I’m a big fan of Frank Bruni, have been ever since I read his memoir, Born Round: A Story of Family, Food and a Ferocious Appetite. (Italian-Americans, especially those having been raised by what my brother and I lovingly refer to as a “food pusher” of a mother, can probably relate to many elements of Bruni’s story.) I subscribe to, and get great delight from his weekly newsletter, which in addition to an always thoughtful and well-crafted essay, features For the Love of Sentences—Bruni’s curated selection of noteworthy sentences culled from the media and submitted by his readers.
I had originally thought to call my version of “Sentences,” For the Love of Words—as words are my creative currency. But it’s not just words that set my heart aflutter. It’s all art—fine art, textiles, ceramics, music, books, fashion, design—but especially cinema, for its ability to combine all these attributes—visual, storytelling, dialog, and music, into one single, sensory-electrifying product.
I still remember seeing Peter O’Toole in his role as Lawrence of Arabia on the big screen at Radio City Music Hall—the backdrop of stark desert, his white robes, and those startling, nearly otherworldly blue eyes—eyes that carried both an element of determination and of madness. I don’t know if my memory of the scenes are entirely accurate—I was only 6 or so at the time—but the point is that the art was powerful enough that the image of O’Toole filling the screen has never left my mind.
For those of us who have chosen to pursue a creative life—and I see many forms of entrepreneurship as its own brand of art—we may even have experienced one watershed moment in which we knew—with a kind of blinding clarity—that we could no longer remain an observer—a simple admirer of art—but had to try and become an instrument of creation ourselves.
For my ex-husband, Michael Drury, his moment came when he was just 19. He was in the Jeu de Paume, had walked into the first gallery on the right where he saw—and was overwhelmed by—Claude Monet’s “Route de Bas-Breaux.” When I asked him to recount the story, Michael said: ”I saw that painting and I knew that a human being, not an art god, had painted it, and I knew that’s what I wanted to do. I was so overcome with emotion that I had to go outside, sit watching the traffic until I composed myself and could go back in.” He went out and bought a paint set the next day, came back to the States and found a mentor—and hasn’t stopped painting since. All these years later—nearly sixty, in fact—Michael still gets emotional talking about that day, and still looks at a print of that painting every morning before he gets out of bed.
My moment came when Michael gave me a copy of Norman Maclean’s, A River Runs Through It. I’d already been in a longstanding love affair with words—begun when I plucked my first Hemingway off my parents’ shelves—but it wasn’t until I read Maclean’s powerful novella that I knew—just knew—I had to try the craft for myself.
Pete Dexter, in a 1981 profile of Maclean in Esquire magazine, described the novella as follows:
“It is a story about Maclean and his brother, Paul, (who struggled with alcoholism and a gambling addiction) who was beaten to death with a gun butt in 1938. It is about not understanding what you love, about not being able to help. It is the truest story I ever read; it might be the best written. And to this day it won't leave me alone. I thought for a while it was the writing that kept bringing it around. That's the way it comes back to me: I hear the sound of the words, then I see them happen. I spent four hours one afternoon picking out three paragraphs to drop into a column I was writing about the book, and in the end they didn’t translate, because except for the first sentence—'In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly-fishing'—there isn’t anything in it that doesn’t depend on what comes before it for its meaning.”
Which may also be true for what I share below—that as beautiful as the words and the paragraph is, “there isn’t anything in it that doesn’t depend on what comes before it for its meaning.”
But nevertheless, here are the words that changed me:
“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.
I am haunted by waters.”
I’m wondering….what movie, what song, what book, what painting—what conversation, or person—changed you?
The first piece of art I ever remember loving was Monet's water lilies series. I think our art teacher in high school had a calendar where every month was another painting. I didn't even know what it was, just that I didn't know at could be... that.
I love what you're doing here, Diana, and you clearly have a gift for writing. I will follow you journey and be cheering you along in you pursuit of a publishing deal. If I can help at all, please feel free to let me me know.