The author came home, transcribed what the dictaphone had captured, scanned his notebook and began to put the story together. He knew the task would be difficult, but possible. He incorporated into the story everything he knew of the world and everything he had only begun to suspect.
He took out a large sheet of paper and drew Salme and Paavo and their children, Helena, Pekka and Maija on it. Around them all he drew a large box, which he labeled “Society.” Inside the box he drew ten more “X”s, which signified the unknown factors that always influence people’s lives.
Then the author concentrated. He closed his eyes and thought about his own life. It was small and insignificant. Not much happened in it. But he decided to incorporate part of it into the story, and it was in this frame of mind that he wrote a letter to the person who had donated her life.
Dear Mrs. Malmikunnas,
Our last meeting has been weighing on my mind. My purpose was not to offend, but I am sure that I did.
I ask your forgiveness. This profession of mine is difficult. I have to serve both truth and falsehood at the same time. Perhaps you will not understand, but for me truth and falsehood are twins. They avoid one another, they shun one another, but they cannot live without one another.
When you sold me your life, I am sure I did not explain sufficiently clearly that I would be making my own version of it. Your truth is your own. My truth is the reader’s truth—assuming the book is published. If the book is not published, your truth will remain the only valid one.
But one thing unites us. You need money for a good cause, and I need this book. Without a book I disappear. Without a book there is no me. You may think that might not be such a terrible loss, but in my profession the fact is that an author only exists through his books.
During our meetings you lost your temper with me several times. This was caused by the fact that we have such different views on literature. Or more correctly, and excuse me for saying so, by you having no view at all. You suppose that writing a book means putting down on paper everything someone has seen and experienced. That system would give us some pretty thick, unreadable books. But I want to believe that if and when you read the book made from your life, you will understand what I mean. In my previous letter I used an example of a whooper swan, attempting to explain from how many different perspectives it would have to be described for both the reader and the swan to be satisfied.
Now let me use a pig as an example.
We see it in the pigpen along with others of its kind. It grunts and roots around, scraping at the ground. It evokes strong feelings.
If I were to write a story about it, I would begin with the assumption that it is there in the pen for us. Before long we will be killing and eating it. I would describe it from this perspective and feel empathy toward it.
This is the human perspective. The pig has another.
We do not know what the pig is thinking, but I suppose it does not think of the future, living only in the moment. It pushes others out of the way, trying to get to the food trough and out to walk around. If it sees a bird in the yard, it might be jealous. Perhaps. We do not know. Perhaps it would think the bird is an optical illusion, because it supposes there is nothing in the world besides the pig itself and its master. The pig does not remember yesterday, does not consider the future, and yet senses something when the rubber-suited men approach it. The pig fears the men, and with good reason, because the men will soon be applying an electric shock to end the pig’s life.
Then there is the perspective of a child. In the pig, a child sees Christmas, but not its path to the Christmas table. A child thinks the pig is cute, calling every pig “piggy.” Piggies have even been the main characters in films, because adults remember their own childhoods. Children’s books are also full of their socket noses.
Now we have three perspectives of the pig’s life. If we were to write a story from only the pig’s perspective, the story would be short and unconvincing. If I succeed with my book, we will see the sow and the boar in the pen. Their children, that is their piglets, have left the hog house and gone out into the world and are trying to get along and avoid the slaughterhouse. The life of a pig has changed from previous times such that the sow and boar are no longer able to keep up with everything that happens to the piglets. Then something bad happens to one of them (let me remind you, Mrs. Malmikunnas, that I am speaking metaphorically now, and that of course I do not consider you a pig but rather am simply attempting to describe my intentions as though in a fable), but luckily the other pigs and a monkey come to the rescue.
And so on.
If I succeed, your life will become rich and full, something that others besides the permanent residents of the hog house will be able to relate to.
Best wishes, A
Four days later, the author received two postcards, an autumn scene and a lake scene. The text was split between them.
Dear Author,
I am sitting here in a beautiful place with Helena not feeling any desire to quarrel over ugly things. By the way, do you eat berries? Nature is constantly giving us tips for a better life. Lingonberries, blueberries, sea-buckthorn berries and the rest. Paavo and I eat them daily. This is a hint. And I have one request as well. When the
(Continues on lake scene. Didn’t fit on one card. Sorry.)
book appears, could you say at the book fair or wherever it is presented that it is completely made up? I could even pay you a little for this favor, since we sold our old car. This is extremely important to me. Did you know, by the way, that the sea-buckthorn berry has almost all the vitamins a person needs? Salme