“When I was a child, I always hated being used in my father’s sermons, shrunk to a symbol to illustrate some larger lesson, flattened out to give other people comfort or instruction or even a laugh. It did some violence to my third dimension; it made it difficult for me to breathe. ‘That’s not me,’ I would think, listening to some fable where a stick figure of myself moved automatically toward a punishing moral. ‘That has nothing to do with me at all.’ If I had a soul, I thought, it was that resistance, which would never let another human being have the last word on me.This is what it is to write about people who are alive and then, sometimes, people who are dead. To say that his eyes were clear as agates, that his voice was a gravelly baritone, to surround him with the right adjectives and set him into the story– all this is an attempt to fit him into the glass box of a good sentence so everyone can see what he means. But it won’t work, the words can’t hold him, and I am glad.The desire to describe voice, gesture, skin color, is a desire to eat, take over, make into part of the pattern. I am happy every time to see a writer fail at this. I am happy every time to see real personhood resist our tricks. I am happy to see bodies insist that they are not shut up in this book, they are elsewhere. The tomb is empty, rejoice, he is not here.”
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