia
Hello Agastya,
I can recall the feeling of being thoroughly understood and accepted and loved by pieces of writing, like the comments already here have mentioned, but for some reason I cannot call to mind the specific names of pieces or authors that have given me this feeling despite racking my brains and pouring through my Goodreads account. So instead, I’ll suggest two books, both of which have changed the way I view life, death, and the states of being in between.
The first is Paul Kalanithi’s “When Breath Becomes Air.” I think my original Goodreads first-impression review of this one says it the best that I ever will, so I will simply quote that here:
“This book. Every now and again I come across a book that just hits right…there, shattering my heart and mind and soul to pieces. That was this book. It was thought-provoking, powerful, and heart-wrenching in all the right places and, as a premedical student, really made me think about the roles of doctor and patient and how sometimes the lines between the two can blur just enough to give each a deeper understanding of where the other is coming from. Paul Kalanithi’s voice is beautiful and artful and made me simply stop sometimes to admire the power of his words. It is a book I’m telling myself I will pick up regularly between now and the end of my journey as a physician because sometimes we all need a good jolting reminder of why we do what we do. All I can say to Kalanithi is thank you for breaking and remaking me through ink and paper in all the right ways.”
The second book is Atul Gawande’s “Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End.” This book explores death and what it means to die in the United States versus other countries and it discusses whether our current paradigm of treating aging and the dying process as a disease of its own is truly beneficial to the dying and their loved ones. It discusses some of the fundamental differences between living long and living well and critically explores the ways in which we care for the elderly in our society.
Both books changed the way I saw the field of medicine and my future in it and I would highly recommend both even to those who aren’t particularly interested in medicine.
Hi Agastya!
This question is really hard. Without overthinking, my answer is David Sedaris’ “Laugh, Kookaburra.” It is short memoir that jumps around to different places, people, and times in Sedaris’ life and that are seemingly unrelated. By the end, however, he seamlessly ties them all together. I remember reading it for the first time and being amazed by his ability to take what appear to be completely mundane and minuscule moments from his life yet he pulls so much meaning from them. It is a story about his relationship with his father, primarily, but every memory he brings up propels the story forward, even if it isn’t obvious in the moment. Also, his honesty and wit as a speaker is just enthralling.
Hi Agastya,
This really is a difficult question!
I’m continually drawn back to a novel called “Mink River” by Brian Doyle for its poignant depiction of people integrated with place. The novel’s omniscient narrator jumps between many characters within the coastal town of Neawanaka, Oregon in gorgeous prose that rambles and runs on the way real people speak to each other in unrehearsed, casual interactions. Doyle’s characters are so layered and full of life that reading his work infuses me with a distinct desire to experience things as deeply and passionately as I can.
“On Saturday Sara and Michael and the girls, three of them if you count the one in Sara’s womb, have breakfast together, waffles and jam and peanut butter, and peanut butter gets all over the table, but just as Michael is about to growl at the younger girl who made the mess she bursts out laughing with such a peal of hilarious clear clean unadulterated unmodulated unselfconscious artless merriment that he has to grin, and then he takes the two girls to the beach for the morning, it’s low tide and they can piddle and putter and puddle in the tide flats, digging for mole crabs…”
I also come back again and again to Louise Erdrich’s work, particularly her novel, “Love Medicine,” which similarly incorporates many characters’ perspectives into a big tale of family and trauma and growth and joy and the messiness in between. I’m amazed by her ability as an author to create and inhabit characters so disparate from one another in a way that is convincing and often heart wrenchingly beautiful in their raw honesty.
“‘Don’t want no more?’
‘Later on,’ I said. ‘Keep talking.’
Lipsha’s voice was a steady bridge over a deep black space of sickness I was crossing. If I just kept listening I knew I’d get past all right. He was talking about King. His voice was slurred and dreamy.
…
‘It’s because of the temperature, the difference sets them off.’ He was talking about the northern lights. Although he never did well in school, Lipsha knew surprising things. He read books about computers and volcanoes and the life cycles of salamanders. Sometimes he used words I had to ask him the meaning of, and other times he didn’t make even the simplest sense. I loved him for being both ways. A wash of love swept me over the sickness. I sat up.”
I have both of these books on the shelf by my bed. I pick them up and page through them when I’m feeling particularly lost or confused. It’s not necessarily that they directly answer my questions, but they settle me in their assuredness. The voices of the characters and the environments in both novels are incredibly clear and cut straight through to my center, waking me up.
Hello Agastya!
What a question! There are so many pieces of writing that I have read in my short life that have been so special to me. If I had to pick just one, however, I would choose the short poem by Emily Dickinson that is titled “Life, Poem 6”.
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
I received a collection of Emily Dickinson’s poems as a Christmas gift when I was 14. I began to read through it and when I reached this particular poem, I circled it multiple times and starred it and highlighted it. I did not want to forget this poem. I had never encountered a piece of writing that so perfectly embodied the mantra that I wanted to follow in life. If I do just one good thing in this world, I will not have lived for nothing. I guess it shaped my mission in life. When I think about why I want to enter the medical field, I know it is because, a) I love biology and human anatomy/body systems, and b) I hope to ease one life the aching or cool one pain.
Hi Agastya! This question is excruciating(!!!) because there’s so many pieces of writing that have touched me in so many ways that I might as well be made out of papier-mache. But when it comes to comfort, I think no one does it better than Mary Oliver:
“I know, you never intended to be in this world. / But you’re in it all the same. / So why not get started immediately.” (the fourth sign of the zodiac)
I came across her work during a rough time in my life, and reading all the tender ways she wrote about nature and art and what it means to be human felt like someone was both staring into my soul and also like softly cupping my cheek. She writes in the mode of relief.
“I thought the earth / remembered me, she / took me back so tenderly, arranging / her dark skirts, her pockets / full of lichens and seeds.” (sleeping in the forest)
I think hope, as an artistic objective, is underrated. And the way that Oliver does it isn’t the cliched, Disney-fied, way of scrubbing out the unpalatable either. She recognizes its presence and then says “okay, now where do we go from here?” It’s a choice. She chooses tenderness.
“You do not have to be good. / You do not have to walk on your knees / for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. / You only have to let the soft animal of your body / love what it loves.” (wild geese)
Switching gears to writings that touch us for how they’re relatable, it’s such an indescribable feeling when someone else is able to put to words your own experience. One you’ve never seen anyone try to do. It’s both validating and strange. Are there two people in this mirror? When I read Ocean Vuong write about themes that involve growing up in an Asian immigrant household, it makes me want to cry.
“That night I promised myself I’d never be wordless when you needed me to speak for you. So began my career as our family’s official interpreter. From then on, I would fill in our blanks, our silences, stutters, whenever I could. I code switched. I took off our language and wore my English, like a mask, so that others would see my face, and therefore yours.” (on earth we’re briefly gorgeous)
To be seen! To be stripped raw! I will never get over just the power(!!) words and stories have. How they seem to say: ‘this is how I feel. Do you feel this way too?’ And the answer here is yesyesyesyesyes.
Yes to hope as an underrated artistic objective!!