In 2005, I read an article in the New Yorker about the writer Henry Roth. The writer of the article, Jonathan Rosen, wrote of Roth’s struggle with depression, self-loathing and a whole other myriad of issues that had long plagued the writer’s life.
I read the entire article but it was this paragraph below and the final sentence, in particular, that forever resonated with me:
But Roth, despite his own dramatic detour, did not remain in outer darkness. When I visited him, he had shattered the block that had imprisoned him and was on the verge of publishing the first installment of a vast, multivolume work, “Mercy of a Rude Stream.” His hands were warped by rheumatoid arthritis; the very touch of his computer keyboard was excruciating. But he still put in five hours a day, helped by Percocet, beer, a ferocious will, and the ministrations of several young assistants. Roth would not die like a pomegranate, with all his seeds inside.
Neither will I.
I will not die like a pomegranate with all my seeds inside me.
For that reason alone, I love pomegranate seeds for what they represent: words yet unlocked.