editorial

Editorial – Pawan N Hira

Rebirth Of Author : Interpretation, Education, and Cultural Narrativity

Non Fiction Essay

 

Editorial Blur – The Uncertain Collection of The Quiet Letter

What is an author? The author is foremost the only artist who has to live through words and words are so connoted and relativized according to an environment that an author has to know more to become less. On a panoramic level, if there were no artists, no human progress would have taken place because artists of all kinds move life itself through darkest days and they have always been the primary site of imagination offering themselves to the lens of scientific curiosity but our focus is on author as a host of weaving culture of words over centuries crossing many disciplines as the sole sailor moving somewhere, here or there.

“That author broke in tears
When a second before the author was in smiles

The author understood the meaning of Sentence
When a second before the author understood freedom”

The author is a self sentenced person who has buried himself or herself over a heap of lines and paragraphs which interconnect now and then to provide a new gap to look through their own doings as a person who has come to terms with the life of an author to be experienced. The author writes because he or she has found his or her cell where words are his or her food to find some money after all. The author before becoming an author knows not the journey of a sentence he or she is courting while exploring depth and breadth of different seas like worlds of words from novels, poems, criticism gulping them whole while at the end is famished and hungry to have a bit of fragment in a sentence.

The author meets the sentence and forgets it quickly in jest then waits after which he or she wonders on and on. If he or she ponders on and on, he or she becomes a philosopher and if he or she wonders on and on then a novelist and a critic and if he or she does both the things equally then he or she becomes a poet lost in his or her own music. The author can be the three or four of them like a classical site where oral and memory narratives heave upon his or her breast to sift through them and glue them with the contemporary lens of what is lacking in the public discourse of imagination. The author thus becomes clinical and temporal with no form in particular except to travel through all of them like time or wind, moving in and out from it. The form of criticism that is essay is the locus for an author to continually put things in perspective when the other side wanders away in creative forms and imaginary landscapes and altogether in criticism as well as creative work, one thing plays an important role and that is the arrival of a sentence.

The arrival of a sentence for an author in the writing process is a beautiful thing which has an immense value: to expand on its own as if the words in that particular sentence had brought with them a whole history of several periods of observation. The sentence comes from a long silence and both are attracted to each other to invade each other through a play of words in love.

That arrival of a sentence in their work is the predicament of an author who is exhausted finally after sailing across many seas through other words because he or she could not sail in reality and that sentence in their work gives him or her an immense laughter, a sense of belonging in a thread loom of humanity to weave something that can become another great sail so that another one can arrive from here or there to know the meaning of what a sentence is. It is brightly suggestive that the sentence in their work is the mirror reflection of what an author is—a creature of solitude and company, a sign of contradiction, a sentence in a sentence.

The long sentence for an author through sentences is, however, not self imposed in a direct manner. The author in the beginning of his or her career is unaware of the dive through words which are akin to woods and each word laps in lush light when the author starts the day in the early morning when birds are yet to open up their vocals in a dim faint light of night passing by in its last hour and it is then the sentence in a work reflects what the author is.

The sentence for an author though is a long exile to escape the selves from one text to a work, one form to another in a constant slowness to realize that the sentence may end some day while deep down this sentiment of being sentenced by one’s own doing places author as the only artist who has speech in a sentence tied with words as a long bridge and which makes the author as the only artist who is the mirror image of silence. Not only that but also the author as the top worker in the chain of humanity where his and her flights and fancy allow a chance to rethread real broken narratives of many lives which are evoked through characters by taking them in from the real ground of society and adding a splash of colour through words to play in the woods long before a dawn happens and long before the machinery of human work and chores start. The author is a foundational brick carrying history of ideas and travelling through them he or she arrives to meet his or her own act as an observer.

The author is the sentence and the player of his or her own act pulling strings anew to make a work of art through text. The author lives through many of his or her sentences which starts always with a single sentence arriving like a core from where fragments of other words attract to it like bees towards a beehive ready to churn out a nectar in the form of a text. It is with that single sentence when found after intense play of theatrics in a lonely playground does the author know the worth of his or her long sentence to be lived through a life to push out sentences wrapped in all kinds of design which are not always of nectar but a broad picture of everything that is good and bad equally.

The author is the room itself where silence is known and unlike a person in a cell has his or her meals and pleasure in minutest and most childish moments which allow a flight across the seas once again from where he or she had arrived and stayed like a drowned case forever in the bosom of the sea. The author is the worst sailor then but the only sailor who has been able to provide sense of the moon and the sun and the stars aligned with many a fabrications of this or that tales to live by and interweave myths and magic to let the author in sentence survive. All this is for the soul and in case someone arrives as a reader then the author will drown him or her too in care and kindness to make him or her understand what it means to be alive and yet feel dead as an author of sentences after sentences in a sentence forgotten now but evoked by the author long ago when not sure of what life was there to see.

The author when in intense struggle with a text can see two sides of it knowing how it is seen from an omniscient lens and perhaps many a writer who live through it know how a text can weigh their conscience. A tiny fragment, a paragraph of interpretation which would add another layer to the already mystified understanding of a given matter that is at most the most serious one related to one’s history, culture, and society. The author here then becomes the poet to silence many a sentences and paragraphs which are not ambivalent and open to interpretation as he or she likes to have it but then he or she chooses to neglect them and at times also chews them back like a cow still with a distant sight on a busy road with a jaw working on and on for something that is hurting to the core.

The author lets them die with himself or herself and allows no seed of such a thing that had weighed his or her conscience in a bitter mark of being alive as a person in a long sentence. The author puts them into the basement of the deep sea of words or the intricate paths of the woods from where he or she picks up the drive to write and thus the author escapes many such one sided interpretations of texts of certain nature that arrive with coldness and objectivity in the foreground but are texts which have a notion of violence recorded in them in innocence and thus the author becomes the poet to not leave the text outside in the world which could trivialize the meaning of it into a cauldron of boiling temparements of many sides into one fight over a text and yet the author unbeknownst to himself while in a heap of transitional sentences in the long period of a single sentence, throws out many other texts outside which to him and her are nothing of certain nature but of weakness and the author so then becomes the person who eats his and her own tail or tongue and like a person with no guilt, the author commits the original sin of whatever kind that is through such weak texts because of that one long sentence in which he or she has to live through his or her life and which was given to him or her with no fault of himself or herself.

Ages ago, the ability to write a sentence after sentence arrived when the author fought the primary author within who liked to have no play with words because of the human narrative already broken apart by The Book, the sole book of one’s culture. The author since long ago is inevitably the mid-wife to birth a discipline in a field of knowledge system and the last critical rise of author equally came around with a host of many signs to counter post world-war II with the birthing of many disciplines in humanities, social sciences, and sciences. It was a liberating act of procreation which found its germ in postmodernism and was lost equally in several branches of discourses. It was the greatest period of initialising a practice of including several narratives with differing point of views and led to birth of many authors in continuity. Yet it has been berated because of its looseness in our contemporary period where causes have diverted from their core to a series of chaotic expressions. This age however shows the onset of impulsive era of short-spanned generation of people who can be the emblem for narrativizing our contemporary period post technological renaissance with a classical finesse to touch on matters hitherto always seen struggling in a vain tussle between academic writing and creative writing. The rise of author thus is the rise of discipline of education to break out of the nihilist sense of being alive in this world and deliver the promise of literacy to the next generation. However, the author was never supposed to be so.

The author in the beginning time primarily in his or her mind liked his or her text to have no other interpretation but a sole interpretation akin to The Book but the author came beyond the illusion of it and indeed there was a pang in his or her heart for a long sentence to live through as an author. It is so then to derive the reward to write sentence after sentence as a right, the author kept punishing himself or herself for being a sailor of words which were made in the mid-air and so to chart a different course the author centuries ago started to leave a thread of open texts which helped to look into the mirror of our society where a heap of interpretations could open up from all the sides of a text by all kinds of people as it was read and explored and filled with new meanings and words which is what the author then liked the readers to do while knowing the author within himself or herself carried a double-edged sword and so to keep them busy in opening the threads of a text to have many interpretations while finally helping them in kindness to come on the shore and play the ball of a text with questions and not lie in amusement or in waiting for a dictatorial text up from above the sky as if coming out of a book falling from there.

The author then has the right to chuckle because of this one long sentence to live through the life where grief is potent and because of the contradictions to have to live with a sense of weight and childishness which arrives when measuring a text for its potential harm or goodness and through which the author always fails (and liberates) to choose the wrong one which is the right one while the right one which has no room for interpretation like a dictatorial sentence or a paragraph in a text is further damned into the basement of a sea to never allow it to rise again and this humoruous stance of the serious author is a reflection of what a mirror is to a society. The author moves past the existential struggle of being a human with the wrong text.

The author thus like a scientist kills many right texts which have an energy so charged up and so right, for the author when he or she writes them knows that because of his or her long sentence that they are the most heartless ones carrying within their phrases and sentences a whole gamut of emptiness depicting blackness devoid of any light except the light of the author as an omniscient narrator of everything which is always a false light made in illusion as the authors since centuries have known how books came in our world through an earliest author who became humble to open a path for many books othwerwise primarily all were hitherto glued to The Book in respect of their cultural narrative to fall back and push each other against each other in the name of one’s religion and culture. The author hence chooses colour to prescribe something beyond the blackness inherent in such one book narrative of their respective cultures and allows a relative production of many a truths to ensemble together in their own fragile light with their own weak text like his and her which has colours but no strength or spine of one book that makes people fight. The author is thus a lover of one’s bosom and in a single line it penetrates deeper into the archival mysteries of our mind.

The author thus kills many right texts in which a reader might not find the illusion of the world of words because such texts are so literal and direct that no room for a metaphor humour is ever present and with a sharp sense of judging it on his or her own the author makes such texts die to open the garden in light and love even if there is a disorder in a wrong text because a wrong text mirrors the most real of our society which is broken hilariously in divisions while also showing the blood and violence in divisions of all kinds that is shared by humans altogether. The wrong text is a wandering body of a paragraph stomach built on a heap of sentences which further dance weakly on metaphors and symbols like a burning matchstick and which can open up a trajectory of hundreds of synonyms for a single word in a single sentence and so then to arrive at the door of such a wrong text, the author in his or her long sentence has had to punish himself or herself with the killing and erasure of the right text which adds no value at all to the imagination of humanity.

Pawan Nooroo Hira (@RamtiloPNH) is a poet, novelist and an editor-founder at The Quiet Letter. The Essay is a part of The Quiet Letter – Editorial Blur where blurred is the line here and there. It takes its new model from a previous discourse archive which has now been cancelled at The Quiet Letter.

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