Notes On A Writing Life 32
December 14 2021
Dear All,
The island where I live, Key West, is known for among other things its community of writers and artists. People ask me sometimes – where do the writers meet? For the last few decades, the community of writers here has been a matter of a loose-knit web of friendships, shared interests, neighborliness. We have never deliberately ‘met’ I think, except at the many parties there used to be in the 1990’s and early years of this century. Simply, on a small island we meet unofficially, by chance or in ones and twos, or at the yearly Literary Seminar (the one organized event for writers) or at book-signings, art openings, celebrations of one sort or another. We are here, we know about each other’s work, we show up for each other’s events. We go off and come back – so we are also in Cape Cod, California, Montreal, Paris, New York, Mexico, knowing this tiny island as our hub.
“Nobody’s life and writing exemplified this attitude more than Marie-Claire’s. Her many novels, plays and stories concern individuals, a community, as well as the dramas and catastrophes of the wider world. There were no limits to her ability to enter into the minds of a vast, diverse cast of characters. She has peopled this island, and the world.”
So when one of us departs – dies, leaves, or becomes ill and has to stop writing – we feel it. On the last day of November, our dear friend Marie-Claire Blais died at home in her house here. The gap she has left is huge, and painful. One writer friend said to me, “I didn’t know her well but she was part of my life.” Just so. She was a part of us all, and of this island that she loved. Her death diminishes us, as John Donne said – “No man (or woman) is an island.” We are each a part of the whole.
Nobody’s life and writing exemplified this attitude more than Marie-Claire’s. Her many novels, plays and stories concern individuals, a community, as well as the dramas and catastrophes of the wider world. There were no limits to her ability to enter into the minds of a vast, diverse cast of characters. She has peopled this island, and the world.
One of the last things she said to me: “If a writer is ill, and does not write, she will die.” She was writing right up to the last minute, two days before her death. When I go to my studio now, I’m doing it with her in mind, in respect for her commitment to her art, her discipline.
She was also a genius at friendship. Generous, interested, always asking eagerly, “But how are you?” We talked, for years, about our work, the books we were writing. We biked around the island, drank at Louie’s Back Yard in a rain storm and came home soaked and laughing. We lived close through hurricanes, ate pizza during the Covid pandemic in my backyard. We sat at the edge of the beach at the Casa Marina at sunset with my husband Allen – this last October, for her birthday - and listened to the ocean in darkness as we ate dinner. I feel immensely privileged to have been her friend. In the midst of sadness, always gratitude. At the heart of loss, the gift of those years in her company.
She gave me a copy of her latest novel, the last time I saw her, on November 25 of this year. Its title – “Un coeur habité de mille voix” (A heart inhabited by a thousand voices) is such an apt description of herself – of that ardent and inclusive heart of hers that finally gave way.
On the last page of the book, a lost cat comes back:
“We saw Comtesse come in, shaking the snow from her fur, I told you she’d come back, said René, ready to welcome the little cat who had been lost in the snow, I told you, Olga, that Comtesse would come back.”
(my translation from her French).
When I read it, I felt that about Marie-Claire – she will always be coming back home.
Affectionately, Ros
(And this is Monsieur Henri, the big tabby who was curled up next to her on that last day. He is now looking for a new home.)