From: Jonathan Hunt <jhunt24>
Date: Sat, 15 Sep 2001 17:49:30

I, too, am deeply suspicious of the value of bibliotherapy, but the power of real literature cannot be denied, and often it comes from surprising places.
  For me, it came from a book I had read earlier in the year about the final days of the Trojan War, TROY by Adele Geras. Those already familiar with the book will know that of its many strengths, perhaps the strongest is that final sequence of events precipitated by the surprise attack on Troy--scenes of carnage and destruction, the tossing of Hector's infant son from the walls of the city, the final conciliatory farewells between Helen and her court enemies, the hope and resolve of survivors such as Iason and Polyxena, and the broken spirit of Xanthe, the royal nanny, whose healing will be a long time coming. The war has clearly exacted a devastating toll on the citizens of that city, but this latest event has pushed them past feeling. Geras renders the despair, the anguish, and the bereavement in these final moments so real that it is palpable. It is almost to much to bear.


Andromache saw her coming from a long way away, and waited, trembling to see what words would come from her mouth. Helen. When Hector died Andromache thought, I didn't know there could be a greater pain, but now I know why the Gods made him suffer like that, and made me suffer for him. It was a rehearsal. How else could I still be walking and in one piece? After what they did to him . . . my baby. She blinked. Where were the tears? Why didn't they come to cleanse and heal her heart? There was a howing in her head that came sometimes to her mouth, so that when she opened it, nothing but noises came out, as though she were an animal crying for its young. Once, long ago, when she was a little girl, she'd come across a bitch in her father's courtyard, and the poor creature was making a sound that young Andromache had never heard before: a keening, almost human cry that made the hairs stand up on the back of her neck.

"Whuy is that doggie crying?" she asked her father.

"Because her puppies have been taken away."

"Why have they?"

"Can't have too many puppies running around the place. We drowned them in the river."

Now Andromache remembered how she had dreamed of the dead puppies for many nights. And she remembered the sorrowful bitch. That's me, now. Those are my noises, she thought. No words, because there are no words for what I feel. Only sounds. And now here comes Helen, and will I howl at her, too?

Helen cam up to her and without a word put her arms around Andromache and held her tight.

"No words, Andromache. No words, please. There's nothing to say."

This was so exactly what Andromache had been thinking that she cried out in agony, and at last, like rocks that have been burning at the heart of a mountain and finally explode and flow like molten gold, tears rose up in her heart and spilled out of her and ran unchecked down her cheeks.

The two women stood for a long time clinging to each other . . .


Geras captures so perfectly what I feel in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks, what I think we all feel. The overwhelming need for solidarity and solace. The need to put aside past differences, the need to collectively embrace our wounded fellow citizens, to put our arms around New York City and Washington D.C., as it were, saying nothing, just holding them tight. Thank you, Adele Geras, for the gift of your words, for giving voice to our tender thoughts and feelings in a time when we are, perhaps, unable to voice them ourselves.

Jonathan







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Received on Sat 15 Sep 2001 05:49:30 PM CDT