Jennifer Trautwig

It's not that I didn't enjoy reading it. I absolutely did . . . to a degree. I guess the problem was that I let my expectations get away from me. Over the last couple of months I would pick up the book every now and then and read the back cover. It sounded like it was going to be spectacularly moving and intense. I'd read the back, put the book back on the shelf and anticipate the class when it would finally be due.

With that day quickly approaching, I picked up the book and began reading. Was it intriguing? Absolutely. But somehow it was disappointing and I felt like the worst kind of person for thinking it. I almost couldn't admit it to myself, let alone anyone else.

The truth was, I thought I'd be more moved. I thought I would be overcome with emotion--sorrow, anger, something. . . but instead I found myself somehow detached. It seemed as if the story was more distant than the words on the page. Does that make sense? I guess it was as if the story were lacking some emotion, some personal connection. Could this be because of the translation via eyeblink which was then compounded by the translation from French to English? It's certainly possible.

Then again, maybe it was Bauby himself. Maybe he was holding something back . . . maintaining a safe distance . . . protecting my sensibilities . . .

I don't know. I kind of wish I had had the chance to speak to him myself . . . to muddle my way through translation . . . to know and feel and see that he truly was there. That he existed . . . survived . . . endured. Maybe then his story would seem real . . . his pain would be real . . . he would be real.

I feel for him. I really do. I just wish I felt more. Damn expectations. . .