The Blank Page
How to explain all that failed ambition? Primo Levi and Unfinished Business.
Troy, Turkey 2011
Here’s an unspoken truth about writing: there’s freedom in keeping the page blank. A blank page always has potential, and an unwritten sentence never reveals its flaws. All the warts and sores and cracks stay concealed.
Just like with anything else, if there’s no first step, there’s no potential to stumble. Undone projects, delayed decisions, leftover tasks—they’re still pristine if they’re incomplete.
But a lifetime of unmade choices leaves a legacy. Primo Levi’s poem Unfinished Business (Le pratiche inevase) comes to mind:
Sir, please accept my resignation
As of next month,
And, if it seems right, plan on replacing me.
I’m leaving much unfinished work,
Whether out of laziness or actual problems.
I was supposed to tell someone something,
But I no longer know what and to whom: I’ve forgotten.
The litany of unfulfilled plans continues later:
I was meant to visit
Distant cities, islands, desert lands;
You’ll have to cut them from the program
Or entrust them to my successor.
More is neglected, forgotten, simply overlooked, until Levi ends with the unwritten book—could a writer dread anything more?
You’ll find its outline in my drawer,
Down below, with the unfinished business;
I didn’t have the time to write it out, which is a shame,
It would have been a fundamental work.
Although Levi slams the door of his poem shut with that period, I’m not content to let the matter rest. How can I explain all that failed ambition? There’s potential yet no action—neither has an explanation. Why didn’t the former lead to the latter?
One curious line from the beginning caught my eye when I looked closer, which seems to offer at least a sliver of promise. Take a look again at the short second line: “As of next month.” Within the poem, the line comes across as disjointed, superfluous, a strange reference to a specific date by Levi. And it’s even a tad more prominent in the original Italian, as those words were actually in his opening line.
There’s a resignation that’s still one month away, a list of unfulfilled plans, and, if I squint, there’s still potential between those two. The reader can be sure that this potential will remain unfulfilled by the writer—that much is clear. But there’s solace in knowing that it exists for those reading, though they must be willing to avoid the unwritten book.
Not doing something is the crutch that prevents failure. How pleasant and comfortable and haughty to know that the unwritten book would have been “fundamental.” Every unmade phone call, skipped conversation, and unbooked trip turns out splendidly: there’s never a blunder to remember. Procrastinating gives the satisfaction of ensuring that there will never be a mistake.
Because of this unspoken dread of imperfection, a sense of safety is the surprising culprit for many writing problems. There’s always safety in the still forthcoming idea—the unwritten sentence remains brilliant, flawless, unspoiled, forever preserved as an ideal. Because the blemishes are only visible after the idea’s birth—putting words onto the page threatens exposure.
When an idea first arrives in a writer’s mind, it typically feels grand, specific, lofty. The writer envisions resplendent images, sharp descriptions, punchy sentences. But the common experience—familiar to many writers, frequently a trigger of paralysis—is that what’s written never meets the standard of what was imagined. In a predictable manner, once the writer begins to actually create, the words on the page fail to match those intentions, and the only thing doing any work is the writer’s miserable, overburdened delete key.
The way forward doesn’t really need explanation. To ask the question is to identify the answer. But Levi’s Unfinished Business has a glaring repetition that gives one response by way of contrast: supposed, supposed, meant to, supposed to, would have been. For those with brilliant intentions and pristine plans, there’s a good list of phrases to avoid.
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