There are too many coincidences in the spiritual realm to call them mere accidents. I have stayed away from this blog since the pandemic started, in fact I avoided it, partly because I didn’t want to expose myself to some painful memories that have now settled and transformed. Then suddenly today a political idea visited my creativity, and I grabbed it and wrote it out. A few minutes after posting it, I clicked through Facebook and came across a fundraiser created by a friend. A couple of sentences into reading the description my breath paused, my heart skipped a beat and it wasn’t until I scrolled down to see if an author was named that I realized what just happened. My suspicion was confirmed, he wrote the description, in his familiar, eloquent way.
As I read him again just like I did a little over a year ago when I first came across his writing in French, the exact same, inexplicable phenomenon happened, that happens every single time I read him. That mix of awe and shock paired with a certain recognition and familiarity. I would have to dig very deep into my own soul to understand that out of hundreds of articles, blogposts, books, essays, texts that I read and have read over the years, what kind of wicked combination of words trigger this absolutely unique reaction that I have to him. Is everyone who reads him triggered this way, or is it something programmed in me specifically that interprets his expression and flow of thought in this manner.
Looking back it was inexplicable how the first time I read him, my limited French comprehension led me to the same understanding and reaction. What kind of understanding is this? I don’t know. The closest explanation is finding the reflection of my own soul in his use of words. Is it the choice of words, is it the order of the words, is it the flow of thought or the thoughtfulness behind the meaning? Yes and no. And all of it and something more. Something invisible, that lies between the lines. In the space between the words. A charge of some sort that hits me like lightning upon parsing his phrases. The shocking thing is that it doesn’t matter if the text is in English or in French, it’s all the same. There is a sense of deep recognition that is not language dependent. Some sort of spiritual recognition…which I will never understand, since he is far gone, and has never let me close enough for long enough to explore and identify the roots and cause of my affinity for his spirit reflected through his writing.
I could go back and dig. analyze every phrase, the structure, the intended meaning, the sentiment, the intention and the unintended disclosures of his soul. It would give me joy, since one quick read barely scratches the surface, and there are tremendous treasures underneath it. I could do spiritual archeology, to uncover every little detail and gain insight into this magic, but I dare not. It is blinding as the Sun. While one is drawn to it and would like to take a good look, at the same time one feels the destructive nature of that merciless brilliance. I can’t go back, and fall in love with his soul all over again through reading him, and then desperately pursue him, begging a crumb of his time here and there to share himself with me, while driving myself to insanity. Wisdom says, some things are best left to the unknown and to oblivion. He is one of those eternal mysteries.