Living on a few lines

I.

I write. I choose the pencil, the paper, the place. Texture matters, the weather too.

At night my pencil is slower, quieter. The night is a charged place for me. On my desk I have the diary of Etty Hillesum, her words, her presence, her attention.

In 1941 Etty Hillesum, a young Jewish woman, began a diary that she kept until her death in Auschwitz. Her pages hold the record of a life lived under threat, but also of thought, courage, and hope. She wrote about the small details of ordinary days while history was closing in around her. Her words remain as a fragile but powerful reminder of what was lost, and what survived.

I underline, I annotate, I scribble on the sides. I leave a trace, a piece of myself on the page. Later I make a list of questions: What did Etty do? Where did she go? What time of the day she wrote? What did she dream? Could you dream in the summer of 1941 as a young Jewish woman?

II

I open the window. Autumn is about to begin. The air is fresh, soft, cold. The sky is clear. A single star hangs there—lonely, solitary, melancholic. At night, words become amplified.

Creatures emerge from my thoughts. I remain looking at the sky, my desk only a few steps away.

Did Etty know? A short life, a world that does not ask for permission. Did she write for herself? Did she write for us?

Her diary is open. Her letters have been read many times. I make a map of Amsterdam, an attempt to understand.

I collect words, moods, an expression on her face, a line of hope here and there.

III.

I move away from the window. My body heave, my eyes tired. It is deep and dark outside. On the desk the abat-jour illuminates a pace. I select a word, transcribe it in my notebook. A notebook is a village, it seams together I’s.

Dangerous longings.

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Dense secrets are revealed, or so I think. I don’t read, I am just here, one word, many meanings. Does the night control us? The moon, where is she?

What was the last thing Etty saw? A naked body, beauty, terror or perhaps hope? I want to write a poem for Etty, a poem of home, love, peace.

IV.

I make another list. This time of her favorite writers:

Rainer Maria Rilke

Fyoder Dostoevsky

On Rilke, Etty writes:

“ Take Rilke. A single line is suddenly more important to me than — well, what? I’ve been living on a few lines of his Rodin book for months now”.

On Dostoevsky:

“ I still remember reading him — was it during Christmas vacation? — at home. Until I was dazed, exhausted and stupefied, hundred of thousands of pages on end. And now, just a few pages. Every so often, although these few I then actively recreate, carrying them about with me everywhere for days.

… Dostoevsky has been pursuing me of late, striking home time after time. I suddenly came across a short quotation from Dostoevsky with which I shall end for today:

“It is wrong to judge people as you do. There is no love in you, only strict justice; that makes you unjust”.