“Is it better to speak or to die?”
This is a question frequently asked in the realm of literary arts. It holds a relevance that permeates not only in academic spaces but also in our daily lives. It urges us to decide for ourselves which is worse: the pain of rejection or the agony of regret.
The first time I heard it, I was 14 years old, watching the movie “Call Me By Your Name,” which was inspired by André Aciman’s novel of the same title. The story follows a 17-year-old boy named Elio, who spends an unforgettable summer in Italy falling for his father’s research assistant, Oliver. They share an intense, once-in-a-lifetime connection that changes Elio forever, even decades after the summer ends.
The turning point arrives when Elio truly realizes the depth of his love for Oliver and is unsure what to do about it. He is afraid and embarrassed by how excruciatingly real his feelings are; tormented by his indecision on how to move forward. Elio unravels quietly, and when his mother notices, she asks him plainly “Is it better to speak, or to die?”
Elio chooses neither. He reaches for Oliver in coded half-sentences — close enough to the truth to feel it, but far enough away to deny it. This leaves Elio in a state of purgatory for the next twenty years, where he mourns both his loss and his inaction.
I thought about how that must’ve felt for a long time.
The question itself is four centuries older than Aciman’s novel. It originates in “The Heptaméron,” a collection of tales written by Marguerite de Navarre. She was not only an author but also Princess of France and Queen of Navarre. In her tenth tale, a knight named Amadour loves Florida, a woman of higher social standing.
The societal distance between them paralyzes Amadour. Speak and risk her wrath or remain silent and be consumed by what he cannot say. When Amadour finally seeks Florida’s counsel, she tells him it is better to speak, for the injuries of words can be mended, but life once lost can never be recovered.
The cruelest irony is that “The Heptaméron” was not published until ten years after Navarre’s death. Her publishers chose for her. In the end, she was made to die rather than speak. She was denied the very agency her own character insisted upon.
We do this to ourselves all the time.
Perhaps the most devastating proof of this is the story of renowned English poet Alfred Tennyson and his intellectual soulmate, Arthur Hallam. They met at Cambridge University in 1829 and became members of the same intellectual society. They formed one of the most quietly anguishing bonds in literary history. Their relationship is often described as an intense “poetic bromance,” though many suspect it was romantic. Tennyson described Hallam as everything he was not — charming, luminous and self-assured.
Whether their relationship was platonic or not, one thing is certain: when Hallam died suddenly at 22, Tennyson felt his world collapse beneath him.
It is widely reported that Tennyson spent the next seventeen years in profound mourning, withdrawing from the world and writing “In Memoriam A.H.H.,” a vast collection of poems, as an elegy for his friend. One of the most famous lines appears in Canto 27. “Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”
The intensity of his grief serves as a reminder to us all, the risk of being known is miniscule in comparison to the despair that comes with losing the ability to speak our truth, especially to those we care about most.
The argument for staying silent always appears reasonable in the moment. It feels like protection and sometimes it even sounds like wisdom. But we confuse caution with cowardice more often than we would like to admit, and we disguise our fear in the language of strategy.
We tell ourselves that we are waiting for the right moment, the right words or the right circumstances. Then the moment passes. And then another. And then one day we are Tennyson, decades deep in a grief that is partly for someone else and partly for the versions of ourselves we buried in silence.
There is a famous scene in “Good Will Hunting” where Sean, played by Robin Williams, urges Will, played by Matt Damon, to call his love interest, Skylar, and he refuses. Will’s cold shoulder is not one of indifference, but of fear. Deep down, he pities Skylar because he cannot bring himself to open up to her. Yet, he fears her because it is the first time that he feels himself wanting to. “She’s perfect right now,” he says. “I don’t want to ruin that.” Sean looks at him and asks “What if you’re perfect right now? What if you don’t want to ruin that?”
We tell ourselves we are protecting the other person. Silence becomes an act of kindness. We preserve something fragile and beautiful by never reaching for it at all. But Sean sees straight through this facade. The silence was never about Skylar. It was always about Will.
In Noah Kahan’s song “No Complaints,” he sings: “I’m young and living dreams, in love with being noticed and afraid of being seen.” That is the distinction Will cannot bring himself to cross and one many of us struggle with.
We want to be noticed and admired at just the right distance where we are still impressive and safe. But to be seen openly, known completely, with nowhere left to hide, is what terrifies us. We call it selflessness and say we are doing it for someone else. It is the most fascinating form of self-protection there is.
Marguerite de Navarre’s character, Florida, had it right five centuries ago. The injuries of words can be mended. What cannot be restored is a life spent in the practiced art of glorified solitude.
The only obstacle left before us is choosing whether we would rather suffer the regret of what we have done, or be eternally tortured by everything that could have been. I am more afraid of the latter. Humans, in our infinite habit of thinking too much, should never spend a lifetime trying to forgive ourselves for everything we did not become.
Caroline Hewat can be reached at [email protected].
