Years ago I wrote a blog post about “intertextuality.” It’s a literary concept that supposes a relationship between texts—how they speak to one another. In some ways, it’s like placing them in conversation together.
Here’s an example using three books that sit side-by-side on my shelf:
- Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte is the powerful story of a woman’s moral and spiritual development in 1st-person prose.
- Humans of New York by Brandon Stanton captures the spirit of a city (and our humanity) through photography.
- Women is a collection of 170 photographs by Annie Leibovitz with an accompanying essay by Susan Sontag.
Picture their discussion! Bronte would talk with Sontag about all that has (and hasn’t) changed in women’s experience and self-perception. Stanton and Leibovitz would share the women they’ve seen through the lens—images that have depicted good and ill, strength and struggle, celebration and pain. Together, the three of them would converse about the larger themes and constructs present in all three of their texts: what we see, what we don’t see, what that says about us. There would be no end to the banter, all the ways in which their perspectives and protagonists and photographs and prose would overlap and intertwine. It would be quite the dinner party!
But intertextuality is hardly limited to the literary sphere. It can be—and is—a lived experience. This kind of dynamic conversation is going on inside of you nearly all the time! A myriad of stories that endlessly interact (even argue). Stories you’ve been told; stories you tell yourself; stories that others are determined to reinforce, even demand; stories you’ve chosen to live into and aspire toward. The voices natter on and on. and because of such, we often struggle to hear what matters most, what heals, what strengthens, what’s distinctly our own, over all the din. But every once in a while, something cuts through the noise and offers us the gift of clarity, respite, and hope.
And that is exactly what I’ve found in Elise Loehnen’s NY Times bestseller, On Our Best Behavior: The Seven Deadly Sins and the Price Women Pay to Be Good. She speaks exactly to the messaging we’ve inherited and imbibed—whether we’ve meant to, or not. And she generously offers us pages of space and time to listen far closer to the self within who knows what is true—both individually and collectively.
Besides all this, I’m enthralled by Loehnen’s work because she reinforces so much of what I’ve been saying all along—how religious precepts are woven into the very fiber of our DNA and our culture at large, especially and distinctly for women, whether we ever intended, let alone wanted such a thing, or not. As I’ve soaked in her research and deeply personal insights, I’ve applied the idea of intertextuality directly and imagined our conversation together. Listen in . . .
We can denounce religion and reject its beliefs at a literal level, but its traditions, these tenets of “good” and “bad,” are woven into the fabric of society. They don’t need our approval or subscription to hold us captive. They operate in us on a subconscious level. [xvii]
“Exactly! My poured-in-concrete position is that every bit of this originates and persists in how these ancient, sacred stories were told from the get go—and continue to be told even still. It’s why I assert that we must reimagine and rewrite these stories, telling them on our own terms, so that we can live our own stories in empowered and sovereign ways—not ‘held captive’ ever again.”
“Admittedly, they’re not easy stories to hear. They carry with them so much pain—both past and present. But I believe it’s their ongoing silencing and/or misinterpretation that hurts us most of all.”
From what I’ve observed, those who can accept the inevitable hits of life—these bursts of loss and pain—and crumble for a time are the ones who become more durable and flexible. Denying this reality fells people like an ax to a tree. [247]
“Yes. Agreed! This is one of the things I’ve been incredibly committed to in my forthcoming book: retelling these women’s stories in ways that do not skirt or downplay their losses, their pain, or the inevitable (and often forced) “hits of life.” Had we been told of these tales and texts without sanitation, the perpetuation of the patriarchy or, worst of all, too-often ignoring the excruciating-ness of their stories altogether, we would be so much more familiar with and accepting of our own. We would, to use your words, be far more durable and flexible. Instead, as you say on page 246, ‘we attempt to keep grief and anguish at bay.’”
Letting go of old structures and ideas and choosing reliance on our sovereignty, on self-possession, is hard. It requires a tremendous amount of faith to rely on this inner knowing, to distill what’s right for us and what’s wrong. Only when we unhook from exterior edicts and tune in to an internal compass can we find the true way. This is the path we each must walk: We must strip off the layers of cultural programming so that we can, at last, see and listen to ourselves, just as we are. From that place of clarity and truth and goodness we can heal, realign, and evolve. [279]
If we can unburden ourselves from an external authority and its prosaic concept of a goodness that enforces suppression and obedience, we can find the goodness of our god-self inside. . . . it requires only faith in our deep inner knowing. [282]
“I could not possibly agree more! And it’s my deepest hope that we can find that goodness and god-self reinforced, over and over again, in the stories of women that have, for far too long, been used to keep us suppressed and obedient instead of sovereign and free. Our deep inner knowing is the wisdom they call forth; it is what they have longed for us to honor in them and what they perpetually inspire and instill in us when we can, at last, hear their voices on our behalf.”
Clearly, I could continue. I’m rarely at a loss where provocative conversation is concerned—whether imagined or real! But I’m going to stop and instead, encourage you to continue the conversation with and for yourself!
What if you imagined and created your own dialogue—your own lived experience of intertextuality?
As you amply highlight your way through the paragraphs and pages of On Our Best Behavior (really: get a new highlighter; you’ll need it), write out your honest and vulnerable responses to her words. What does her writing provoke within you? What questions rise up, unbidden? What memories are summoned? What emotions are felt? And what stories interact (even argue) within you as you read hers?
This kind of dialogue is invaluable, even if sometimes difficult. We need to listen to and interact with the voices that endlessly whisper and shout within. We need our biases and resistance revealed. We need the push toward growth and change. And we need to be reminded of our own deep and trustworthy knowing. So anything that invites all of this and then some? I’m all in! It’s one of the many reasons why I love the idea of intertextuality in and of itself: it compels us beyond reading that is *simply* informative to reading that is transformative. And when found and experienced through an amazing book written by a brilliant woman? Bonus!
In many ways, this is my very process and practice with the women’s stories I rewrite. I have imagined our conversation. I have witnessed their harm, their courage, and their perseverance. I have been both humbled and strengthened by their wisdom. And along the way, I have been reminded, again and again, of the ways in which their stories have been told . . . and how those tellings have influenced the stories I’ve told myself. (Much like the connection Elise Loehnen has made between our subconscious beliefs and behavior and the Seven Deadly Sins.) Over time, as this dialogue has continued, these women have called me home to myself, home to the legacy and lineage that has always been mine, home to the deep and trustworthy knowing that has been there all along. And I am completely certain they offer every bit of this to you, as well.
I hope you’ll read On Our Best Behavior. It’s an important work that speaks change-everything truth (which, as you might know, is my very favorite kind). In her conclusion, she says this:
It’s time that we unyoke from the precepts of our culture’s translation of the Seven Deadly Sins, that we climb out of that sticky web so we can see ourselves for exactly who we are: perfectly human, already divine, on the road back to wholeness. [279]
Mmmmm. May it be so!