Have you ever wanted to commune with the dead? Last summer, I began to fall for a dead author. His name is Hervé Guibert, and I was interested in his diary, where he documented, in extremely minute and visceral detail, his experiences with an AIDS-related illness called cytomegalovirus. His diary was published in 1991 after his death due to complications arising from the illness. Perhaps it was the intense heat of the summer, the emptiness and isolation of the campus, or my inhalation of dust and detritus in the old Johns Hopkins University buildings and libraries while reading his novels and diary through a humanities research collaboratory. Nonetheless, I began to notice a spectacular and strange phenomenon taking shape within my heart: I was developing a deeper connection with my research subject.
While researching, I read “Livelier Than the Living,” an article by Catherine Nicholson, about Renaissance readers who wrote letters to dead people. The New York Review of Books writer reviewed two books that broadly discussed the literary culture of this era. Nicholson cites “Petrarch’s practice of writing to long-dead authors” like Seneca and Saint Augustine. “Imitatio” was, in part, a rhetorical strategy employed by writers of this period to openly incorporate recognizable elements of earlier authors’ works to learn and build upon their own skills as writers. Nicholson suggests that “the rewards of ‘imitatio’ were perhaps primarily emotional: a communion with other minds that fortified readers against the disappointments of the present.” Perhaps the present times call for measures similar to these to cope with the society we live in. However, I don’t believe this to be an act of escapism, rather, it may help us gain a sense of perspective.
It is difficult to admit this love without shame or confusion, and I was worried about the ethical implications it might have on my work (nevermind the broader moral implications of falling in love with a dead person). It was, to say the least, disturbing. However, when I learned about the rich culture of readers and writers who connected and developed quasi-companionships with the authors who had long since died, I felt compelled to explore this practice myself. My annotations of his novels became conversational. I would find myself smiling at his dry humor, chastising him for his small-mindedness and harmful opinions, and, once my program was over, I found myself grieving for his loss. He was a complicated figure who triggered complicated emotions among many of his contemporaries, and his presence still haunts me to this day.
For years, people have declared that literature is dead. If this is supposed to be true, then I propose that we must resurrect literature. It is towards this end that I seek to bring to life a series of writers by engaging with their work as though they were still present, for their words and ideas figure as extensions of their lives. Writing is a technology that offers a taste of immortality to humanity, and thus, by engaging with people’s works as the centuries march onward, a reader is providing a service to the author. I propose going beyond a textual engagement of a literary work to engage directly with the author themself. Approaching works in this way can provide a more humanizing and meaningful experience within literary pursuits, and we may create a shared experience with others, even if their corporeality is limited to the faded ink upon the softened pages within an innately ephemeral medium.
For those who may be skeptical, I understand that this process to you may seem like a waste of time and an unserious pursuit in studying the “lofty” literary arts. But, we seldom engage with the subject of authors’ deaths and how their legacies shape and change because of their death. I ask you to consider how this pursuit might bring a sense of healing and wonder in your life. As the saying goes: “Funerals are for the living.” Perhaps this can be a collective process to honor our literary ancestors as entities whose oeuvres have brought indelible memories and experiences to readers across time, place, and language.
I want to provide readers with an unconventional manner of reviewing and critiquing literature by composing a series of letters addressed to various authors whom I have read. I am unsure exactly what this process may entail for my experience of their work, and what emotions or insights it may provoke within me. Still, I think this is an effort worth pursuing, and hopefully you may be so daring as to also engage with your subjects — living or dead — in a similar fashion, regardless of your field. Who knows? Maybe the dead are indeed watching and listening.
