I read literature. Oftentimes literature tackles tough problems and uncomfortable topics. Recently I have read two very dark novels that are more than moderately related in strange ways.
I read The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath, this week. For those of you that know this novel or the story of Sylvia Plath, I suppose I need to make a disclaimer that I am not in the bell jar myself, nor do I plan on baking myself in an oven. All that being said, last week I finished The Infinite Jest. Coincidentally, written by an author who also kills himself, David Foster Wallace. And the novel prominently features an incident where a character microwaves his own head. Odd coincidence, but nothing more.
I digress. The point of this entry is to discuss a line from The Bell Jar.
I followed Buddy, and Mr, Willard followed me, through a pair of swinging doors set with panes of frosted glass down a dim, liver-colored corridor smelling of floor wax and Lysol and another vaguer odor, like bruised gardenias.
Bruised gardenias! Not just gardenias, but bruised gardenias. And not just what they look like, but what they smell like!
I fancy myself a decently well read person who has lived a little. I know a bit about house plants, indoor and outdoor. I think I have heard of a gardenia before, but I had no idea what they looked like or smelled like (until doing a bit of research for this newsletter).
What struck me about this line is that in the early 1960’s when Sylvia Plath was writing this book, gardenias must have been so common that her audience would have known what a bruised gardenia smelled like, but nowadays, I think I’d be hard pressed to find someone (at least in my immediate life) who knew what a gardenia was or looked like and let alone smelled like.
I think the reason this line stood out to me was because it was so poetic, unsurprising for a short novel full of lyrical lines written by a poet. I therefore may be putting too fine a point on this, but here we are and here we go.
I love literature for many reasons, one of them is that it opens a window into the soul of a moment and immerses the reader in it. Bruised gardenias. I had no idea what they smell like or frankly even look like, but I feel like I am in that sanatorium with Esther, Buddy, and Mr. Willard. And I can picture quaint little New England suburbs with fragrant and nearly pungent gardenia shrubs, whose delicate flowers succumb to a light touch.
The point is how something as presently meaningless as bruised gardenias can still have a profound effect on someone when used as a metaphor in the context of a novel. This is, I feel a lesson in the importance of language and how we communicate. While we are not all Sylvia Plath who can get miles out of two words, bruised gardenias, I’d like to submit that a well constructed conversation can be incredibly impactful for your clients, customers, colleagues, or loved ones. Be bold! Be brave! And share your thoughts with the world!
