Music is created by silence—the space, the “rests”—between notes. Lace is more profound in the negative “space” (the yarn overs) between the stitches than in the knit fabric itself. Is the same true of words? Is meaning found in what is unsaid? What if the words are not known and silence is unintentional? What if time has caused the silence? What if we chose to write in that silence? Do we destroy that which was? What can we recreate from the silence? What meaning is there? What does this do to history? Why?
I hesitate to throw my above incomplete thought out to the scary wilds of the internet (and google). It is one I’m mulling over for a class. It is one that watched over much of my reading this past week. “Now” I will not pursue additional conversation with you about it, please do not try.
Today I’m unable to devote more to writing about these books than to provide author and title information at this point. My silence about them is neither permanent nor desired. I urge you to look toward my goodreads reviews in the future though exactly when, I cannot say.
Writing a Woman’s Life
by Carolyn G. Heilbrun, Amanda Cross
Writing Women’s Worlds: Bedouin Stories
by Lila Abu-Lughod
Silencing the Past
by Michel-Rolph Trouillot
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I
by Irene Radford