A Letter To Claire

(‘A Poet Talking to His Muse’)

Claire darling,

I have not the faintest idea where or when you will read this. The most natural thing to suggest is your reading these lines simultaneously with my writing them. What I really mean will be made clear later on, though.

Who are you? Thou art I. In this lifetime, you are the female part of my mind.

I know you since my adolescence—no, since my childhood. I vividly remember, at ten, reading an entry from Vladimir Nabokov's diary published in a magazine for kids (strange magazines for kids we had back in the 90s, indeed!). As a boy surrounded by girls, Nabokov believed he would definitely himself become a girl once having grown up. I have never entertained the same bizarre notion; however, a chord within the ten-year-old me clearly resonated with Nabokov's wild fantasy.

Do you remember that strange bus ride, Claire, during which I, a young man of eighteen (who occasionally was mistaken for a young woman until he became twenty), spoke to a stranger in your voice? (Or was it you who spoke to him in mine?) I was very far from flirtatious with my ride companion; with that, his words about ‘having met an exceptionally kind girl’ were a music to my ears. To OUR ears, I probably should say.

Two or three times in my youth, I deliberately wore female clothes in public. This was not my ‘latent homosexuality,’ as suggested by a close female friend of my ex-fiancee. It was just my natural, if slightly ridiculous, wish to give more space to your needs. Have you enjoyed those silly, but joyous walks? I bet you have . . .

Time went on, making me desist from that absurd habit. However, you still were—have been!—accompanying me in your quiet, inconspicuous, and immensely helpful way. Do you, for instance, remember ‘The Clergymen,’ my novella in which you were shown as a young female Buddhist lama? I guess you may see it as my way to say ‘thank you’ for years of your humble service. Female lamas do exist; very young lamas exist as well. A combination of a young age and the female gender for this religious calling is of course strikingly rare. YOU would have managed, though.

Do you remember our long, heart-warming conversations we had in 2014? Those conversations finally led to my writing ‘The Mediators’; this semi-autobiographical novel, though, eventually made me drop our talks altogether—after all, it is not that healthy to talk to oneself, even though I was perfectly aware all the time of you being just a part of my own mind. I hope you don't bear me a grudge for that, Claire, do you?

(And why, on the other hand, should we TALK to each other, if your thoughts are transparent to me, and so are mine to you?)

Even my latest novel distinctly bears your own mark, Claire—both you and I know you have been somewhere near throughout its writing; it is perhaps not a coincidence that its main character, Caroline, has a name that strangely resembles your own, even though she is distinctly different from you.

Was it you I recently saw in my dream—in a mirror?

People die, Claire. What happens to you after I am gone? Will you be fused with me into one single personality entirely before that moment, or will you, when time comes, prefer to be incarnated separately? God only knows . . .

In the event you do prefer to go your own independent way, please allow me a gentle piece of advice, Claire.

You can find your happiness as a nun or as a lay woman. Each of the two paths has its own hidden gems in store for the traveller. Should you choose the latter, please do not become infatuated with men easily. Commit yourself to someone only once you have thoroughly questioned your heart. Please do remember that a chaste betrothal before the actual marriage has an immense value.

However, I should not teach you what to do with your next life, Claire—it is you who on so many occasions has been my modest, reserved teacher who whispers her instructions rather than shouts them aloud, and whose gentle words I have still been missing more often than not.

So far—who knows for how long now—our paths still run their parallel courses. I am not detaining you, but please do not go yet.

There is still so much I haven't told you—your ability to read my thoughts makes a long letter redundant. Two more words, if you permit, my luminous Ray of Light.

Thank you.