Account of the day I met and interviewed Tom Wingfield
Standing in the dark driveway in the back of Wingfield’s former home in a cold night of October, I wait. Eventually, I perceive a shadow adroitly come out of the fire escape to join me. It must be him. He is wearing dark clothes that only reveal his face given the obscurity. The gloomy mood set by his appearance finally fades away, as he cordially greets me. He proposes me to go to the movies, I accept. This is not going how I planned, but his spontaneity reassures me in a way.
As we walk, only the rustle of the leaves under our feet interrupts the almost perfect silence. Eventually, I break it in the urge to learn more about him.
Paola Matha: How do you feel going to the movies now? Is it any different from when you used to go before?
He is hesitant; he looks touched by what is said, yet detached.
Tom Wingfield: I loved going to the movies for it was my escape from this dull life I lived. As I found adventure today, going to the movies now feels very different. I mostly attended Travelogues that allow my imagination to drift freely. It also allowed me to distance myself from my oppressive mother. During those moments, I would let my mind fly away. I dreamt of the moon, and whether I could reach it one day, I dreamt of time, and whether I could make it stop, and I dreamt of my sister, and whether she would one day find a decent husband. Currently, my mind escapes reality almost every second, because this is what allows me to write. So no, going to the movies is not like before, and it probably will never be because I will never live a miserably prosaic life again.
PM: So, how have you come about discovering your talent and passion for writing? Do you think that the environment in which you lived your younger years fostered your future, successful and brilliant self?
He smiles, and gives me a contemplative look that wants to articulate yes, as if my question resembled a “do you like chocolate?” one.
TW: Yes, absolutely. Ever since my father abandoned my family, I began to close myself, and seek refuge in poetry. My mother wished for me to become a “real man”, but waxing poetic and reading did not make me one. My passion for writing got me fired from the shoe factory. This was the starting point for me to quit St. Louis, and go on an adventure. So definitely my dismal upbringing fostered my need for writing. I am glad I could pursue my passion, and not let it die under a miserable life. But since I left my mother and sister to hunt a life of my own, they haunt me day and night.
At that moment, I understood why everybody you cross paths with would only seem to know Wingfield for his unfaithfulness towards his family. It sounds too normal for him to even realize the weight of his words in my conscience.
PM: What have you done since you left St. Louis in 1944?
TW: I went as far as I could, to clean up my conscience. I don’t know with certainty the places I visited, but I know that I never crossed an American border. I know I walked a lot, yet met few people on the way. And then, I settled. It was very small apartment. There, I was not happier than in St. Louis, but I was free. I stayed there a bit less than a year, and wrote a lot. And then I decided to study creative writing but eventually, the need for money became urgent so I decided to send my depressive-days-poems to be published. They brought me some success and are the sole reason why I can dedicate my energy to writing today.
PM: Why return to St Louis now, if you found exactly what you were looking for there?
He takes long to answer, making room for a deafening silence as neither him nor me mouth a word. Maybe he is thinking of a way to phrase his emotions.
TW: I have no explanation for my return. I’ve had this odd feeling for a few months. A feeling that I did not belong where I was. I tried burying it, but of course it came back and soon became an obsession. And so, I decided to come back to St Louis just to see how I could face the past. But I feel like an outside just as much. The only difference is that I’m not trapped here; I am free.
PM: Are you planning to visit your mother and sister?
TW: I am not courageous enough yet to visit my sister and mother. I abandoned them and I intended to never come back. And here I am defeating my intentions. I am afraid to look like a coward for coming back, and a traitor for abandoning them.
We had now reached the movie theater. I observed him as he immersed himself in the ambiance, I felt he would probably be all right, here in St-Louis.
As the light went back on, he handed me a piece of paper. He said:
“If my cowardice wins, publish this”. The piece of paper was crumpled, as if its only destination was the bin.
I opened the paper once I was alone. It read:
We have not long to love.
Light does not stay.
The tender things are those
we fold away.
Coarse fabrics are the ones
for common wear.
In silence I have watched you
comb your hair.
Intimate the silence,
dim and warm.
I could but did not, reach
to touch your arm.
I could, but do not, break
that which is still.
(Almost the faintest whisper
would be shrill.)
So moments pass as though
they wished to stay.
We have not long to love.
A night. A day…
