The entire history of literature is a noble failure, says the novelist, a beautiful, heroic attempt to say something more lucid than what goes unsaid
My friend and I love one another. But that is not quite the right word. We rarely, if ever, speak about how we feel about each other. There have been moments, of course, when we have attempted to do so. I recall us once reminiscing about our first encounter, about how natural it had seemed, as though we had always known one another. Then, after the pause that followed, I suggested that perhaps some people one meets and others one recognises, which pleased him, but only a little. He had his own attempts at talking about our friendship, too. And each made me feel as I am sure mine made him feel: held in place, strangely cautious, a little uncomfortable.
Notwithstanding the fact that I am a writer and words are my business, it seems so plain to me that it is not in words that our most eloquent moments are to be found. Silence still has the upper hand. It is when nothing is said and my friend and I are, for example, walking side by side, that I can best detect something of the true nature of his regard. I don’t mean its description: the various emotions our relationship contains, the things and ideas and modes of being it makes possible when we are together. Language can report that.
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