Finally, Olsen echoes both ''O Yes" and "Tell Me a Riddle" when she describes in Silences the experience of writing and how it feels when writing has to be deferred. For her and for the writers she quotes (James, Woolf, Gide, Kafka), writing is "rapture; the saving comfort; the joyous energies, pride, love, audacity, reverence wrestling with the angel, Art" (173). She describes the many times in her life when she had to "leave work at the flood to return to the Time-Master, to business-ese and legalese" (21).
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In using this flood imagery to forge links between mothering and other absorbing, creative work, Olsen obviously is not repeating the "moldy theory" that all women must be biological mothers in order to claim their womanhood (S 16); nor does she mean that mothering can or should absorb a woman's whole life. Finally, she is not bitterly or ironically setting mothering alongside political action, religious experience, or writing only to reveal by contrast its dull passivity. On the contrary, her imagery suggests that, far from being dull and repetitive, mothering could and should be high adventure, calling forth compassion, courage, and wonder. It could and should be like art, Olsen says in Silences, in "the toil and patience," but also in the "calling upon total capacities; the reliving and new using of the past; the comprehensions; the fascination, absorption, intensity" (18). In addition, viewing mothering as art and as a source of art can help dismantle the walls between women who are mothers and women engaged in other creative work and, at the same time, help bring together the often fragmented selves within individual women.
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By demonstrating that her life as mother was one of the main sources of her writing, and in taking the further step of making mothers' lives the center of much of her fiction, Olsen counters one of the old notions about mothers I described at the beginning of this chapter. This notion claims that mothering is an experience so immured in nature there are no words to express it. Olsen's imagery tells a homelier truth: that mothering is neither more nor less expressible, neither more nor less sunk in silence than any other experience that involves one's whole being. Just as it is difficult but possible to write about making love, creating a poem, teaching well,
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