The narrator immediately establishes a personal connection to the reader by referring to the reader as “you” and “Elsa,” thereby defining the reader as his wife in order to strengthen his case for silence. In addition, this establishes an intimacy and history between the reader and the narrator. The narrator struggles with two problems: that people say things they don’t really mean and that everything needs to be defined. The core of both these problems are words; these destroy the delight of the senses.
The narrator relies on his senses. This is established when he tells of the first “disturbance” when he and Elsa are at the beach. He begins by describing in great detail the landscape to the beach and the environment of the beach itself:
“…there was the country store, with the red gas pump in front…we passed the summer cottages in the pines…the parking lot at the end of the road was only half full…some kids were splashing in the water, which rippled from a passing speedboat…the tall lifeguard threw a short shadow…I was sitting next to you, taking it all in, the brown-green water, the wet ropes between the white barrels, the gleam of the lotion on your arm. Everything was bright and clear, and I wondered when the last time was that I’d really looked at anything.” (96)
He revels in all the sensory details that to him are wonderful. He doesn’t feel the need to say the day is wonderful because it is obvious from just being in the moment. However, Elsa does say “What a wonderful day!” (96) which immediately takes away the rich feelings of the senses and contains it to just another ordinary day. If Elsa truly feels that it is wonderful from everything she senses, why did she feel the need to clarify it with words? Does she really mean that it is wonderful or is she just parroting what anyone else would say? The following two disturbances at the Polinzanos’ barbeque and at the supermarket reiterates the narrator’s despair that senses and feelings have been reduced to a word definition and artificial language.
It is because of this despair and disgust that he makes a vow of silence for, in his mind, words “…devour the world, leaving nothing in its place.” (109) It is ironic, then, that the only way he can communicate all this to the reader, his wife, is through words in the form of a letter. His confession and plea to his wife to understand and follow him unravels at the end when he says,
“To me, on this side, your anger is a failure of perception, your sense of betrayal a sign of the unawakened heart. Shed all these dead modes of feeling and come with me-into the glory of the fire.” (109)
It is such conceit and narrow-mindedness that he negates his wife’s, thereby the reader’s, perception of his actions and his reasons. He spends fifteen pages attempting to validate himself and convince his wife, the reader, to understand him. And yet, in the end, he accomplishes nothing and destroys whatever sympathy and understanding the reader/Elsa felt for him.
You do a great job of summarizing this story in the final paragraph of your post; this story reminded me somewhat of “The Disappearance of Elaine Coleman,” in which the main character spent the entire time talking about his own feelings towards the female character and making the story all about him instead of about her.
I also noticed the narrator’s interest in the sensory details of his world. I found it a bit ironic that the narrator began to hate words and yet told his story so eloquently.