"Things fall apart before you hear the crash," wrote Alice Walker (Born February 9, 1944) in her journal, casually and earnestly. She spoke of the end of her marriage, but she might have meant any manner of things that end.

Walker is right about the falling apart and the crash. We carry a fantasy that things end with precision and finality because that allows closure and passage. We even impose strict endings on things lacking horological clotting agents: the last day of summer, the dying breath, and graduation day.

In reality, nothing ends abruptly, it just falls apart (or together). Life has twilights and in-betweens when we have neither finished nor moved on. The in-between is complicated; its formlessness gives us anxiety.

"Twilight" collage, by Mark Hearld, inspired by the artist's desire to "capture the half-light."

The 1970s were a twilight for Walker. The author of Meridian and The Color Purple, and the first African-American woman to win the Pulitzer Prize was ending (and not ending) her marriage. She wrote about it in her journals, published in 2022 as Gathering Blossoms Under Fire, so focused on space and solitude. 

Alice Walker with her daughter, Rebecca, and husband, Mel Leventhal, 1970. Courtesy: CSU Archives / Everett Collection

Did she take to journaling to express her failing marriage ('failing' is my word, not hers) or was that just what enveloped her? Both.

The following entries are chronological in time only. If we measure by Walker's emotional state, self-awareness, fortitude, and determination, it is utterly non-linear. There is a crash, and Walker and her husband Mel divorced in 1976. But the fall apart took a long, long time.

Walker's journals are thick and thin, banal and invigorating. They are populated with thudding clarity and soft hopes. I selected the following entries, but I will keep mum so you can stand right next to Walker. Imagine hearing her voice and holding her hand as she opens up, cries, sits in strength, screams, and ultimately—slowly—embraces optimism.

Jan. 16, 1970

Tomorrow my daughter will be two months old. She does not seem real to me yet as my daughter. But she is the compact, warm, squirming bundle I love to rouse from sleep – holding her against the warmth of my body so that waking will be pleasant, will not jar her. And her eyes, already when she smiles, a bit mischievous. How she blooms and blossoms day by day. Andrew plops himself down in front of her door. Already he knows he must, as daddy tells him each time he leaves us, "take care of Rebecca – take care of Moma.” So tonight he lies in the hall, half a room from each of us.

July 4, 1971
 
Things fall apart long before you hear the crash. Our marriage began to change drastically with the beginning of my pregnancy with Rebecca, or perhaps even before. I felt so alone so often & was. Mel never seemed to realize that I followed him to a wilderness with the reassurance that we would be company for each other. I can say without exaggeration that the past two years have been primarily miserable. Everything I've feared marriage might turn into. I, who love dancing, danced once this year. I, who love traveling, was convinced not to take the trip I needed to California.

I must have faith in myself. And never stay where I do not wish to stay simply because I fear (and I do) the new, the different, the suddenly changed world. To be single again. What will it mean? I am 27. That is not old. It is younger than Susan Sontag. I must prepare to make a living as well as write.

Oct. 72

What does it mean to be alone, without a man? Is it safe to admit that I'm happier (most of the time) when I am alone? Marriage, in this house, depresses me. But I don't think I felt like this in Jackson last summer. Why is it that I can't remember happiness, only sadness? Why are my feelings about staying married so ambivalent? Do I love Mel enough to stay with him or don't I?

[...]

I wish I could feel more. Feel more positive, more amorous. One day they will prove absolutely that women's bodies are more sensitive than the mind—or rather, that the spirit is willing but the flesh avoids contact.

June 12, 1976

This whole spring has been devoted to being openly in love with (and loved by) Bob. So intense are our feelings that I'm sure we give the impression of being crazy. I feel such combinations of tenderness, sadness, fear. A lot of fear. And I am only somewhat comforted by the knowledge that he is also afraid. Whenever we make love I cry, flooding him and everything else with my tears. It is as if I'm holding everything I ever wanted in my arms and yet – what? I don't know yet.

Sept. 21, 1977

In fact, I am in transition. All moves should, therefore, be cautious ones. The "relapse" was a serious one. I thought of death constantly, as relief. I know very well, however, that death is not what I want this early in life. I love living far too much, and am only too capable of finding and enjoying the next ambition (adventure) 'round the bend. If I can only hang on. For the past few days I've missed B. Thought often of our trip to New England. The fun we had, the laughter that is ours alone. The swims amid a drunkenness of good feeling. Good, creative sex. I've wanted much to call him up. To write more than I have.

I am more optimistic this year than ever before. Even the threat of a 3rd world war doesn't kill off the optimism. I think there is amazing stuff in the universe. That maybe human beings are working toward some inevitable perfection. Who knows?

In the meantime – 

I am thankful for my life. 

For the world 

For love 

& friends 

& child 

& work

I stand midway my life. But only if I live until I'm seventy.

Quite a process, quite a life. I love how Walker turns the lens on herself. Questioning and mutating her own limitations and needs. Questions like 'Can I be alone?', and 'What will it mean to be single again?' or this almost whispered, heartbreaking statement: 'I must have faith in myself' are so familiar. Who hasn't said this to the self-doubting villain in the mirror? Today, we call this self-nurturing, and everyone does it. But fifty years ago, imagine the maturity necessary to write this, to face oneself thus. I've been through what she went through, I did not have such self-charity or clarity. Walker is a treasure and one of my favorite humans (also because she loved cats.)

Walker is still alive at the time of this writing, a decade past seventy. She has published seventeen novels and short story collections, twelve non-fiction works, and so many more essays. To me, the fragmented, in-between story of the end of her marriage and a blossoming of herself - as a writer, a mother, and a solitary being - is one of her best.