The Failure of Language in the Face of Catastrophe

Nick Cave in conversation with Sean O'Hagan, Faith, Hope, and Carnage, ©2022:

Yes, the small things that people say or do are often the things that stay with you.  So true, the small but monumental gesture.

There's a vegetarian takeaway place in Brighton called Infinity, where I would eat sometimes.  I went there the first time I'd gone out in public after Arthur had died.  There was a woman who worked there and I was always friendly with her, just the normal pleasantries, but I liked her.  I was standing in the queue and she asked me what I wanted and it felt a little strange, because there was no acknowledgement of anything.  She treated me like anyone else, matter-of-factly, professionally.  She gave me my food and I gave her the money and-- ah, sorry, it's quite hard to talk about this-- as she gave me back my change, she squeezed my hand.  Purposefully.

It was such a quiet act of kindness.  The simplest and most articulate of gestures, but, at the same time, it meant more than all that anybody had tried to tell me-- you know, because of the failure of language in the face of catastrophe.  She wished the best for me, in that moment.  There was something truly moving to me about that simple, wordless act of compassion.

There is a local doughnut shop nearby run by a Korean family, and I'd drop by about once a week and buy three doughnuts to take and share with my parents.

One of the hardest moments for me was buying doughnuts after my Mom died.  I walked in and the clerk asked brightly, "Three doughnuts?"

"No, just two now."

And I will never forget the way she looked at me.