One Native Life

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Authors: Richard Wagamese
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Fitzgerald, the Haydn symphonies, Hank Williams and a great group out of New Orleans called the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Once, when my money had run out, I listened to Big Bill Broonzy sing the blues, and my troubles became easier to bear.
    I went back to the listening room as often as I could. I challenged myself to find something new, something different each time. There were always books about the music I heard, and the books and the music were doorways into parts of myself I hadn’t known existed.
    I learned how to live through adversity in the library. I learned how words and music can empower you, show you the world in a sharper, cleaner, more forgiving way. I became a writer because of what I found in libraries, and I found the song that still reverberates in my chest. I’m a better man, a better human being and a better Indian because of the freedom in words and music.
    And the quiet that descends on mountain mornings? It’s like old Ludwig’s hand on the lid of the world.

A Dream of Language
    . . .
    I’VE RECENTLY STARTED to run again. It’s more than twenty years since I ran any farther than a trip around the bases in a slow-pitch rec league. Back then it was still possible for me to entertain the idea of running a marathon or competing in distance races. Today, chugging a couple of short miles, alternating between walking and running, is darn hard work. The scenery’s nice, and the air along the gravel road by the lake is invigorating. But I’m in my fifties now and starting over is tough.
    Still, there’s something big in it, some promise in the sweat and burning lungs and concrete legs. Maybe it’s the possibility of reconnecting with the youth I was. Maybe it’s the idea of sticking around the planet a little longer. Whatever it is, it takes me back to a challenge I faced at eighteen.
    As a Grade Ten dropout, the work I was able to find was less than fulfilling. Part of me craved more. I was afraid to be left behind without formal schooling, to appear stupid or unenlightened. One night, sitting in a bar, I overheard the knot of people next to me discussing a book called Finnegans Wake. They talked earnestly, and I understood that the book they referred to was important. They debated story structure and elements of the writing. I was impressed by the energy of their discussion as well as by the idea that a book could drive people to such impassioned heights.
    I asked the librarian for it the next day. She gave me a quizzical look but retrieved the book from the stacks. It was huge. That was my first impression. There was nothing on the cover to indicate what kind of story was inside. Carrying the book across the library to a carrel near the window, I felt almost studious.
    When I opened Finnegans Wake, that feeling changed.
    The language of James Joyce was dense and quirky. It alluded to things rather than stating them. The first sentence was mind-boggling, and the first paragraph sent my mind reeling. I put the book down and stared out the window. I picked the book up and tried again. The language was daunting, unyielding. It seemed to ask something of me that I did not possess.
    I walked out of the library discouraged. But the book would not leave me be. I thought about it all that night, and I went back the next day determined to read it. I got through the first page. When I asked the librarian what it was about, the answer she gave me was as convoluted as the book itself. I left disheartened.
    But the challenge that book represented kept calling to me. I didn’t know why it should be so important, but I felt the pull of it anyway. So I checked it out and took it home. Each time I opened the book I got a little further. Still, it was a writhing mess of aphorism, allusion, mythology and dream, conjured by a fierce intellect I was at odds to harness.
    The book haunted me. It invaded my waking thoughts. It irritated me that I couldn’t grasp the narrative thread of it. I was angered to think that

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