F tells me that I should keep a diary from now on, and I shall perhaps keep diligently on that on Evernote, if time permits me. I have been through some roller coaster of emotions these past few weeks, such that I am always low on energy and find the world to be a strife. Work just deludes me further on the absurdities of the whole world, having seen that the struggle as pointless and absurd. I shall no longer allow myself to be jaded and further be hardened by conventions of life.
At nights I reread William James’ Varieties, glancing through the accounts of people. I suppose these are the things I like best. Accounts of people, those furtive stories that tell of an experience. This time I read the Mystic chapter, where various people have felt the presence of god, or a supreme being, that intuitive feeling of oneness and illumination that hurls for a minute or two but leave you feeling fulfilled than you have ever been in your life. At fifteen I once killed a fly or some living thing and told God to show whether the things I do have consequences or bearings on this life of mine. of course, nothing happened at that moment, so resumed I life.
Fast forward to this year, Suyuthi hands me a book of poems by Zurinah Hassan titled Facing the Harbour (Menghadap ke Pelabuhan), autographed and all. She had just won the Sasterawan award, and he had went to her house to interview her. As Suyuthi recounts the interview, I imagine this woman, now in her sixties (or seventies), receiving this prize, and wondering what significance or meaning this has on her, literature in a malaysia as a whole, and the fact that she was the first woman to receive the prize.
I have not read her before except a book of poetry she published last year, where I thought she was one of the good ones. Upon reading this book and the other one, there’s that summoning and declarative quality in her words that I rarely find somewhere else. Her words are simple, rooted in her surroundings, yet sometimes very cruel and on point.
But what does it mean now, to finally, win a prize, that final nod of acknowledgement that women writers now do exist? Shall women writers be read more, and more books to be produced by women? Or shall she be singular in her achievement and pass like a blip in due time.
I suppose now we must write, and write well.
perkaraperkara 