How It Came to Be
Three Hotel Rooms and a Train
The way this book forced itself on me is really no surprise. On the tennis court, I made up my mind not to let the earthquake upset my schedule. Not that I’m insensitive to what happened. When I close my eyes, the images come rushing back in all their horror. The only way I can breathe is to move. I owed my publisher Rodney St-Éloi a book. It was supposed to be notes about writing. On my previous visit to Port-au-Prince, my nephew wouldn’t stop bugging me with all his questions about style. I refused to answer; the issue is bound up with the act of writing itself. Which is like saying you learn to write by writing. Good writers are their own masters. The main thing is to be attentive to two fundamental points: music and rhythm. If you have a tin ear, you might as well do something else. No one can teach you how to write a sentence that sounds good. My nephew kept insisting. He was looking for specific advice. “And not another book that’s going to make me feel desperate,” he called on his way to the bathroom. I ended up accepting the challenge. The title was ready-made: Notes to a Young Writer in Pajamas. I know it might sound pretentious to start giving advice. But I figured that over the last thirty-five years, I must have learned a thing or two about writing that I could tell him. Like keeping the spontaneity that adds so much charm. Everything seems much too clean these days (now the old man is judging his contemporaries). Buffon was right when he said that style is the man. I like to feel there’s someone behind the door. Even if you have talent, you can’t make it without character. The book (Notes to a Young Writer in Pajamas) was finished, but it still required careful rereading. I needed time to write. I had two weeks to make the necessary corrections. Don’t go thinking that those two weeks were waiting for me with a smile. Every day was filled with something else. I’ve understood for some time now that I can have whatever I want — except time. André Breton was a prospector for the gold of time. I don’t have it. Don’t have it any more. The freer I feel in my mind, the less I belong to myself. Freedom gives off a scent that attracts people. I looked at my calendar. Three trips in the month of March. I had two weeks before the book was due at the publisher’s. I threw my notebook and my little Toshiba computer into my suitcase.
Tallahassee Hotel
Last year, Martin Monroe, a professor and specialist in Caribbean literature, invited me to a colloquium on contemporary Haitian literature. I couldn’t really refuse since I had just gotten through declaring in Port-au-Prince that culture was the only thing Haiti had produced in the last two hundred years. Culture is the only thing that can stand up to the earthquake. I’m not only talking about intellectual culture, the kind that comes from books, but what structures a nation. If we don’t want to turn into a victim nation, we have to keep moving. We’ll cry later when things are better. In the meantime, let’s go forward. That was my decision. The hotel wasn’t far (a twenty-minute walk) from Florida State University where my eldest daughter studied French-language literature. Why an American university? “American schools are loaded with money,” she told me at the time. “They can line up three Nobel Prize winners at the same table.” Really? This big conference about Haiti had been in the works for two years. It was my first contact with a university since my return. I decided to add a short text about the earthquake at the end of my book about style. I would relate my first impressions when the tremors struck. That turned out to be my Pandora’s box. Gold fever. Every time I had a free moment, I slipped back to my room. If I had one piece of advice for a young writer, it would be this: “Write about what makes you passionate. Don’t look for the subject; the subject will find you.” Except that it doesn’t always show up at the right time. I was supposed to be correcting a book that had been advertised everywhere. An anxious publisher was waiting for it. That’s not the time to let yourself get distracted by something new. But a good subject sets off energy in me that’s like physical passion. It’s all I could think about.
Brussels Hotel
By the time I left Tallahassee, I had surrendered to the monster. I got to the Brussels Book Fair. What a reception! They welcomed me with such ceremony — but it was Haiti they were taking into their hearts. I had interviews everywhere. Belgian intellectuals (Yvon Toussaint, Jean-Luc Outers) were deeply moved by the Haitian tragedy. I saw the same thing in the schools. I’d never witnessed such fervor toward a nation. The grade-school students who went to the fair with their teachers asked me about the history of the country instead of just the recent events. They were interested in daily life there. The questions were well thought out and most of them touched on love and death. They had all read Je suis fou de Vava and La fête des morts. Eyes open wide, they asked all kinds of hard and essential questions. Do you still love Vava? Can you love the same person your whole life through? Do people die differently in Haiti? Can you love someone even after death? Whose death: yours or the other person’s? Laughter. A short interlude when I didn’t think of my book. Then I ran back to the hotel room. Frenzy: I was writing non-stop. If that kept up, with no writer’s block, I’d finish the earthquake book in five days, and use the remaining six to correct Notes. The room was well lit. Through the window, I could see the trees gently stirring. Anything that moves still scared me. I dove back into the book. That feeling of reliving everything, moment by moment. I had to make choices to keep from getting lost in the details. I was writing this book as much for myself as for others. Everyone who hadn’t been there. A friend, Ann Gerrard, protected me by telling everyone that I wasn’t available, without giving any explanations. I met up with Alain Mabanckou at the “Échappées africaines” booth. He was in a hurry too. We took a little time to talk. He had been expected in Port-au-Prince on January 13. When the earthquake struck, he was finishing a book illuminated by the presence of his mother: the Pauline Kengué I wrote about in The Return. In that book, Pauline dies in Haiti. Of her, I wrote, “She always said she’d come here so Alain would feel Haitian when the time came.” I felt that fate was awaiting him in Port-au-Prince. Good thing he didn’t make it. He was the first to announce that I was still alive. Our constant correspondence keeps us friends. I woke up early to write, then packed my bag and took a taxi for the station.
The Train
The ride from Brussels to Paris lasts a little over an hour. I decided to use the time to empty out my mind. Rest my spirit. Watch the undulations of the landscape. These lands haven’t known hurricanes or earthquakes for quite a while (but two world wars will do). Nature seems solid here. But I know that all Atlas has to do is shrug his shoulders and everything will tip into horror. I didn’t want those violent images. Can’t I have peace and quiet any more? Extreme fatigue is pushing me into a tunnel of darkness. But I know how to find peace. From deep in childhood, I conjure up my grandmother’s smiling face. Sleep follows. The next thing I know, the train is pulling into the station.