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Authors: Julian Barnes
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with; never again wait for her footstep, smile at the sound of an opening door, fit her body into mine, mine into hers. Nor do I believe we shall meet again in some dematerialised form. I believe dead is dead. Some think grief a kind of violent if justifiable self-pity; some that it is merely one’s own reflection in death’s eye; others say it’s the survivor they feel sorry for, because they’re the one going through it, whereas the lost loved one can no longer suffer. Such approaches try to handle grief by minimising it – and doing the same with death. It’s true that some of my grief is self-directed – look what I have lost, look how my life has been diminished – but it is more, much more, and has been from the beginning, about her: look what she has lost, now that she has lost life. Her body, her spirit; her radiant curiosity about life. At times it feels as if life itself is the greatest loser, the true bereaved party, because it is no longer subjected to that radiant curiosity of hers.
The griefstruck are angered when others shy away from the facts, the truth, even the simple use of a name. Yet how much truth do the griefstruck themselves tell, and how often do they collude in evasion? Because the truths they have fallen into, not just up to their knees, but their hearts, necks, brains, are sometimes indefinable; or even if definable, inexpressible. I remember a friend who suffered from gallstones and had an operation for their removal. He said it had been the most painful thing he had ever endured. He was a journalist, and used to describing things; I asked if he could describe the pain. He looked at me, his eyes watered at the memory, and he remained silent; he couldn’t find words which came close to being useful. And words fail also at a lower, merely conversational level. When I was hot in grief an acquaintance asked me, in front of others, ‘So, how are you?’ I shook my head to imply that this wasn’t the place (it was across a noisy lunch table). He persisted, as if helpfully refining the question, ‘No, but how are you in yourself?’ I waved him away; besides, I felt not in myself but way out of myself. I could have passed it off by saying, for example, ‘A bit up and down.’ That would have been a proper, prim and English answer. Except that the griefstruck rarely feel either proper, prim, or even English.
You ask yourself: to what extent in this turmoil of missing am I missing her, or missing the life we had together, or missing what it was in her that made me more myself, or missing simple companionship, or (not so simple) love, or all or any overlapping bits of each? You ask yourself: what happiness is there in just the memory of happiness? And how in any case might that work, given that happiness has only ever consisted of something shared? Solitary happiness – it sounds like a contradiction in terms, an implausible contraption that will never get off the ground.
The question of suicide arrives early, and quite logically. Most days I pass the stretch of pavement I was looking across at when the idea first came to me. I will give it x months, or x years (up to a maximum of two), and then, if I cannot live without her, if my life is reduced to mere passive continuance, I shall become active. I knew soon enough my preferred method – a hot bath, a glass of wine next to the taps, and an exceptionally sharp Japanese carving knife. I thought of that solution fairly often, and still do. They say (there is a lot of ‘they say’ around grief and grief-bearing) that thinking about suicide reduces the risk of suicide. I don’t know if this is true: for some, it must help them elaborate their planning. So, presumably, thinking about it can cut both ways.
A friend whose partner died of Aids after they had been together eight years said two things to me: ‘It’s just a question of getting through the night’ and ‘There’s only one good thing – you can do what you
The griefstruck are angered when others shy away from the facts, the truth, even the simple use of a name. Yet how much truth do the griefstruck themselves tell, and how often do they collude in evasion? Because the truths they have fallen into, not just up to their knees, but their hearts, necks, brains, are sometimes indefinable; or even if definable, inexpressible. I remember a friend who suffered from gallstones and had an operation for their removal. He said it had been the most painful thing he had ever endured. He was a journalist, and used to describing things; I asked if he could describe the pain. He looked at me, his eyes watered at the memory, and he remained silent; he couldn’t find words which came close to being useful. And words fail also at a lower, merely conversational level. When I was hot in grief an acquaintance asked me, in front of others, ‘So, how are you?’ I shook my head to imply that this wasn’t the place (it was across a noisy lunch table). He persisted, as if helpfully refining the question, ‘No, but how are you in yourself?’ I waved him away; besides, I felt not in myself but way out of myself. I could have passed it off by saying, for example, ‘A bit up and down.’ That would have been a proper, prim and English answer. Except that the griefstruck rarely feel either proper, prim, or even English.
You ask yourself: to what extent in this turmoil of missing am I missing her, or missing the life we had together, or missing what it was in her that made me more myself, or missing simple companionship, or (not so simple) love, or all or any overlapping bits of each? You ask yourself: what happiness is there in just the memory of happiness? And how in any case might that work, given that happiness has only ever consisted of something shared? Solitary happiness – it sounds like a contradiction in terms, an implausible contraption that will never get off the ground.
The question of suicide arrives early, and quite logically. Most days I pass the stretch of pavement I was looking across at when the idea first came to me. I will give it x months, or x years (up to a maximum of two), and then, if I cannot live without her, if my life is reduced to mere passive continuance, I shall become active. I knew soon enough my preferred method – a hot bath, a glass of wine next to the taps, and an exceptionally sharp Japanese carving knife. I thought of that solution fairly often, and still do. They say (there is a lot of ‘they say’ around grief and grief-bearing) that thinking about suicide reduces the risk of suicide. I don’t know if this is true: for some, it must help them elaborate their planning. So, presumably, thinking about it can cut both ways.
A friend whose partner died of Aids after they had been together eight years said two things to me: ‘It’s just a question of getting through the night’ and ‘There’s only one good thing – you can do what you
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