Why do I tell you these things?

There’s a poem by John Ashbery called “This Room.” It ends:

… Why do I tell you these things?

You are not even here.

I love this poem. I also love the name of the volume it’s in: Your Name Here. I thought of this book, and especially of this poem, often while I was writing The Correspondence Artist. One of the disconcerting things about writing is that sometimes you think you’re writing to someone, but then realize that person isn’t there: you’re writing to yourself. In the novel, I reflect on this in relation to Lacan, but you don’t really need psychoanalytic theory to understand it.

Anyway, whether you’re writing an e-mail or a letter or a novel, something funny happens when this fact dawns on you. It’s a little liberating, and a little sad.

As with so many things, Fats Waller probably said it best:

I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter

And make believe it came from you

I’m gonna write the words so sweet

They’re gonna knock me off my feet

A lot of kisses on the bottom

I’ll be glad I got ‘em

I’m gonna smile and say, “I hope you’re feeling better,”

And close with love the way you do

I’m gonna sit right down and write myself a letter

And make believe it came from you

This is like that letter I wrote to/from Djeli on pp. 108-109 in The Correspondence Artist.

Oh, but I should also mention one other song: the “Love Theme from Spartacus,” which I will always think of as the “Love Theme with Tzipi Honigman.” I mean the version on the Bill Evans album, Conversations with Myself. Improvising with oneself is a lot like writing letters to oneself. I explain why this song makes me think of Tzipi on pp. 90-91 of the novel.