The Journals of Thornton Wilder (1939-1961), edited by Donald Gallup (Yale, 364 pp., $25)
Journal-keeping is a kind of selfcollaboration. I suppose most writers experiment with it now and again. I, for one, can’t think at all until there is a pencil between middle finger and thumb. In journal style half my brain will interrogate the other half. I’m not sure whether first person plural or second person singular is a more appropriate form of address. (“Let’s see, Keith. In this novel you have the co-op review board symbolizing Final Judgment. Then George, an animal grief counselor at Bide-A-Wee, would be Christ, so so So, are you, we, out of our mind? Get off the culture bus and try again.”) It isn’t writing, yet it is more substantial, more set, than reflection. The longhand physical act can liberate subconscious processes. It is also a useful (if often embarrassing) record. Wilder knew this. His journal was “not a collection of digested finalities, but a technique for stimulating idea manufacture and for maintaining the momentum of idea production.” Precisely. And I reckon it is no one’s business but mine. Or his.
Comments