rather as though there was something she wanted to say; that something being
these long lists.
They took two forms. In the afternoon it was objects, in
the eve ning people.
Before she went to sleep, before the woman came in to her, I would sometimes sit on
her bed. She lay on her back, she would be close to dropping off.
Then she would start to name the names of all the people she knew, or who she had met, or
who she had only
heard of—a very great number of names.
She could go on for a long time, perhaps as much as half
an hour. It was
impossible to understand how one child could contain so many people.
From the start I
knew that in what she was saying lay a message.
The first thing you realized was
that she did it all of her own accord. There was no external prompting, no
encouragement or reward.
It was the first thing you noticed.
There had to be pleasure simply in using the words. It was
the first time I
understood this. That, if no one hinders a person, or assesses them, then maybe there is
pleasure in just being allowed to use the words.
There is no explanation for this pleasure. It is like the
questions in the laboratory—that is to say, uncertain and impossible to put more clearly.
Besides this pleasure there was yet another, profound,
message. I understood
this the first time I was left alone with her.
The woman had gone out. Just as she was leaving, she looked at me for a moment and I knew that
perhaps she was doing this—I mean, leaving us alone—for my sake.
The child sat beside me on the sofa. I looked at
her and the thought occurred to me that now this was my responsibility. For the first time.
I had looked after people before; looked after some of the ones you went to school with. That had
been easier. They had been a bit older, and most of them were having a pretty bad time of
it. You had known
that no matter what you did, things could not get much worse for them. Even with August
it had been simpler, all you could do for him was try to find the last resort.
With the child it is different. You have this idea that
maybe there is a
chance for her. That no one has ruined anything for her yet. That she can eat what she wants
and she has the woman and is with a family, and she has never been hit.
Then comes a time when you are alone with her, and then
it is difficult to
know what you are supposed to do.
You know that the only thing in her life that means
anything is the woman, and now she has gone. The only one left is you. Who are pretty much worthless. And who have nothing special to give to other people.
It was unnerving, you have no
idea what you are supposed to do. I grew pretty uneasy.
To begin with I
said nothing, did nothing.
She had walked over to the door through which the woman
had left. She called
to me from there. I went over to her.
She was very grave. The skin of her face seemed very thin,
ready to split, like
paper. Beneath it lay an unfathomable sorrow.
But she did not
cry. It was like she was trying out something.
"We'll wait
here," she said.
We sat down, with our backs against the door. The hallway
was cold. We sat side
by side. Then she looked up at me.
"Mommy's
coming back soon," she said.
Soon. It was the first time she had
ever referred to time.
Then I understood
the message in her lists.
It was order. The message was order. What she had told me was that she was trying to put the
world in order.
On the floor, when
I had sat down beside her, I had seen , as if
through her eyes, how the world seemed to her. Big. Overwhelming. Through this chaos, by way of the
words, she tried to lay tunnels of order.
To organize is to recognize. To know that, in an endless,
un known sea, there is an island upon
which you have set foot before. It was
islands such as these that she had been pointing out. With the words she had created for herself a web of
familiar people and objects.
"Mommy's
coming back soon."
She had introduced order into the chaotic sorrow at being
sepa rated
these long lists.
They took two forms. In the afternoon it was objects, in
the eve ning people.
Before she went to sleep, before the woman came in to her, I would sometimes sit on
her bed. She lay on her back, she would be close to dropping off.
Then she would start to name the names of all the people she knew, or who she had met, or
who she had only
heard of—a very great number of names.
She could go on for a long time, perhaps as much as half
an hour. It was
impossible to understand how one child could contain so many people.
From the start I
knew that in what she was saying lay a message.
The first thing you realized was
that she did it all of her own accord. There was no external prompting, no
encouragement or reward.
It was the first thing you noticed.
There had to be pleasure simply in using the words. It was
the first time I
understood this. That, if no one hinders a person, or assesses them, then maybe there is
pleasure in just being allowed to use the words.
There is no explanation for this pleasure. It is like the
questions in the laboratory—that is to say, uncertain and impossible to put more clearly.
Besides this pleasure there was yet another, profound,
message. I understood
this the first time I was left alone with her.
The woman had gone out. Just as she was leaving, she looked at me for a moment and I knew that
perhaps she was doing this—I mean, leaving us alone—for my sake.
The child sat beside me on the sofa. I looked at
her and the thought occurred to me that now this was my responsibility. For the first time.
I had looked after people before; looked after some of the ones you went to school with. That had
been easier. They had been a bit older, and most of them were having a pretty bad time of
it. You had known
that no matter what you did, things could not get much worse for them. Even with August
it had been simpler, all you could do for him was try to find the last resort.
With the child it is different. You have this idea that
maybe there is a
chance for her. That no one has ruined anything for her yet. That she can eat what she wants
and she has the woman and is with a family, and she has never been hit.
Then comes a time when you are alone with her, and then
it is difficult to
know what you are supposed to do.
You know that the only thing in her life that means
anything is the woman, and now she has gone. The only one left is you. Who are pretty much worthless. And who have nothing special to give to other people.
It was unnerving, you have no
idea what you are supposed to do. I grew pretty uneasy.
To begin with I
said nothing, did nothing.
She had walked over to the door through which the woman
had left. She called
to me from there. I went over to her.
She was very grave. The skin of her face seemed very thin,
ready to split, like
paper. Beneath it lay an unfathomable sorrow.
But she did not
cry. It was like she was trying out something.
"We'll wait
here," she said.
We sat down, with our backs against the door. The hallway
was cold. We sat side
by side. Then she looked up at me.
"Mommy's
coming back soon," she said.
Soon. It was the first time she had
ever referred to time.
Then I understood
the message in her lists.
It was order. The message was order. What she had told me was that she was trying to put the
world in order.
On the floor, when
I had sat down beside her, I had seen , as if
through her eyes, how the world seemed to her. Big. Overwhelming. Through this chaos, by way of the
words, she tried to lay tunnels of order.
To organize is to recognize. To know that, in an endless,
un known sea, there is an island upon
which you have set foot before. It was
islands such as these that she had been pointing out. With the words she had created for herself a web of
familiar people and objects.
"Mommy's
coming back soon."
She had introduced order into the chaotic sorrow at being
sepa rated
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