About fifteen years ago, when I was a visiting lecturer at the Mass Communication Department, Kelaniya University, I gave the students a simple exercise. They were required to write down all the advertisements from the main gate to the classroom. Not many did it and even those who made an effort missed much more than they noticed.
Several years before that, wandering around Times Square in New York City, it occurred to me that this was a place that was made of advertisements. Where there is space, it seems to me, there’s bound to be an advertisement. People selling something, encouraging others to buy some product or service or support some cause. Ads in all colors, all sizes and shapes, and in all kinds of places. You just can’t escape them. City spaces, trains, buses, taxis, other vehicles, television sets, radios and, as of now, electronic devices are ad-ridden.
But it’s not advertising that I want to write about. It’s about what we capture in our writing and how we capture it.
Years ago, I felt that the world is full of metaphors. Just like ads. And that led me to conclude that the world is made of stories and poetry. It’s all there but not neatly arranged. There are verses but they are scattered. Indeed the lines of a single poem are not necessarily organised as one finds them in the pages of an anthology of poetry. There are innumerable scores of music, only it’s as if someone has jumbled the sheets. There are incredible sculptures but they are still frozen in all kinds of material.
I told this to the poet Saumya Sandaruwan Liyanage; just the part about metaphors and poetry. He agreed and proceeded to write a poem about it which I believe is in his latest book of poems, ‘Ithin Kaviyani Hondata Ninda Yanavada Reta (So tell me, poets, do you sleep well at night)?’
So what writers and other kinds of artists do is essentially ‘transcribing.’ They know how to put things together. They gather scattered words and rearrange them. They extract a statue from a rock. They know which arrangement of notes go with other arrangements of notes. They know that color, line and space have been scrambled, so they decode it all. They see movement and draw from it dance.
And so we get literature, art, sculpture, music and dance. Transcribed from the world around the creative artist. And it is always incomplete. We always have to console ourselves with a slice, beautifully expressed no doubt, but still just a part-transcription. There’s text that is readable, photographs that speak a thousand words as they say, music that makes us weep but it is never more than shedding light on some place that’s hidden on account of shade.
There are limitations. Gabriel Garcia Marquez, in an wonderfully crafted essay titled ‘Something else on literature and reality’ in ‘The Scandal of the Century and Other Writings’ expressed a truth that is rarely if ever acknowledged: ‘A very serious problem that our disproportionate reality poses for literature is the insufficiency of words.’
In short, exhaustive transcription is not possible. He puts it this way, ‘Just in Mexico many volumes would have to be written to express its incredible reality. After almost twenty years there, I could still spend entire hours, as I have so many times, contemplating a bowl of Mexican jumping beans.’
He goes on, this great writer who was first a journalist and at the end wanted to be remembered for what he wrote to newspapers, and offers this stunning sobering and humbling conclusion:
‘writers have to admit, hands on hearts, that reality is a better writer than we are. Our destiny, maybe our glory, is to try to imitate it with humility, and as best we can.’
Arrogance interferes with imitation. It makes us erroneously believe that we have done reality justice and by that very fact we do much injustice to reality and of course the readers who may trust us to have ‘done our best’ and ‘in all humility’ too.
My students probably did not understand the full meaning of the word ‘advertisement.’ I tried to explain later; some may have figured it out. Had I decided to undertake the same exercise, I probably would have fallen short too. We don’t see all the signs. We don’t hear all the music. We miss some words and the lyrics don’t say what the lyricist intended us to read/hear. The artist transliterates the reality-text and some of the transliteration gets lost in reading, which is also an error-ridden exercise even if the reader is determined to read the text closely.
['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is the 278th article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]
malindadocs@gmail.com
Other articles in this series:
The word as a sword held to the throat of truth
Residents of and residency in heart and mind
Merit, integrity and seniority in the superior courts
Hunters and 'victims' of immemorial light
The unbearable lightness of pause
Seasons bookeneded by leaves on park benches
The world shall not be emptied of poetry
Reclaiming the everyday with solidarities of tender fury
An Aussie broke a SLan heart in Ind for Afg
Writing magical pieces about something beautiful when time permits
The scattered archives of art and protest
Friendship that keep friends permanently at 16
Amherst: silent, rural, poetic and serendipitous
The virtues of unemployability
A breathless hush at the close
Ahmed Issa, fearless and audacious in Gaza
Let us take a deep breath now...
How Grolier Poetry writes 'Harvard Square'
Following children and their smiles
Let's plant words in cracks and craters
When the earth closes upon us...
Let us now march to the battleground of words
The most pernicious human shield
Who bombed Frankfurter Buchmesse
Love's austere and lonely offices
The mysteriously enjoined in the middle of nowhere
Reflections on the unimaginable
Jackson Anthony is a book and will be read
A village called Narberth Bookshop
'Irvin' and other one-word poems
Earth pieces Kerala and Sri Lanka
In the land of insomnial poets
When you don't need an invitation, it's home
When the Canadian House of Commons applauded a Nazi...
The importance of not skipping steps
No free passes to the Land of Integrity
Hector Kobbekaduwa is not a building, statue, street or stamp
Rajagala and the Parable of the Panner
Let's show love to Starbucks employees!
Octavio Paz and Arthur C Clarke in the stratosphere
9/11 and the calm metal instrument of Salvador Allende's voice
Whitman, Neruda and things that wait in all things
Thilina Kaluthotage's eyes keep watch
Profit: the peragamankaru of major wars
In loving memory of Carrie Lee (1956-2020)
Mobsters on and off the screen
We're here because we're here because we're here
Sha'Carri Richardson versus and with Sha'Carri Richardson
A stroll with Pragg and Arjun along a boulevard in Baku
Daya Sahabandu ran out of partners but must have smiled to the end
Sapan and voices that erase borders
Problem elephants and problem humans
The 'inhuman' elephant in a human zoo
Ivan Art: Ivanthi Fernando's efforts to align meaning
Let's help Jagana Krishnakumar rebuild our ancestral home
Do you have a friend in Pennsylvania (or anywhere?)
A gateway to illumination in West Virginia
Through strange fissures into magical orchards
There's sea glass love few will see
Re-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha
Poisoning poets and shredding books of verse
The responsible will not be broken
Ownership and tenuriality of the Wissahickon
Did you notice the 'tiny, tiny wayside flowers'?
Gifts, gifting and their rubbishing
Journalism inadvertently learned
Reflections on the young poetic heart
Wordaholic, trynasty and other portmanteaus
The 'Loku Aiya' of all 'Paththara Mallis'
Subverting the indecency of the mind
Character theft and the perennial question 'who am I?'
Saji Coomaraswamy and rewards that matter
Seeing, unseeing and seeing again
Alex Carey and the (small) matter of legacy
The insomnial dreams of Kapila Kumara Kalinga
The clothes we wear and the clothes that wear us (down)
Every mountain, every rock, is sacred
Manufacturing passivity and obedience
Sanjeew Lonliyes: rawness unplugged, unlimited
In praise of courage, determination and insanity
The relative values of life and death
Poetry and poets will not be buried
Reunion Peradeniya (1980-1990)
Sorrowing and delighting the world
Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi
Letters that cut and heal the heart
A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya
The soft rain of neighbourliness
Reflections on waves and markings
Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra
The right time, the right person
The silent equivalent of a thousand words
Crazy cousins are besties for life
The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis
Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins
Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness
Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable
Deveni: a priceless one-word koan
Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation
'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone
On sweeping close to one's feet
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
To be an island like the Roberts...
Debts that can never be repaid in full
An island which no flood can overwhelm
A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing
Heart dances that cannot be choreographed
Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember
Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal
It is good to be conscious of nudities
Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday
There's a one in a million and a one in ten
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
Hemantha Gunawardena's signature
Architectures of the demolished
The exotic lunacy of parting gifts
Who the heck do you think I am?
Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'
So how are things in Sri Lanka?
The sweetest three-letter poem
Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership
The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked
Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna
Awaiting arrivals unlike any other
Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles
Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth
The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara
Some play music, others listen
Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn
I am at Jaga Food, where are you?
On separating the missing from the disappeared
And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)
The circuitous logic of Tony Muller
Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'
Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist
Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses
Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced
Some stories are written on the covers themselves
A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature
Landcapes of gone-time and going-time
The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie
So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?
There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords
A song of terraced paddy fields
Of ants, bridges and possibilities
From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva
Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse
Who did not listen, who's not listening still?
If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain
The world is made for re-colouring
No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5
Visual cartographers and cartography
Ithaca from a long ago and right now
Lessons written in invisible ink
The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'
The interchangeability of light and darkness
Sisterhood: moments, just moments
Chess is my life and perhaps your too
Reflections on ownership and belonging
The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha
Signatures in the seasons of love
To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows
Fragrances that will not be bottled
Colours and textures of living heritage
Countries of the past, present and future
Books launched and not-yet-launched
The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains
Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace
The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville
Live and tell the tale as you will
Between struggle and cooperation
Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions
Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers
Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills
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