Aug 12, 2022·edited Aug 12, 2022Liked by Alison Acheson
Horrifying to learn of the attack on Salman Rushdie, but grateful to have heard about it here. As you say, we live in a time of words being considered violent, and when people say this, that some expressions can be "a kind of violence," it troubles me. While speech can certainly be offensive and vile and hateful, etc., I want to say that only violence is ever violence, and to smudge definitions is to play a dangerous game. Because as soon as someone adopts the stance that "words can be a kind of violence," they're laying the groundwork to justify actual violence. I, for one, will try to find better words to describe the effects a person's words may have on me, rather than equating it to any kind of violence.
All the writers around the world who are jailed, killed, silenced. How grateful I am for their bravery. And we must keep writing about these oppressive regimes
This was the first I've heard of this. So sad this still must be part of his life.
It recalls to me a poem by Heather McHugh, called "What He Thought". It's published in her collection "Hinge & Sign" (a great collection). It reminds us that there is always the danger of violence when we write or speak: these are actions that we don't have control over how they are handled after we create them. Even more pertinent, when we're not exactly sure who is reading them, either.
To quote the poem, it ends with a beautiful exposition on Giodrdano Bruno,
I remember being appalled and majorly angered by the fatwa, killing and attack. It seemed the the profoundest of weakness that you cannot bean any point of view but your own to be out in the world, and you have so little faith in your own point of view that you have to kill others to preserve it, rather than let it stand on its own. The fatwa receded from my mind that last few years - and here it is again, at Chautauqua, a place where I attended a writers workshop, concerts - a calm, peaceful oasis. Before, however, wee write it off as a Muslim thing, remember that we have North Americans plotting to kill North Americans whose beliefs are not their own.
Oh my. I remember reading Haroun and the Sea of Stories out loud to my young sons while Rushdie was still in hiding. We all enjoyed the story so much. I told my sons, then about 5 and 7, about the fatwa and that Salman had to go into hiding. Both boys insisted that we write a fan letter to him to let him know how much we enjoyed his story. I did write a letter to his publisher, and never heard back; I'm sure he had lots on his mind at the time. If you haven't read this tale, I recommend it, it's really a love story for his son, for family, for the right to tell stories. At least that was my take, but it's a great gripping tale that becomes more and more relevant in my lifetime.
Thank you for this.
Holy crap. I was already in the States when he had to go into hiding, and that was a long time ago. Horrifying. I am so appalled to hear this.
Horrifying to learn of the attack on Salman Rushdie, but grateful to have heard about it here. As you say, we live in a time of words being considered violent, and when people say this, that some expressions can be "a kind of violence," it troubles me. While speech can certainly be offensive and vile and hateful, etc., I want to say that only violence is ever violence, and to smudge definitions is to play a dangerous game. Because as soon as someone adopts the stance that "words can be a kind of violence," they're laying the groundwork to justify actual violence. I, for one, will try to find better words to describe the effects a person's words may have on me, rather than equating it to any kind of violence.
All the writers around the world who are jailed, killed, silenced. How grateful I am for their bravery. And we must keep writing about these oppressive regimes
This was the first I've heard of this. So sad this still must be part of his life.
It recalls to me a poem by Heather McHugh, called "What He Thought". It's published in her collection "Hinge & Sign" (a great collection). It reminds us that there is always the danger of violence when we write or speak: these are actions that we don't have control over how they are handled after we create them. Even more pertinent, when we're not exactly sure who is reading them, either.
To quote the poem, it ends with a beautiful exposition on Giodrdano Bruno,
'brought to be burned in the public square
because of his offense against
authority, which is to say
the Church. His crime was his belief
the universe does not revolve around
the human being: God is no
fixed point or central government, but rather is
poured in waves through all things. All things
move. "If God is not the soul itself, He is
the soul of the soul of the world." Such was
his heresy. The day they brought him
forth to die, they feared he might
incite the crowd (the man was famous
for his eloquence). And so his captors
place upon his face
an iron mask, in which
'he could not speak. That's
how they burned him. That is how
he died: without a word, in front
of everyone.
And poetry—
(we'd all
put down our forks by now, to listen to
the man in gray; he went on
softly)—
poetry is what
'he thought, but did not say.'
I found the whole poem on Poetry Foundation: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50609/what-he-thought
I remember being appalled and majorly angered by the fatwa, killing and attack. It seemed the the profoundest of weakness that you cannot bean any point of view but your own to be out in the world, and you have so little faith in your own point of view that you have to kill others to preserve it, rather than let it stand on its own. The fatwa receded from my mind that last few years - and here it is again, at Chautauqua, a place where I attended a writers workshop, concerts - a calm, peaceful oasis. Before, however, wee write it off as a Muslim thing, remember that we have North Americans plotting to kill North Americans whose beliefs are not their own.
Thank-you Alison, Incredibly sad and shocking.
Oh my. I remember reading Haroun and the Sea of Stories out loud to my young sons while Rushdie was still in hiding. We all enjoyed the story so much. I told my sons, then about 5 and 7, about the fatwa and that Salman had to go into hiding. Both boys insisted that we write a fan letter to him to let him know how much we enjoyed his story. I did write a letter to his publisher, and never heard back; I'm sure he had lots on his mind at the time. If you haven't read this tale, I recommend it, it's really a love story for his son, for family, for the right to tell stories. At least that was my take, but it's a great gripping tale that becomes more and more relevant in my lifetime.
Thank you, Alison. Sickening. I was glad to hear today that Mr. Rushdie is off the ventilator.