The
Mind of a Narcissist
Why Do I Write Poetry?
By Sam Vaknin
They
say, with a knowing smile: "If he is really a narcissist - how
come he writes such beautiful poetry?"
"Words
are the sounds of emotions" - they add - "and he claims to have
none." They are smug and comfortable in their well classified
world, my doubters.
But
I use words as others use algebraic signs: with meticulousness,
with caution, with the precision of the artisan. I sculpt in words.
I stop. I tilt my head. I listen to the echoes. The tables of
emotional resonance. The fine tuned reverberations of pain and
love and fear. Air waves and photonic ricochets answered by chemicals
secreted in my listeners and my readers.
I
know beauty. I have always known it in the biblical sense, it
was my passionate mistress. We made love. We procreated the cold
children of my texts. I measured its aesthetics admiringly. But
this is the mathematics of grammar. It was merely the undulating
geometry of syntax.
Devoid
of all emotions, I watch your reactions with the sated amusement
of a Roman nobleman.
I
wrote:
"My
world is painted in shadows of fear and sadness. Perhaps they
are related - I fear the sadness. To avoid the overweening, sepia
melancholy that lurks in the dark corners of my being - I deny
my own emotions. I do so thoroughly, with the single-mindedness
of a survivor. I persevere through dehumanization. I automate
my processes. Gradually, parts of my flesh turn into metal and
I stand there, exposed to sheering winds, as grandiose as my disorder.
"I
write poetry not because I need to. I write poetry to gain attention,
to secure adulation, to fasten on to the reflection in the eyes
of others that passes for my ego. My words are fireworks, formulas
of resonance, the periodic table of healing and abuse.
"These
are dark poems. A wasted landscape of pain ossified, of scarred
remnants of emotions. There is no horror in abuse. The terror
is in the endurance, in the dreamlike detachment from one's own
existence that follows. People around me feel my surrealism. They
back away, alienated, discomfited by the limpid placenta of my
virtual reality.
"Now
I am left alone and I write umbilical poems as others would converse.
"Before
and after prison, I have written reference books and essays. My
first book of short fiction was critically acclaimed and commercially
successful.
"I
tried my hand at poetry before, in Hebrew, but failed. Tis strange.
They say that poetry is the daughter of emotion. Not in my case.
"I
never felt except in prison - and yet there, I wrote in prose.
The poetry I authored as one does math. It was the syllabic music
that attracted me, the power to compose with words. I wasn't looking
to express any profound truth or to convey a thing about myself.
I wanted to recreate the magic of the broken metric. I still recite
aloud a poem until it SOUNDS right. I write upright - the legacy
of prison. I stand and type on a laptop perched atop a cardboard
box. It is ascetic and, to me, so is poetry. A purity. An abstraction.
A string of symbols open to exegesis. It is the most sublime intellectual
pursuit in a world that narrowed down and has become only my intellect."
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Issue: Skopje - Where Time Stood Still, Portrait of the Narcissist
as a Young Man, and I Cannot Forgive